#food and all.. its like i was already spiralling and now

[nomaishuttle]

its also like . ok sry im going on bc im tired and ive upset myself lol but its like. to have somebody who knows i grew up in poverty call me greedy and selfish bc he pressured me into moving up here when i didnt have the money so i Had to rely on him financially. and then i couldnt pay him back while i was literally unemployed. to have him call me greedy and selfish and entitled and lazy was. insanely upsetting

#like he knew that a lot of the money i earned went directly to paying my families bills and literally feeding them and he still. said that #to me. and then when i got upset he spun it as me being irrational and playing the victim and always guilttripping him like. idk. idk. #i try rly hard not to think abt that bc it just makes me feel horrific but like. i was already so insanely paranoid about spending money #any Non essential purchase made me spiral and then that just made it. so much worse . i told him from the start i didnt have much money and #he said it was fine and i told him from the start id pay him back as quickly as i could and he said it was fine and then he just #he completely ghosted me he never talked to me he slept downstairs and he spent more time with one of our roommates than he did me #and now i. know why he did that lol #but whatever. but he iced me out and the only time he ever talked to me was to tell me i was being greedy for not paying him back #or if i literally fuckjng. begged him to do skmething with me #and then hed spend like 1 hour completely checked out but technically sitting in the same room as me and i just. idk. that relationship #genuinely like. fucked me up. and now i reakize it wasnt Just since i moved here and a lot of the like. stripping me of.my identity and #pressuring me into doing. certain things when i wasnt comfortable with them and guilttripping me if i did try to stand up for myself. now i #realize that had been going on nearly since the start but it fucking. rly hurts. basically #and to top it all of he knew i struggle with very severe depression and i have since i was a kid and he knew i specifically struggle a lot #with hygiene and he knew how gross that makes me feel. and he still called me disgusting for it. and in every argument he had he would #hold the fact i owed him money over my head and i judt. i dont know what i was supposed to do. and i realize now there was jothing bc he #was already. yk. and probably had been for a while but it just. rly fucking sucks basically. #like even now a few months out i get genuinely nauseous when i buy something that isnt Absolutely essential. #and i try to force myself to buy like. a small nice thing for myself every once in a while i buy 1 coffee and 1 breakfast food every week #on saturday to try n like. make sure i know its ok 4 me to do that and it doesnt make me selfish but like. it still makes me feel sick

[lovelylovelyartist]

Actual footage of me after an 18 hour work day complete with guilt spirals and shame.

#worked a night shift last night after not sleeping well already. then had to take a client in for surgery. be at the hospital for ~7 hours. #then leave. get him food. get him home. realize none of his meds are in the mar so my staff cant record when they passed meds. #finish with that and go to drop off the company car. dont have my office keys so cant bring them in. fine ok jesus. #get home and have a hell of a time trying to park Husbos car cause its big and im not used to it. #already feel like shit so go to have a shower. then out of fuckin nowhere start guilt/shame/self hatred spiralling because thinking about #clients that died that i knew and how shit i feel because i shouldve done more or done something different or said something #and feeling angry at myself and sad and just fucking missing them #im finally in bed now. ive had a good cry. now im going to bed. #sorry for the vent #just. suddenly everything hit me all at once and it was a lot #ill be ok. i dont have a choice. #the artist complains #the artist has spoken

[honeykaes]

to land and sea

neuvillette x adepti!reader II 2.7k

warning: smut, 18+ content, minors do not interact, afab!reader with no set pronouns, yandere themes, adepti!reader, reader is from fontaine, monsterfucking, pool sex, biting, creampie, cunnilingus, overstimulation, praise, hurt/comfort, angst, cucking, non consensual voyeurism, mention of blood, fontaine story spoilers, unedited

synopsis: with lanturn rite finally done, you decide to go relax at luhua pool only to find your former lover you haven’t seen in centuries confused on what your doing there.

The end of Lanturn Rite always felt freeing to you. With fewer responsibilities of protecting the harbor from threats to ruin the event, you finally had an opportunity to use your time as you saw fit—and most importantly, get away from him for a little while.

You walked along Luhua Pools, letting your bare curl themselves in the soft sand. The area was desolate from humans and adepti alike, for now, only accompanied by an occasional singing sparrow or the soft ruffles of swaying trees. You always admired the pools. The blues and faint greens of the vibrant waters always reminded you of your former homeland. 

Your eyes gazed at a sparrow beginning to flap its wings heading northwest beyond the large mountains of Liyue. Your eyes softened as your smile began to falter wondering if that bird would be headed towards Fontaine.

How long has it been since you were in that nation…at home? Was there still a home there for you?

You pull the robes of your attire, folding them up and placing them on the base of a nearby tree before picking one of the smaller pools and dipping into the waters. You shivered, your body trying to adjust to the temperature before letting your body completely submerge itself in the pool.

Would the cobblestone be the same? Would the food and culture be the same?

You knew how quickly humans adapted, even in Liyue. You had already heard and witnessed Fontaine’s technological feats during this Lanturn Rite. They were the nation now leading in technology, a far cry from how things used to be when you were there.

You wondered what happened to Furina.

…To Neuvillette.

“What became of you, Neuvillette…” you whispered to yourself. Your mind spiraled trying to remember his appearance from hundreds of years ago. Did he still keep that noble shape of his?

Did the reincarnation of the former dragon sovereign still have those lilac eyes of his that softened whenever he tucked a rainbow rose in your ear?

You dipped further in the water, blowing bubbles in the salty pool before sighing once more. 

“I miss you…”

A few hours pass as sunset begins to settle. Golden hour begins brightly as its rays highlight your skin as you sway your arms admiring the ripples of the water. 

Swoosh.

Your eyes dart up, looking around you to search for where that strange noise is coming from. Was it him? You didn’t exactly want to deal with your lord at the moment; you had plenty of time forced at his side for Lanturn Rite.

Your eyes whipped around scanning the land, but you didn’t see anything unusual. As you moved your gaze to the sea where the various pools resided you narrowed your eyes seeing a strange blue glowing coming from beneath the waters. It was moving fast, whatever this was, was an adept swimmer.

Before you summoned your weapon and left the pool to get your clothes, you gasped watching a head pop up from where the glowing was coming from. His hair was long and as white as snow, flowing behind him like a small river adorned with two stripes of blue. His skin was pale and dewy from the water, also illuminated in gold from the sunset.

Your eyes felt misty focusing on every curve of his face: his high cheekbones, his thin rosy lips. After all these years, he kept the same form.

“Neuvillette…” you called out. You couldn’t stop those words from leaving your mouth. His head slowly turned to meet yours, eyes widening in recognition as he looked at your form in the pool. 

The two of you remained frozen, drinking up each other's appearance desperate to make sure each other's eyes were not playing tricks.

His gaze softened before he soon swam near you. Water clung to his suit as he descended up to the pool you rescinded in. He kneeled near the edge, leaning down to your size.

“It’s you right? (Y/n)...” he muttered before placing his hand on your cheek. You leaned into his touch, chuckling as tears cascaded down your cheeks. The corners of his mouth curved upwards as his thumb tenderly caressed you.

“I thought the usurpers would never allow my eyes to gaze upon yours again. I should have come to this nation much sooner,” Neuvillette whispered. You shook your head, hastily wiping your tears.

“What are you doing here anyway? How’s Furina?” you asked. Neuvillette’s eyes twinged in pain, a sad smile coaxed over him as clouds began to form blocking the golden light of the sun.

“ She…freed her people of their curse. The nation of Fontaine is thriving more than ever,” he replied. He turned his head away, smile faltering, recalling the months that still haunted him.

“...Furina did? I wish Egeria lived to see it. I’m sure Furina is as happy as ever—”

”...The cost was a part of her life. She destroyed her throne for her people. She is now just a human, set to age as all others do,” he admitted. Your gaze leaves his, looking down at your bare body.

“I see…” you trailed off. Your heart ached. You wondered if she still remembered you. Both she and Neuvillette had to go through such troubles alone. You wondered if they felt abandoned by you.

You take a deep breath trying to process everything. You were even sure if you’d be able to see Furina in her human lifetime.

”I hope she didn’t think I abandoned her before she passed. I hope you didn’t either. I left to try to find a solution to our problem, asking the other Archons for their help or ideas but…I ran into trouble as you can imagine,” you whispered. The softness in Neuvillette’s eyes hardened quickly momentarily.

“If you’re in Liyue, I’m guessing it has something to do with Morax?” he asked. You ball your fist tightly beneath the water, nails harpooning against your palm before sighing and letting it go.

“I was almost killed by these..abyssal beasts and their poison before he found me. Apparently, he was familiar with my work in Fontaine. He offered his help to save my life and give me a solution to Fontaine’s problem. In desperation, I agreed. I was forced to become one of his adepti by that contract,” you revealed.

Neuvillette sighed, anger coaxing his brows but he didn’t touch further on your life with Morax.

“Shouldn’t your contract be fulfilled now that Fontaine is saved?” Neuvillette asked. You clenched your jaw, slowly shaking your head.

“...No. Our contract had been written that he had to give me the solution. By not telling me himself, our contract is now fulfilled and I’m stuck subservient to him. I tried to go back to Fontaine but…”

You sighed, pressing your lips against his soft palm resting on your cheek. You missed his touch, it always calmed you in times of uncertainty. Neuvillette’s gaze softened once more as he leaned in, pressing a kiss on your forehead.

“I missed you,” you whispered.

“I missed you more. Furina always said I looked happier whenever you were with me,” he replied. Your arms reached out, placing your hands on his cheeks. His eyes still had that same love and loneliness peeking through his long white eyelashes as you last saw them. He was the same as before…but yet different.

Whatever had happened in Fontaine had changed him.

You slowly leaned, pressing your lips against his own. The juxtaposition of the softness of his lips and the electricity igniting by his touch in your once barren veins was jarring; but yet it remained as slow and sensual, desperate to reclaim the hundreds of years they’ve been apart from.

At the moment, you two felt as though you were back in Fontaine 500 years ago, in a field of rainbow roses near the sea, promising each other everything was going to work out.

You leaned away feeling a sharp pain on your bottom lip and the taste of iron on your tongue. The haze in Neuvillette’s eyes lightened up, realizing his mistake as he tongue grazed one of his elongated canines. He cleared his throat in slight embarrassment.

“I apologize. It’s been a long time since I had these types of desires and affection,” he admitted. You smiled as your hands trailed down finding their way on his neckpiece, slowly taking it off. 

“As have I,” you whispered. One by one, his articles of clothing that were soaked in seawater—adorned in the finest materials and jewels—fell onto the sand of the beach. In his nude form, he slowly dipped in the pool, joining you.

Your hands wandered through his body, admiring the sapphire scales that sometimes shined on his shoulders. As your hands gently glided on them, his body shuttered in response. He sucked a sharp breath in, feeling your hand grab his hardening cock, pumping gently. 

His cock held unnatural bumps and ridges. As it grew thicker and longer in your palm, you could see the bluish tone beneath the water. This was one indication that he wasn’t human; he was the incarnation of the hydro dragon sovereign after all.

Neuvillette bit his lip hard, showing off the elongated fangs peeking through his lip. His thigh moved your leg as his hand dipped beneath the water to cup your cunt. A soft moan escaped from your lips feeling his long fingers rub between your folds before settling on your clit.

“Neuvillette,” you whimpered out. It was a forgotten melody he had missed, your voice in that tone—it brought shivers throughout his body.

His other hand, grab your hand that was wrapped around his now pulsating cock before lifting it and placing it on his chest. 

”I don’t want anyone else to take you away from me…” he whispered. Neuvillette leaned in once more, pressing a soft kiss on your lips before diving beneath the water of the pool. You paused, blinking to try to process what he was up to.

“Neuvillette what are you— Oh!” you yelped. You feel his tight grip on the globe of your ass and thigh. He widened your legs, admiring the view of your quivering hole beneath the glistening light above. He leaned in, opening his mouth wide, before taking a long stripe of your cunt.

”God, I miss this taste. I always went crazy going through my ruts without getting to taste you again,” he muttered but you couldn’t hear as all that came up to the surface was bubbles. His tongue swirls against your clit, sucking the nub hard as you can feel his nails beginning to elongate and prod at the skin he clung onto.

You squirmed under his touch, trying to grind your pelvis to get any bit of friction you could to satiate your desires. Neuvillette offered a tender kiss on your clit before smiling.

”I hope you can forgive me if I become too rough..” Neuvillette murmured.

He opened his mouth again, prodding his tongue out, and soon began to grow longer and thicker in size. Pressing itself at your entrance, his elongated tongue slowly sank inside of you— shuddering at the taste of your arousal mixed with the waters of the Luhua Pools. 

Your hands grabbed at his now glowing antenna on top of his head as he groaned beneath you in response. He pumped his tongue inside of you, keeping your body in place, as you tried to squirm from his touch. 

Moving his grip around, he moved one hand to toy with your clit. While he rubbed tight circles along the bundle of nerves, his tongue curled against your spongy walls. You grabbed a mound of your chest, arching your back as the muffled noises of his name came from above.

Your essences flooded his tongue as Neuvillette desperately drank every drop that gushed out of you. As he slipped his tongue out of you, he left your overstimulated clit with one more kiss before lifting his upper body to the surface. You leaned against his firm chest, catching your breath.

“Was that too much…?” he whispered, pressing another kiss on top of your head. You shook your head, breath heavy as you tried to come down from your high.

”No. I want more of you Neuvillette,” you whispered, gaze half-lidded looking up at him. His thumb pressed against your bottom lip as he leaned in with a soft smile.

”Then more you shall receive,” he replied. Neuvillette lifted your chin before capturing your lips once more.

Neuvillette hooked your leg up as his cock slid itself against your puffy folds. Your body trembled as his blueish tip grazed against your clit. He soon sank his cock inside of you slowly. As he sheathed himself deeper inside, you could feel the faint burn from your walls stretching out to accommodate his large size. 

His lips peppered themselves throughout your chin and neck before he finally bottomed out. Letting your leg go, you quickly wrapped your legs around his thin waist as he reached deeper inside of you.

He lifted his head, leaning in close to let his nose graze yours.

“I don’t want this moment to ever end. I loved you then, I love you now. I always will,” he whispered. You two share another kiss before he begins to move. His hips rocked as the waves rippled in the pool to his pace.

One of his large hands found a way to your ass once more, gripping it tight as he rutted against you faster. You can feel his tip curve and nudge against your cervix.

As your head lulled to the side, focusing on the pleasure ripping through your body, Neuvillette gently grabbed your chin while grunting.

”Please don’t look away…I want to burn your expression into my mind…” he softly begged. His thumb pressed against your bottom lip, wiping the drool peaking out before you gently bit down the tip of it. 

Your walls fluttered, squeezing against Neuvillette’s cock pulsating and thrusting inside of you. You feel his nails sinking into the spongy flesh of your ass.

”Neuvil…ette. Neuvill—ette. Neuvillette!” you stammered out. Your eyes shut tight in pleasure, as a whine left your lips. With an inhumane growl, Neuvillette buried his face into your neck, cock throbbing inside of you before his hips began to falter.

Tears pricked your eyes as you clung to him tighter, crying out his name. Your walls clamped down, quivering as you climaxed. Neuvillette struggled to continue, his ruts getting slower and sloppier.

With a few thrusts, he shuttered, holding you tight as he emptied himself inside of you. You could feel globs of his thick cum filling you up as he gently bucked inside of you, nursing himself from your high.

You kept your eyes closed. Sweat clung to your forehead as you tried to catch your breath. Neuvillette lifted his head from the nape of your neck admiring your look. Just as he gently caressed your cheek, his eyes narrowed, noticing an odd sigil glowing that wasn’t there before.

A Geo sigil.

Neuvillette held you tight, shielding your form as he watched a man emerge from behind you in silence.

”I thought avoiding you would have been the best situation, but to think you’d find them…” the formerly known god as Morax murmured with a practiced saccharine smile on his face. 

Neuvillette was thankful your back was to him. His golden eyes were slitted in pindrops and glowing in envy. He was trying to hold his anger back.

”The Usurper Morax, know this: I’m done with you all taking things that don’t belong to you,” Neuvillette stated, narrowing his eyes.

Zhongli simply put his hand behind himself, closing his eyes as he pondered Neuvillette’s words momentarily before a soft chuckle left his lips.

“And that’s where you're wrong. Although you control the notion of justice, I still have authority over contracts,” Zhongli replied. His eyes opened, much colder than before. The earth began to shake slightly—a warning of what he was still capable of.

“You got a taste of your desires. Now, you should head back to your newly settled nation. I don’t think after such conflicts, a war is what you would look to have. No?”

#genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #genshin x reader #genshin smut #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette smut #neuvillette imagines #neuvillette scenarios #yandere genshin #yandere genshin x reader

[wandasfifthwife]

silence leads to destruction

paring: CEO!Wanda x reader

tw: estblashed relationship (married), r sells art pieces to make money, r is scared of rejection and spirals over nothing, strong heavy fluff, hurt/comfort, happy ending, minor injury (r), reader cuts finger with a knife on cutting board, sappy love confessions bc i said so, suggestive comment at the end but nothing happens

a/n: hi! I wanted to dabble in writing something for Wanda that ISNT smut for once. I read this over once to notice any big mistakes, but it’s not thoroughly proofread. As always, enjoy my shitty writing! 🥳

* золотце = sweetheart and жизнь моя = my world

‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿

With love comes understanding, usually.

That’s how conversation was direct between the two of you, it eased your nerves knowing that she would validate any issue you brought to her and wish to talk it through. Mainly they were initiated by Wanda, but you both took the time to mention if something were upsetting you.

This is the first time it’s crumbled since you’ve been married. It might be because it felt it was directed at you and not just an accident like leaving the water on.

She had just arrived home, finding you making dinner.

“Hey,” she kisses your cheek, smiling into it when you lean into her body.

“Hey you,” you turn your face to kiss her properly, “how was work?”

She grumbles as usual, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“A new hire ruined our campaign by sending in the draft files to the company.”

“I’m sorry baby.”

She re-positions the knife in your hands to not aim over your fingers before continuing, “skill sets are crucial to know during the hiring process, and yet people still lie on applications and say they’re detailed and reliable when in reality they’re aloof and spontaneous.”

It felt stupid to be hurt by her words only because you had something in common with the new hire, your personalities.

“I wouldn’t say they’re lacking basic thinking skills,” you spoke, beginning to defend yourself through the employee, “just a mistake.”

“It could’ve been avoided if they had looked it over twice, but they didn’t and now we may have just lost over 20 grand.”

“It’s a mistake, we make them all the time. I know you’re thinking of firing them, but why not give them a chance?”

“I did and they messed it up again.”

“Why is this hire any different than the others who make mistakes?”

“It’s not just a simple mistake, золотце, it’s a personality difficulty. The others in the department have made a similar mistake once during their ten year term while they’ve made three within their first month.”She moves around you to help stir around the food on the stove, “it would’ve been excused if they were a personality hire.”

An ugly apprehension settled within yourself, “so if someone’s personality gets in the way of work you fire them?”

She agrees from behind you, taking care to turn the nob down so the food doesn’t burn, unaware of how you were blinking away tears.

It shouldn’t have bothered you, but your mind was nothing short of cruel. Often it would have its way and twist words Wanda has said into something entirely different.

All stemming from the motion that she would find out how terrible you were and leave, and you didn’t want her to leave.

You settled on keeping it to yourself, already feeling like you’ve used up all your sympathy cards for this week. Not wanting to seem needy for her affection, you shut it off.

“How was your day, жизнь моя?”

“Good, I can’t complain. I made a couple sales.”

She turned back to face you, “I’m so proud of you.”

She was leaving with a phone pressed to her ear. Undoing the knot the new hire had caused was going to take up her time outside of her office hours.

She paced around the room, tone tense and trying not to yell. Your blurry attention stayed on the dinner in front of you as you tried to look as if everything wasn’t falling apart internally.

Was she going to leave you alone if she found out you made faulty mistakes too?

You gasped with the knife cut through your index finger and everything was just too much. You were quick to turn your back to Wanda, finding the sink and running cold water over the cut.

Tears fell down your face until it had turned into a quiet sob. It was entirely unfair to compare her like the others, she loved you, but the past was cruel in reminding you how things had tended to end. You were entirely too aware of when she ended the call and how the room went silent when she realized you were crying.

“What’s wrong,” she coos, placing a hand on your back as she comes beside you.

“I just cut my finger open again,” you deflect, trying and hoping your smile would be enough but after 5 years together you should have known she’d be able to tell.

The hand on your back moved to your waist, pulling your back to rest against her chest. She reached from behind you, grabbing a towel and holding it over your small cut.

“I’m not mad at you,” she murmured into your neck, kissing it gently, “and I’m certainly not leaving you.”

“But I don’t think the way you do, I’m not detailed about anything. You married the wrong person.”

She called your name, spinning you to face her. “I never want to hear you say that again. I have never once thought I married the wrong person, do not ever think or say that again.”

You apologize, body timid in her hold. She moves her head so you look her back in the eyes, “I love you. I love your expressions when you’re painting, I love waking beside you in the morning, I love how careful you are with others.”

She continues her ramble, tears building in her own eyes, another cry forming in your throat at the sight of her getting worked up.

“I love you too,” you whisper and she smiles, moving forward to kiss you. Your arms wrap around her, tilting your head to kiss deeper. Her hands grab your waist and push you into her as it turns into something more.

“I want to show you how much I love you,” she whispers against your lips. It made you smile, whispering against hers of how you needed her to.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda x fem!reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you

[chronically-ghosted]

go west, to the southern plains, go west to breathe (lover, share your road - part i) series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

chapter rating: T

word count: ~21K

chapter summary: at the end of the line, you make a business proposition to Joel Miller. He brings you and Ellie home to the last sanctuary left in this world in exchange for your skills. What you find there and what you find out about Joel Miller is not what you expect.

chapter warnings/tags: depictions of going hungry and poverty, sexual harassment, period accurate sexism, depictions of a sick child, reader depicted as skinny but due to lack of food not her natural body type (and this will change), allusions to domestic abuse, hurt/comfort, pining, the beginnings of a praise kink, let the idiots in love begin

a/n: shout out to the ever incredible @jennaispun for beta-ing the prologue and this first part!

“After a long walk in hell, I found you. You made hell feel like home, you made the flames feel warm. It’s true, you haven’t saved me but you were the closest thing to heaven.” — Maram Rimawi

part i:

Beneath the soot-gray fingertips of your gloves, the dust of the high plains sits coarse and heavy on the tattered, yellowing strip of paper. You hold it down flat as a brutish wind snakes up the empty dirt road through the center of Dalhart, grabbing hold of the brown dust that clings to everything — and tugs. Underneath your pale blue dress, with the hemline torn and the collar in need of stitching, your heart pounds as you read the small, almost guilty, advert:

Help wanted. Can pay.

Contact Joel Miller.

The promise of actual money should have had every able-bodied American scrambling to answer the advert, but by its place near the bottom of the announcement board outside of the country store, buried beneath slashed prices for milk and eggs and headlines out of Washington – it seems certain to be relegated into obscurity. 

For all you know, this could be months, even years, old. Miller, whoever he was, could be long dead, or gone with the rest of the exodus to California. Or he could have gone the way of your “Uncle” Robert – a huckster, discovered too late; one of many who prey upon the desperation that sticks to the country like the acrid smell of smoke. Your hand shakes as you pluck the yellow card from the wooden plank. There is no contact number, no address. Another trick? Dust stings the corners of your eyes when you pinch them close, your breathing quickening, your pulse sharp in the sleeve of your ratty glove. 

Oh, God, what are you going to do? What if this is nothing, just like Robert’s promise? What if there’s nothing here for you? What if –

A small hand on your forearm centers your spiraling thoughts. From beneath a faded blue baseball cap, two brown eyes peer up at you, firm and reassuring. 

“You okay?” She keeps her voice low, just like you asked.

“Yeah, El–Ellie, I’m fine.” You squeeze her too-thin hand, your stomach toiling with guilt and its own emptiness. “Just figuring out what to do next.” 

“Is finding and murdering this asshole Robert still off the table?”

You frown, your niece’s quick temper more from your dead sister than you. “It is. Now, I’m going inside to ask about this advert. Maybe this Miller still has a job or two open.”

Ellie’s eyes fall to the slip of paper in your hand, her aggressive scowl tightening into something that too closely resembles fear. She knows what’s at stake just as much as you do and you hate that that knowledge ages her youthful face. 

“You stay close and don’t let anyone get a good look at you, okay?” 

Ellie nods, already familiar with the routine, and scoops up your luggage case, her tattered satchel hanging off her other shoulder. She had been wearing pants long before reaching Dalhart, but it soothed you to think the eyes of cruel men passed right over her, their interest rarely in young boys. 

A bell above the door tinkles when you open it, but by the dull, muted sound, it most likely has a few dents. Behind you, the afternoon heat follows you in, the sunlight illuminating the floating dust mites in the air. The door whines as it closes, brightening the inside of the store, where the mites settle back into the silver layer that sits over cans of tomatoes and peaches, linens, boxes of gum and cigarettes. Nearly everything sits untouched and unmoved, old dust settling between cracks and grooves, patrons not having enough money to buy something and the owner not having enough to change out stock. Struck still, frozen in a single, long exhale. The slow, creaking death of the economic system has reached Dalhart too. You shudder, suddenly cold as if in a mausoleum. 

The further away from Boston the train took you, the further back in time you felt. Here, you are reminded of the old general stores of cowboys and pioneers. But maybe, that is exactly where you are: out of time.

A man in long white sleeves, coiffed hair, and perfectly round glasses, looks up from the wilted newspaper spread out over the counter. 

“Can I help you?” His accent hails from the east, North Carolina most likely. However, his manners are not reflective of that famous southern hospitality. He looks at you like you’re a bad dream and it unsteadies you.

“Y-yes. I, uh, I’m hoping that you know a-a Miller. Joel Miller? I have his advert and I’m, um, I’m looking for work.” 

The man’s thin eyebrow jumps mockingly. Aren’t we all, sister? But eventually, he shakes his head.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re doing all the way out here, but this ain’t no place for a young lady out on her own, job or no job. Where’s your husband?”

“Dead.” Your voice doesn’t waver, but then again, why would it? 

The clerk’s eyes soften, if only slightly. “I see. But I’m sorry to say, there is no job here for you.”

Your mouth instantly dries out. “What do you mean? Where’s Mr. Miller?”

“He’s a mean ol’ sunuvbitch, livin' God knows where. Comes in twice a month for supplies and he’s back out into the prairie.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t see why that’s a problem –,”

“He ain’t fit for civilized life, ma’am.” The clerk drops his nose, eying you seriously over the rim of his black glasses. “Whatever he’s offering, you don’t want no part of it.” 

“I think we’ll be the judges of that.” Beside you, Ellie drops your suitcase and it loudly clatters to the ground. “Thanks for the tip though.” 

The clerk’s eyes widen – this is terrible behavior even for a boy – his mouth unfurling to give a nasty tongue-lashing, when you interject, your voice thick with pleading.

“I would just like to meet the man. Please, sir.” The clerk, like most men without scruples, can barely resist the sound of a woman begging. Those uncanny blue eyes find you again. “Has he come in recently?”

You can feel Ellie’s wicked sneer behind you, the clerk’s gaze switching between the unlikely pair in his shop. Finally, he shrugs. Who gives a fuck if one more woman goes missing?

“He’s due for a resupply.”

“How soon?” Your palm sweats under your gloves.

He narrows his eyes, evidently annoyed that a woman would reject his warnings. “Soon. We have a parlor in the back if you’d like to wait for him. But you have to buy something,” he adds vehemently. 

You nod, unsteady on shaking knees as you walk towards the door in the back of the store. 

“Thank you, sir. You have been so kind. We very much appreciate it.” 

Any chance that the clerk finds you sincere is lost when Ellie wraps her knuckles on the counter as she passes.

“Buh-bye, dude.” 

The parlor is small, dark, damp, and smells faintly of kerosene and leather. A woman, most likely the wife of the clerk you just annoyed, glares from behind a counter as you and Ellie walk in. 

“Lunch.” Not a question.

Ellie looks up at you, eyes wide, fearful. You hadn’t let her see what is left in your purse, but she knows it’s low.

With your stomach in knots, you wouldn’t be able to eat anyway. You pluck out a dollar, bringing your total down to three dollars, and giving it to your niece.

“Order whatever you want.”

The beating heart of the blazing Texas sun edges downward across the open sky, falling, until it drops completely behind the harrowingly flat horizon. Purple erupts in its wake, the last pump of blood of a dying muscle, and nearly instantly, the temperature drops. You watch the explosive coronary of the sky from a table at the back of the parlor, your own pulse doubling the later it gets. You squeeze your hand between your thighs to keep your fingers from drumming uneasily on the table. But for once, Ellie doesn’t pick up on your nerves. 

A dollar went farther out here and, as a result, Ellie is allowed her first big meal in months. Twice now, she’s nearly forgone the silverware to shove food directly into her mouth with her fingers, had it not been for your glares to remind her to slow down.

“This is slow,” she grumbles as she licks her bowl of mashed potatoes clean. Of course, half of what she ordered sits waiting for you, but you know she needs this meal more than you do – even if your rumbling stomach disagrees. You’d already had lunch at the train station; one more missed meal won’t kill you and less for you means more for Ellie.

Suddenly becoming a parent to a very opinionated fourteen-year-old girl was not something you had anticipated, and most times you figured you were doing it all wrong. The least you could do is give her everything you could.

“You think he’ll show?” 

You tear your eyes away from the parlor door, blinking back into your body out of your cloud of thoughts. Ellie’s little hands grip the bowl, a white smear sitting on her bottom lip, her eyes dark as they watch you. 

You grin as her pink tongue swipes up to lick her mouth clean. How easy you forget she’s only fourteen, with her loud mouth and provoking eyes. “Eat your food, Ellie.” 

The words have barely left your mouth when the door to the parlor bursts open. Two men, clearly drunk and smelling of it, stumble in. This is the part where you wish you too could believably dress up like a man. Your pulse thrums in your neck like a heightened prey animal. 

One pushes the other’s shoulder, smirking, and grunting something. His friend, also in a cowboy hat but half his size, nods and makes an unsteady line for one of the tables, while the other does his best to get to the bar. 

The man at the table has light green eyes, overly thick eyebrows, and a flat mouth, loose with drink. He flops into a wooden chair and you watch as the Texas Rangers badge on his chest flashes in the firelight behind him. Your stomach tightens. 

He stretches out, feet crossed over his ankles, limp hands crossed over his denim jacket, hollering at his friend and the woman working, who looks equally displeased to see them as she did you and Ellie. 

Smirking, his eyes slide from the wooden bar top, over the back wall, and right onto you.

You watch as his gaze blurs for a moment, a film of beastial hunger smothering the color of his eyes. You can feel your pulse in your ankles now.

“Well, now, what do we have here?” The lilt in his voice calls out two unspoken words: fresh meat. Distressingly steady, he climbs to his feet, his hat tilted obnoxiously on his forehead. “Where did you come from, you pretty little thing?” 

He saunters over, his thumbs stuck in his belt, the gun at his side snug in its holster. The grin on his face is hideous. You’d smack it off if you weren’t suddenly overcome by a debilitating fear. A look like that on a man is never, ever a good thing.

“Whatcha got there, Lee?” his buddy calls out from the bar, beard drenched in beer foam. 

“I dunno quite yet, Knapp,” he says over his shoulder, his livid green eyes never leaving your face. He nearly folds in half to press his spider-like hands on the surface of your table, coming inches from your face. His breath smells like corn whiskey and cheap tobacco. “Guess I’ll have to find out. What’s your name, pretty thing?” 

“Or she could not tell you her name and instead, you could fuck off.” Ellie’s scowl wrenches her mouth open, her knuckles white around her spoon. There’s a part of you that fully acknowledges and accepts that if given the signal, she’d scoop the fucker’s eyes out with the silverware right here. “We’re eating here, or are you too busy smelling like a fucking whiskey barrel to notice?”

As with most adults when Ellie decides to show her teeth, Lee stares stunned before the self-righteous anger sets in. Your heart stops for a moment when you think he’s going for his holster, but instead, he uses the flat of his hand to swat her hat off her head.

“Shut up, you little fucker, where’d you learn your fucking ma–,”

Ellie’s long hair tumbles down her shoulders, the baseball cap on the floor behind her. 

Lee is stunned into silence once again. The parlor goes deathly silent.

It’s Knapp who sets off the explosive spark again. “Holy fuck, you’re a little girl.”

Ellie snatches up her hat, cheeks flaming red, but Lee’s hand grabs her wrist. 

“A kinda cute one at that,” Lee sneers. He twists her arm and she yelps. Knapp at the bar laughs, his paunch shaking as beer sloshes over the side of his glass. The woman is cleaning something with a rag, turned away from the scene, her shoulders hunched to her ears. You’re on your feet, your hand on her purse. “What are you thinking, hm? Dressing this sweet little girl up like a boy?”

The trigger clicks and Lee and everyone else in the parlor freezes. The edge of your lash line is wet, fear rolling through you like fog on the bay. Your hand is steady, miraculously, but your voice isn’t.

“L-l-let–,” your voice cracks and you try again. You only have one gun drawn on Lee and you pray to whatever god is listening that Knapp doesn’t remember his. “Let her go.” 

This small pistol is your last line of defense against those who would take everything from you. You couldn’t keep your sister safe, your husband didn’t want to be saved, but you’d die before you’d let anyone come within an inch of Ellie. You pawned off your wedding ring long before you ever considered selling this weight in your hand. You couldn’t physically win a fight but you’d be damned if you weren’t going to take someone out with you.

There’s more than one reason you never let Ellie look into your purse. You won’t make eye contact with her now.

Lee’s eyes harden into black flints in his head. “Yeah? You’re shaking like a leaf. You ain’t gonna do shit about it.”

He twists harder, forcing Ellie to her knees, his mouth smearing into a sickening sneer, Ellie’s cries loud – “get off me, you fucker!”

All you have to do is miss. Once. 

Your arm shifts right and you fire. You meant to hit the floor, but instead the leg of a chair at a nearby table shatters, wood and smoke sparking into the air. Lee and Ellie jump, their struggle broken, but Ellie’s quicker, smarter. Hunched to avoid debris, they are nearly eye to eye and Ellie doesn’t hesitate; she jerks her head back and then launches her forehead forward – square into his flat nose.

The crunch is sickening and it turns your already empty stomach. Lee shrieks, releasing Ellie, his hands flying to his misshapen nose to staunch the river of blood pouring from his nostrils. 

“You bitch!” he whines, voice wet and gummy as blood trickles down his throat, eyes watering. You hear a roar of anger as Knapp stands, no longer finding any of this funny.

“Get behind me, Ellie.” You snap, eyes on Knapp as he lumbers forward. She hesitates, looking like she’d like nothing more than to kick Lee up the balls, but obeys the closer Knapp comes. She slots behind you, eyes sharp on the squealing man on the floor. 

“She broke my fucking nose, man,” he cries, face already purpling. 

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it, you fucker!” She snarls over your shoulder. One hand holds your elbow, and the other brandishes her mother’s knife that had been at the bottom of her satchel seconds ago. Fuck. 

Ellie Williams is not, and never has been, nor will be, one to deescalate a situation. Knapp responds in kind. His drunk fingers fumble with his holster, his face contorted with rage.

“Shootin’ at an officer of the law – you’re gonna hang for this, you thieving little c–,”

“Knapp.”

A fifth voice – low, deep, a mammalian bark that grinds the chaos of the room to a halt. The large man stalls, his engine snagged by the rough grain of that voice. On the floor, Lee lets out one quiet whimper as he cracks open a pulsating black eye.

In the glow of the firelight, you watch as beads of sweat swell on Knapp’s big forehead beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His wide eyes flash between you and the man who just walked in.

“M-Miller, the fuck you want?” 

Your heart seizes in your chest. Miller. 

Joel Miller. 

You never thought your saving grace would come in the shape of a hulking, dark-eyed man. 

A well-worn handkerchief around his neck, crusted over with dust, his broad shoulders stretch a denim work shirt, the unbuttoned collar loose and just as dirty. Worked-over hands, dry and brown as the earth, curl into fists at his side. Tight jaw, flared nose, eyes black, his presence expands in the cramped room, a leviathan cresting dark waves to command the roaring void. 

“Back off, both of you.” 

Knapp sneers, desperately tugging at some misguided sense of bravery, with sweat running hot and fast and smelly down the sides of his rubbery face. “Y-yeah, or what?” 

“You fuckin’ know what.”

Knapp visibly swallows and lowers his pistol, hands trembling. Lee whines from the floor, his eyes open as wide as the swelling will allow, abject terror on his face as he stares up at Miller. Neither of them move.

A guard dog satisfied by the corralled sheep, Joel’s heavy gaze roves from the two men, across the room, to you.

His expression doesn’t change. 

The weight shifts across the stiff planes of his shoulders, and he turns, leaving as quickly as he appeared. Beneath his thick boots, the wooden floor creaks and it rouses you. Your mouth is so dry you can feel the skin of your lips split apart. 

“Mr. Miller, w-wait.”

He doesn’t. 

With a single glance to the men still frozen in terror, you follow him through the now-dark and empty store. The cold desert air cracks hard against your overheated cheeks when you burst through the door, into the black night. The moonlight illuminates the threads of silver hair in his beard that the dark parlor hid. His fingers work slowly, unhurriedly, as he tightens the leather buckle beneath the wide girth of his off-white horse. It lifts its head as you stumble out onto the dusty road, its round eyes watching you with more interest than its rider. White ears twitch forward, a snort from the long snout, and Joel rubs the soft place between two giant nostrils without looking up. 

“J-Joel – Mr. Miller, please, I need your help.” 

“Already got it.” His shoulders flex and roll as he loads up another loose sack onto the rump of the horse, then tightens the securing belt. It snorts again and shifts on its hooves, its long tail flicking back and forth. 

You shake your head, swallowing the hot rush of embarrassment. The wind licks at your ankles and you fight back a shiver, bringing a hand to your shoulder to warm the goosebumps. “No, sorry, I mean – I’m here to help you. I saw your advertisement and I was wondering if the position was still open.”

The buckle quiets. The dirt at his feet crunches as he faces you. 

There are no trees in Dalhart, Texas. There are barely any clouds, no coverage. Overhead, the few buildings not yet folded up in the wake of the financial collapse throw shadows over his angular face, but you can still feel the trace of his gaze over you. A curious search, the investigation of scent. 

Then he shakes his head.

“No.” 

Your entire chest tightens. “Has the position been filled?”

“No.”

“Then why–,”

“I don’t need you.” He lifts up the third and final sack and you feel your hope being carried away with it. “Need a farm hand. You’re not the type.”

“N-n-no, I’ve worked on a farm. I-I’ve only planted seeds but I’m a quick learner and I–,”

“No.” 

“Sir – please, I’ll do anything–,”

“Then go home.” He unties the reins from the wooden post and clicks to the horse. Its big eyes watch you as he turns them for the road. “There’s nothing here for you.” 

You absolutely will not cry in front of this gruff stranger. Panic icing down your spine, you follow him on weak knees. In the wake leftover from the wheat boom, Dalhart is quiet as soon as the sun goes down. Empty of people, of light, of any sort of guiding hand, you try to appeal to the last human you’ve found at the end of the world.

“Mr. Miller, there must be something you need. I’m a hard worker, smart, you won’t have to train me at all. Please. I’ve been a housekeeper, a seamstress – a nurse. I —,”

The horse huffs when Joel pulls tight on the reins. 

In the moonlight, all of his hair looks gray. Your heart plunges in your throat. You can feel your stomach trying to digest your spine.

“Done any work with kids?” He asks, after a moment. 

His brisk question is not what you expected. You can barely hear him over the pounding in your heart. 

“Y-yes. I’ve treated children before. A-and I was a teacher, briefly. I’m very good with children, actually.”

The scarred hand at his side tightens, flexes open and closed, the tips of his thumb and forefinger twitching over the other. Over his shoulder, you think his head tilts a centimeter towards you.

“You know what? Fuck this.” 

Out of the shadows of the county store, Ellie tears down the steps, her face pink and her hair stuffed back up her ball cap. She loops her small hands around your forearm and tugs, her eyes like chips of bark, glaring hatefully at the man in the middle of the street. Faint dust churns beneath her faded sneakers. 

“She’s fucking begging you and you don’t give a fuck, you old shithead!” She tugs again. In the flash of the moonlight, a glassy film has settled over her eyes. “C’mon, we don’t need him. We – don’t need – him.” 

“Ellie, please!” You grab her by the shoulders, a soft hand in a swirling tempest, and she settles, her mouth twisted up in anger and embarrassment. She hates that you have to beg anyone. “Please.” Shielding her from him, you squeeze her shoulders. “I know, Ellie. I know. But I have to keep you safe.”

Ellie finally turns that hot glare at you, eyes damp. Petulant when terrified, your sister was the exact same way. 

Fuck, Anna, it should have been me.

“She yours?”

Joel rests his weight on his left knee, fingers loose around the reins. He’s lowered the mask around his mouth. You snap your head up, your voice thankfully steady. “She’s my niece. She . . . I’m responsible for her.” 

Below your palms, Ellie stiffens. 

Fifteen feet from you, Joel nods, the muscle in his jaw tight. The horse huffs and he glares at it like it just yelled at him too.  

“I’m not in the habit of pickin’ up strays,” he says as if that means a lot. 

Hope springs in your chest and it snags the air in your lungs. “We’re not. I-I mean, we’ll work hard. Please, give us just one chance.”

“And you expect me to take on the both of you.” It isn’t a question, but his eyebrow arcs all the same. “That’s two mouths I gotta feed, ‘steada one.” 

“She can have mine.” In the silence, you think you can hear the faint choir of crickets. You remember the tarantulas and centipedes that lived inside the walls of your husband’s prairie dugout, and your stomach twists. “Ellie can have whatever you give us.” 

She makes a brief cry of protest, but you squeeze her shoulders. The sharp flair of his nostrils smooths and the corners of his eyes pinches, tilting his eyebrows up. He’s still glowering, but somehow, his expression has suddenly opened, just a crack. 

And then he nods. 

“Stay here a night. I’ll be back in the morning with the wagon.” 

And that’s it. You have a job. 

You’re so elated it takes a minute for his words to sink in. He turns back down the road, the horse's hooves clipping on the dry ground. You follow after him, hand outstretched.

“Oh, no, w-we can walk, it’s no trouble. Let me just get our things and–,”

“Too far to walk. And there’s things out in the dark more dangerous than those fuckin’ rangers.” He nods to the country store, eerily quiet. It sits, ugly, like a brown old frog. “There’s a hotel just up the road. It’s not much, but it’ll do for one night.”

“But, sir, we really can’t stay. I don’t – there’s no –,”

You stumble to a stop when those merciless dark eyes root you to the ground. The leather reins squeak when he tightens his fist around them. Again, you are under the impression of a dog sniffing out your scent for any deception, any treason. He takes you in, all of you in – your ratty gloves, your torn hemline, your tattered collar – and by some miracle, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, the groove above his nose softens. 

Wordlessly, he reaches into his back pocket and takes out five dollars from a brown leather wallet. He offers it to you between two fingers. 

Take it, his eyes command. 

You do, with a shaking hand. You hate charity, you hate that you’re at his mercy –

But Ellie has a bed for the night. Inside, warm. Where, hours ago, she didn’t. You smother your pride and nod, gaze at the scar on his cheek that you only now notice at an arm’s length away. 

“One night,” he says. “For you and the kid.”

You nod again because that’s all you really can do, his pity clutched in your fist and held against your heart. 

Ellie scowls as he swings up onto the horse and readjusts his mask. 

“What a guy,” she murmurs to you, her eyes still narrowed. Joel clicks his teeth, and the horse trots off into the dark, a lone man riding out into the featureless night.

Evidently still feeling slighted, Ellie sticks her tongue out at the denim back.

“Better keep that tongue in your mouth, kid,” he hollers before digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. “Liable to be chopped off like a copperhead.”

Ellie’s mouth snaps shut.

The money Joel gave you is more than enough to cover a room and another plate of food. You even spurge your own money on some small candy for Ellie, determined to give Joel back every cent left over and then some, once you’ve proven you can earn your keep.

For you and the kid.

You shake your head, lost in your own thoughts, the gnawing hunger in your belly satiated, as you pull back the covers to the twin bed. The metal frame squeaks as you climb in, your night dress thin and ragged as the rest of your clothes. 

“C’mon, Ellie, time for bed.” When she doesn’t move, you stop rearranging the pillows and look at her. In her own white nightie (because she’d outgrown all her other pajamas), she sits in front of the roaring fire, her chin on her knees, and her arms wrapped around her shins. 

She’s quiet - either a good sign, or a terrible one. 

“Ellie, sweetie, we’ve gotta get some sleep. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.” 

You watch as her narrow back expands and falls in one slow breath, her skin bright in the firelight.

She nods mutely and climbs into the space beside you. She rolls onto her side, away from you, her hands tucked up under her head, her knees curled up beneath her. 

This is where Anna would know what to say. How to soothe this girl with so much awareness in a world that is raw to even those willfully ignorant. You can’t bullshit Ellie the way you can some kids. She knows too much. Seen too much. 

You settle down next to her in the shadow of her shoulder. Your fingers hover, locked between the yawning gap of touching her and not touching her, when she finally speaks.

“Is this really going to work?” Her voice is quiet, soft, dust-covered and buried. “Is Joel really gonna . . . are we safe?”

You cannot bullshit Ellie Williams.

“I don’t know. I’d like to think so. I know you don’t like him, but I think we can trust him.”

She’s quiet again, only this time because there’s something she doesn’t want to say. 

“Not like Uncle Robert – or Robert, if that’s even his real name. I’d never met the man in person, but I wanted – so badly – to believe . . .” You swallow, your own shame boiling your skin. “I think we’re safe with Joel Miller.”

The god’s honest truth. 

She hears it in your voice.

Ellie tips back to look you in the eyes. She’s lost so much weight recently. “Yeah?”

You tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, the ghost of your thumb across her cheek. She allows the show of affection. “Yeah, El. I do.” 

You want to say: you can trust me. I’ll always take care of you.

But you know it would only come out hollow.

Neither of you would think it was honest. 

She pulls away from your grasp, her eyes almost golden in the firelight. She nods and stares at the burning wood. 

“Okay.”

“So . . . is your car, like, broken or something?”

You elbow Ellie and she sits up from hanging over the edge of the wagon. She frowns at you – what? – and you both glance at Joel at the front of the wagon. If the question annoys him any more than he perpetually already is, he doesn’t show it. 

“Don’t have one.” He says to the back of the horse. The wagon rocks and sways over the clods of dust and stone in the road. “Never did.”

“Uh, why?”

“Cars break down in the dust storms. Short out. They end up being more trouble than they’re worth.” 

Again, that half-centimeter turn, his tone implying what his eyes can’t, faced away from you. Ellie narrows her eyes at the back of his head. She wrenches her mouth open, fire in her eyes, but she catches you glaring, and her mouth snaps shut. Pouting, she chucks a lone pebble off the back of the wagon. 

The sky is strikingly blue, bright as a livewire, the air warm and crackling with the early summer heat. Away from Dalhart, away from the collection of dust on every surface, dripping through every crack, you find the clarity and distance of the southern plains to be . . . unexpected. So careless and abrasive one minute, but then, in moments like these, it became hard to believe that nature could ever be so cruel as to make the earth rise up and swallow it all whole. 

You swing your legs off the wooden edge, the sunshine warm on your knees. It’s no use trying to hide how badly your socks need darning, so you lean back and stretch your legs as far as you can, your face tilted towards the sky, the still air peaceful. This morning, you’d put on your yellow plaid dress, torn cotton lace around the sleeves that stop at your elbows. You tucked your hair up and pinned your straw hat to your head. It was a reflex, to present your most beautiful self to a man, even one you barely knew. By the way Ellie had rolled her eyes, she felt no such compulsion. 

Demure, your mother always told you, you’re not very pretty, you’re not very bright, the least you can be is demure. 

The wagon shudders, clicks, over the empty road and you open your eyes. Ellie is turned away from you, eyes out to the fields on either side of you. You don’t understand what she’s looking at, until you realize that’s exactly it: there is nothing to look at. On the other side of those loopy barbed-wire fences through cock-eyed posts, there are miles and miles of nothing but churned-over dirt. A lazy wind spins over a patch of emptiness, tossing clods and sand into the air, an aimless sadness as tangible as the dust itself. Phone lines stand, corroded and chipped, along the side of the road like tangible manifestations of a deadly infection. 

“There’s no crops here either.” Ellie says, voicing loudly what you only thought. You can’t see her face but she sounds as stunned as you are. “What happened?”

You watch over her shoulder, eyes level with the earth bleached of all material, all life. With the drought, your husband’s field shriveled up in months, the cracked ground peeling away from the sodhouse in some places. You still have nightmares about waking up with grit between your teeth, choking and coughing up bloody chunks of mud.

This is desolation on an epidemic scale. 

“Ask different people ‘n they’ll tell you different things.” Joel says in his slow drawl, the crackle of the earth soft beneath the wooden wheels. “No one really knows. But nothing like this happened when the buffalo grass was here, ‘steada wheat.”

“Wait, you were here before Dalhart?” Ellie twists on the wagon, leaning over the lip where Joel sits and drives the horse. 

“My family was. Here before anything. My grandpa befriended the Comanche Indians and –,”

“You got to hang out with Indians?” Ellie nearly hurls herself over the edge of the wagon to try and look him in the eye. “What are they like – did they teach you how to shoot a bow and arrow – can they really ride horses like that –,”

“Ellie!” You want to grab her by her collar and yank her back into the wagon. “Not so many questions.”

The noise Joel makes is somewhere between a grunt and the word no.

“It’s fine –, “ he looks down at Ellie, still curled around the back of the seat, her eyes wide with a giant smile on her face. His ever present scowl doesn’t seem any deeper, nor does it deter her. Joel turns away again and in the sunlight, his hair is gooey, caramel brown. You stare at the dirt road while listening, the back of your neck hot. “They’re good people. Didn’t deserve what happened to them – to any of ‘em. But they taught my grandpa and grandma how to take just what they need, nothing more. But then everybody needed grain, offered money for cheap, easy labor. They poured in here, into the prairie, and in years, it became this. Folks blame the drought, but it’s more’n that.”

Ellie’s inordinately quiet. She knows exactly what your husband did to you, to your family, and now, maybe to the entire land. 

“‘Next year’ people, they claim,” Joel continues, his voice deepening with anger, “‘next year’, things’ll be better. ‘Next year’ the rains’ll come. ‘Next year’ the wheat’ll return.” He shakes his head, boots creaking against the toeboard. “Anyone who thinks that is lyin’ to themselves. Anyone’s who’s been here, seen what’s here, for us it’s been –,”

“The end of the world.” 

The silence that follows your words stretches long, an anchor dropped off the end of the wagon and rattling around the wheels. You swing your legs, fingers curling around a tear in your hemline. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words to describe the state of things. That’s what your husband called it and you believed him. 

Evidently, Joel agrees. His wide shoulders taught, the denim blue faded beneath the boundless sky, he nods.

“Griiim,” Ellie mutters as she curls up and drops her chin on her knees. 

You’ve been watching a single cloud chase the sun from the floor of the wagon when Ellie, silent for all of about fifteen minutes, lifts her head from her hands draped over the edge. Her eyes go wide, her ears pink from the sun, and says:

“Whoa.”

The horse huffs as you sit up, a soft wind snagging the loose hairs on the back of your neck, and your mouth drops. 

Grass. 

Fields of it. 

The air is fresh, warm, and filled with the scent of living, breathing earth. Tipped with lush purple seeds shaped like paintbrushes, a sea of stalks bend and ripple in the cooling breeze, undulating like waves on solid ground. The wind is soft here, teasing, rolling through the tall grass, carrying the scent of growth and green in the air. You’re suddenly aware of how dry your mouth is, cracked and padded with dust. 

“We left it be.” Joel offers simply, voice too gruff to surely be filled with pride. “It’s endured and survived, and so have we.”

Further back, you can see where the line of his property ends – a harsh division of paradise and purgatory – and marked to the north by a dip in the ground and even over the crunch of the wheels over the ground, you hear it: water. 

A river. An oasis in a wasteland. 

Ahead of the white tufts of hair on the horse, the road curves, disappearing into the sea of grass, but letting your graze drift up, you see an a-frame home, white like a lighthouse at the edge of a storm. The instant the home comes into view, Joel clicks his tongue, urging the horse faster – eager. 

He leads the horse up through the road, through the grass, and on the other side, by the river, two cows chew up the green, oblivious. Beyond them, tucked behind the house is a barn. Low to the ground but wide, hunched like a fighter with a heavy center of gravity, it looks ready to endure and survive. As this entire secret world had. 

Joel tugs the horse to a stop, the wagon rattles as it slows, by the wide porch of the a-frame. It sits also low to the ground, wider with a dark roof, held together with something black and smeared. You’re so distracted by the unique qualities of this house in the middle of paradise that you miss it when the door creaks open until you’re staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

“Who are you?” The voice behind the gun is deep, even if the barrels shake slightly. In the dark of the doorframe, you can’t quite see their face, only their short stature. 

You see Ellie’s hand twitch towards her knife, which she now carries in her sock since the night of the county store. 

However, Joel is less concerned. In fact, the boulders of his shoulders loosen, ease to simple muscle and blood. He makes a noise that on anyone else, it might be considered a laugh, a chuckle, but he isn’t even capable of smiling –

He slings down from the seat and pats the horse.

“Easy there, Annie Oakley, it’s just me.” 

The shadow in the doorway stiffens.

“Dad?”

The shotgun lowered, the shadow staggers into the light. Brown eyes, just like his, scrunched against the blinding sunlight, a girl with the most beautiful head of curls blinks at Joel, her thin hand held up to shield her face. 

“Hey there, baby girl.”

In a single leap, she jumps down from the porch but all too quickly, the smile slips from Joel’s face.

“Hang on, not too fast–,”

She stumbles towards him as best as the metal braces around her knees, down to her ankles, will allow, defiant and smiling, despite the beads of sweat that have swelled over her forehead. Joel surges forward, faster than you thought possible, and reaches for her, nearly on one knee. 

“Slow down, please, Sarah.”

“Dad, I’m fine,” she huffs before tossing her arms around his neck. “I’m fine. Just – missed you, is all.” 

You can’t see his face, but he straightens up still holding her. With one hand he flattens those curls to her cheek, and kisses the other. 

“Enough to forget all the things I taught you about gun safety? You just tossed that thing aside,” he scolds fondly. She rolls her eyes as he sets her down. 

“Okay, but if you didn’t know it was me, you would’a been totally scared, right?” 

She watches as he chuckles, a deep, warm sound, but her own smile flatlines when she spies Ellie climbing down from the wagon. You ease off the edge, your lower half sore from the ride. 

The girl, Sarah, narrows her eyes. 

“Who are you?” She positions her body slightly in front of Joel’s. “And why are you dressed like a boy?” 

Joel’s soft scolding – “Sarah” – is lost beneath Ellie’s scoff. She adjusts her satchel. 

“Why are you dressed like Raggedy Ann?” 

Her father’s massive hands clench down on her shoulders, Sarah’s scowl evident that she’s about half a second away from launching herself at Ellie, leg braces be damned. 

“Now, let’s slow down here.” Joel’s deep baritone is light, but just as firm as his grip. If you knew him better, you’d think he is about to laugh, the lines around his eyes thick, while his mouth stays flat. “We got off on the wrong foot. Sarah, this is Ellie and her aunt. They’re going to be staying with us for a while to help out with your schooling.”

Those curls go flying, her frown now pinched in worry. Another girl caught between a child and adult – for the sake of their single parent, you notice, your chest tight. 

“I thought you needed a farm hand. You were going to teach me.” 

“You know you already read better than I do.” 

“Dad–,”

“Miss here is also a nurse.” 

“Oh. Oh.” She glances down at the metal braces as if she’d forgotten they were there. The skin on her knees is chaffed, rubbed pink. “She can . . . help me?”

Twin pairs of brown eyes settle on you, one hesitantly curious, the other aggressively determined. 

You can, right?

Ellie’s staring at the braces, her gaze distant, heavy. She’d seen this before, but everything back then moved too fast. Back then, there was no time for braces.

Braces only help a small percentage of polio patients. The lucky ones.  

You nod, your heart hammering under your chest bone. “Yes – yes, sir. I think with Ms. Kenny’s therapy, we might be able to alleviate some pain.” 

Those eyes, exactly like and so unlike her father’s, widen.

“Really?”

You introduce yourself with your first name, pressing the crease in your glove between your nail and your thumb with your other hand.

“I’d like to try, Sarah.”

You suddenly understand that Sarah is Joel Miller’s most guarded secret, out here in paradise, paradise as the most beautiful prison in the world. He continues to stare at you from under thick eyebrows after Sarah moves away from him. Ellie, caught off-guard by her forward movement, takes a significant step back.

“I, um, got some marbles out back,” Sarah starts, thumbing over her shoulder, and every other word sounding like an apology. “If you wanna play.”

Ellie jerks forward, her eyes round with excitement, but stops. She looks at you.

“Can I?” 

Soft when eager, just like her mother. So unlike you. You nod.

“Stay close, okay?” 

You and Joel watch as Ellie and Sarah toddle around to the back of the house, Ellie quietly narrating every thought she has as she keeps pace with Sarah.

Those look actually really cool, you know?

Yeah?

Totally. Have you read Amazing Stories? You look like you could be part of the Space Family Robinson.

Who are they?

Oh, you’ve never read those!? Okay, so they’re a family who live in space and they go on these awesome adventures together to different planets and . . .

The farther they go, the faster Joel turns back to stone. His gaze lingers just a hint longer before those dark eyes pin you to the ground. 

“You said you can clean? Cook?” 

You nod quickly. “Yes, sir.” Guard dog Joel. Stocky pitbull, teeth long and wet Joel.

He tilts his chin towards the house.

“Kitchen’s in the back. I gotta clean up the wagon and the horse, then gonna tend the field. I’ll be back in a few hours, but Sarah knows where to find me if y’need somethin'.”

You nod again, but he misses it, turning away to unbuckle the horse. You slide your trunk and Ellie’s satchel off the end of the wagon and head into the shadow of the house.

The white clapdoor snaps shut behind you, followed by the softer snik of the screen clicking into its frame. Slipping the bobby pins out of your hair to release your hat, you take in the Miller home.

The air is cool. Dust motes float in the sunlight streaming in from the second floor over a staircase with wooden wainscoting leading away from the open front room. With a brief glance up, you can see the faded white walls of the upper hallway, some not-yet-seen window drawing in bolts of morning light that pierce the air in bullet holes. It’s quiet and it smells warm, like lace kept in the back of a drawer near a wall that faces the heat outside. 

A blue two-seater couch faces a squat fireplace, with a Queen Anne table sandwiched between the two. Behind you, a large grandfather clock ticks and waits, a server waiting in the shadows with a watchful eye to report back to its master on the going-ons of the house. With only a cedar hutch, a few daguerreotypes, a smattering of books, the room is sparsely decorated, but kept clean and organized. You could see Sarah, a focused look in her eyes, sitting on the steps of the stairs and making Joel move and rearrange furniture over and over again until the room felt right. 

Through a white arched doorway, you find yourself in the kitchen. The light sparks more brightly here, the sky a stark blue through the four square window over the kitchen table and above the sink, reflective of the sun. You realize then the house runs north to south at an angle, where there are limited windows in the walls on the east and west sides, thereby limiting direct sun exposure and, more importantly, heat. Both the kitchen and the front rooms had been built out of the line of the sun, making cooking and cleaning and living bearable without a painful glare. 

A thoughtful and patient consideration.

Someone had attempted to add some levity with brown and blue plaid wallpaper around the cove of the dinner table, all the way to the other side of the room around the kitchen counters and stove. But unfortunately for everyone else, the wallpaper is hideous, only tampered by the off-white counters and cupboards. 

The cupboards have glass doors, blurring ceramic cups and plates on the tops of the shelves. 

It reminds you of the small apartment Anna and you lived in back in Boston, when it was just the two of you. It wasn’t much, but it felt sturdy, secure. Safe.

A door to the right of the stove has a latch, and you lift it and poke your head inside. A chilly darkness greets you, along with the scent of wet, deep earth. A basement? No. Not this close to the kitchen. Curiosity pulling you forward, you descend the sturdy wooden stairs, into the sunken darkness. You count ten until a draft licks your ankles. You keep going, one squeak of wood after another until - you touch soil. The heady scents of pine bark and peat moss soothe the air from where your feet press into the ground, fertility thick like mushrooms in the gut of a lichen-drenched tree. But it’s dark, too dark to make out much, barely your own hand in front of your face. With your fingers outstretched, as if you’ll bump into a gas lamp conveniently on the ground, you shuffle forward and almost immediately a cold chain tickles your face. You grab out of instinct and pull. 

Nearly blinded by the light that erupts from an exposed bulb directly in front of your left eye, you stagger back, wincing, your footsteps muffled by the earthen floor. You blink through the tears as the secret at the end of the stairs finally reveals itself. 

A pantry. A cellar. 

At least twenty feet deep and ten feet high, with rows and rows, stacks and stacks, wood shelves cover nearly the entire length of the underground room. In between the rows, large barrels sit, quiet and sturdy, with bottles of vinegar and olive oil sitting on their rims. 

You realize two things within seconds of each other. 

This house has electricity. It stands above the ground, proud, independent, full of heat and light. So unlike your husband’s dark hole in the ground. 

and

there is so much food. 

Pickling jars. Seed pouches. Culled wheat. Cans of fruit and vegetables and eggs. Olives with squash and pumpkins. Crates of potatoes and half bottles of wine and syrup. Onions and carrots and spices and garlic.

A feast. Meals for days and days and days. The bounties of earth stored, safe beneath the ground, like a secret. 

It’s more food than you’ve seen in years.

A hunger like you can’t remember having roars in your stomach out of nowhere and everything pitches to the right. The edges of your vision blurs, your shoulder knocking into stone wall, and breathing becomes a nearly impossible task. You turn, nearly stumbling up the dozen steps that have turned into a thousand.

The tacky memories that stick to the crevices of your dreams yawn awake, bringing with them dry mud in your mouth and thick salt to your eyes. Mud, dirt, dust – everywhere. In that stinking hut in the ground, the dust replaced your molecules, your atoms, until you too might blow away, until you are cracked and empty and dry. The static from the dust storm memories shoots down both of your arms and you sway on your feet. Your heart suddenly pounding so achingly fast, you have to drop your forehead against the flat surface of the closed door to keep the room from spinning. 

You had forgotten what safety looked like.

You had forgotten what living could be.

You know the ringing sound of that gunshot is just in your head, it’s not real, but you shudder all the same, your hands curling into claws under your chin, your nails tearing up the white paint. 

You’re here, not there. You are safe. Ellie is safe. That house and him have been entombed together under piles of dirt, with the bugs and the rot and the stench from the weak stove. Rivers of sweat rolling down the back of your neck, you beg yourself to stop shaking. You feel like cheap terracotta pottery – made from dirt, left too long to bake in the sun and made brittle; one good tap and you’ll shatter. 

You breathe in and taste wet salt. Breathe out and cry – cry from the fear and the dread and the relief and the hope. God, that hope tastes worse than all the dirt in the Panhandle of Texas.

You cry and cry and cry until you don’t feel so brittle anymore.

Sunlight has struck copper, heavy, tangy in the mouth, when the back door opens and the house is instantly filled with the sound of girls’ rabid conversation. You step back from the stove, cheeks warm and arm sore from continuously stirring the rice and vegetable soup. It’s not as thick as your mother once made, but without milk, it would be nearly impossible to improve. You smile at the girls as they tumble in, more dust mite than human, whispering about some secret. 

“Having fun?” You ask with a grin on your face as Ellie helps Sarah take off her shoes, already attentive to what a girl with her health concerns might need. 

There’s an overlap of chatter as Ellie and Sarah both answer you and then, answer each other.

“Well, good,” you say, turning back to the stove, making sure the bottom of the soup doesn’t burn, “but whatever you got up to, it’s all over your faces so please wash up before dinner.” 

“It smells real good, miss,” Sarah says as she hobbles over to the sink and starts rinsing off her arms and cheeks, while Ellie takes off her own shoes. “What is it?”

“Something my mom used to make when the cupboards were bare.”

Sarah stills, the water rushing over her soft skin. Those inquisitive eyes are just as captivating, just as forceful as her father’s, but for entirely different reasons. She tugs the words out of you by the sheer, needling strength of her gaze.

“I mean – I found the cellar, the house is incredibly well stocked, but I didn’t see any preserved meat or dairy and I didn’t – I didn’t think your dad would want me poking around out back.”

Immediately Sarah softens and rolls her eyes. “Dad’s all bark and no bite,” she huffs. “We’ve got stored beef and cheese in an ice chest downstairs. I’ll show you around tomorrow.”

You smile and those brown eyes go warm in the coppery light. “Thanks, Sarah.” 

“Bunch up, I gotta wash my hands too.” Ellie none-to-gently bumps Sarah with her shoulder to get to the sink but before you can scold her, Sarah swings back, using her precarious momentum, and pushes Ellie back. They both giggle. Something that’s been cramped far too long in your chest loosens. 

“So, Sarah, tell me where you are with your schooling. Do you have books, diagrams?”

She thinks for a minute as she opens a drawer that leaves her back to you and takes out two, then four thin cloth placemats. She hobbles back to the table to carefully spread them out.

“I was up to seventh grade before the school shut down. That was about two years ago, so Dad’s been trying to make sure I don’t forget anything. He got me a Midsummer Night’s Dream by Shakespeare a while ago and made me read it out loud to him. He has me work on my letters every day – including cursive.” She adds, with a bright spot of joy cranking her mouth open. You imagine someone like Sarah would have beautiful penmanship. “He shows me around the yard, asking me to identify plants and animals, especially anything that might be poisonous. I don’t think he really understands it but he explains what happens when you add water to a seed and keep it in damp earth. Oh, and he has me help balance the books for the farm – what we made, what we sold, how much we have left, stuff like that.”

You smile at her over your shoulder as Ellie hands her bowls. “Accounting.”

“Huh?”

Ellie rolls her eyes. “It’s so boring, don’t worry about it,” she whispers conspiratorially.

“What your dad is teaching you is called accounting,” you say a bit firmly, eyes tracking your niece as she shows no shame. “It’s a very special skill to have, especially if you work on a farm or in a business. Do you like it?”

She nods rapidly, those cork-screw curls bouncing around her thin face. “Yeah! I do! I’m much faster than Dad when it comes to figuring out the sums and dollar value.”

In the front hall, the clap door creaks open then slams shut, heavy footfalls proceeding the man that makes them.

“Does that happen a lot?” you ask softly as Sarah sidles up next to you to peer into the pot.

“Where I know more than my dad?” Sarah smirks up at you, all devious youth. “More often than you think.”

A mini sun bursts from the ceiling as Joel flicks on the light switch and is almost immediately tackled by Sarah. The copper sun on the horizon finally, in the distracted moment, slips down and drags the night behind it. It’s purple twilight outside when Joel lifts his head from the embrace around Sarah’s shoulders to stare at the two strangers in his kitchen.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you say brightly and you can almost picture your mother in the same exact position in front of the stove, stirring soup until her cheeks were pink, her hand resting low on her back, her tummy round and full in her second attempt to keep her husband’s rage diverted from her. It’s a boy, she promised.

The memory makes you so violently ill out of nowhere, you lose your appetite. But you persevere; you carry on and load up the bowls Sarah stacked for you. Ellie saves you from having to dislodge the prickly knot in your throat when she snags a bowl and eagerly yells, “get it while it’s hot!”

The arrangements from the stove to the table are a bit of a blur, the slick anxious weight from earlier today curling around your lungs again as you remember shadows in chairs like these, but so different from the flesh-and-blood bodies that occupy them now. 

You’re dazed, a little light-headed, but not so much to miss the glance between Joel and Ellie. A junkyard puppy skirting the territory of an older watchdog, a bone in each of their mouths and dragged to opposite corners of the battlefield. Satisfied with the lines of demarcated territory that had been drawn, they call a temporary truce by eating in complete silence, until Sarah groans.

“Oh my god, this is better than it smells!” she hums, her mouth full of potatoes. 

“Just wait till she adds chicken,” Ellie grumbles, mouth cupped open to keep from spilling. You watch her, a faint smile on your face, and the slippery feeling fades. When cleaning up, she missed a spot on her left nostril and you fight the urge to clean it with your thumb.

“There’s more.” 

Your gaze snaps to Joel hunched over his bowl. The spoon that Ellie and Sarah have to both clutch in their fists to eat barely swings between his massive fingers. 

Joel’s dark eyes trace down your nose, your chin, your neck, to where your hands lay flat on the table in front of you. Your own bowl and spoon sit on the counter behind you. You worry you might have upset him, with the way he’s frowning.

“There’s more,” he repeats, same tone. 

“I'm sorry?” 

He puts his spoon down and clears his throat, then nods to the pot on the stove. Ellie watches him out of the corner of her eye.

“I saw how much you made. If you’re hungry, you should eat.” 

As though speaking a language only you could hear, he looks at Ellie the same time you do. 

She frowns. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Sarah begins to giggle, nodding, when Joel starts again.

“You should eat. There’s enough.” 

It’s like his eyes can see through your blue veins and clammy skin, to your yellow bones and clawing stomach. You choke on the mudball that’s been hovering in your throat for months and nod.

“Alright.”

You don’t know if you’re actually hungry – you can’t really remember the taste of warm food – or if you’re doing it just to appease him, but something about the heat of the bowl and solid spoon in your hand, it rouses you from this sinking you find yourself in. Your bones feel like jelly.

“How’re the fields, Dad?” Sarah asks with her big eyes, seemingly unaware of the layered exchange between you and her father, or kind enough not to address it. 

He responds to her, his voice deep in the cavern of his chest. It’s an easy way he speaks to her, heavy with the seriousness she’s earned to be talked to like an adult, but gentle enough that for all his low grumbling, it comes out as a thick murmur. You find yourself listening to their conversation, their interactions, as soothing as music turned low from a well-tuned radio. Ellie is even roped in when Sarah tells Joel all about the Space Family Robinson and Ellie’s knife. “It’s really cool, Dad,” she says preemptively. “She knows how to use it and she’s really safe.” 

“Well, if it’s really cool . . .” he fills his mouth with potatoes, tamping down the ghost of a grin on his lips around the spoon. 

Ellie shuffles in her seat, her own hesitant smile glittering in her eyes, and with only minor prompting, she holds no prisoners when gleefully telling Sarah that she’s got the story of finding a mess of wriggling worms out by the back of the barn all wrong. 

“Just keep ‘em outta my side of the bed, alright?” You grin at her, spooning another dribble of soup into your mouth. You’ve realized too much, too fast can just as easily twist your stomach so you focus on cradling a digestible amount of food – broth, potato, carrots – in the well of your spoon. 

But the landscape beyond the silver lip has stilled. Both girls are happily slurping up the last bits of their meals, throwing quips back and forth, but Joel’s shoulders have locked up again, the bones of his wrists flat, a static alertness that you’re sure would travel all the way down to his ankles if he was standing up right. You aren’t sure if Sarah has picked up on the subtle change in his breathing – from the deep well of his lungs to shortened and shallow – but somehow you have. 

You’re staring at him far too long.

Those thick eyebrows pitch down again. Beneath the loose button that pins your dress closed over your chest, you feel a swell of heat and you wish you were like Ellie, capable of making an easy joke – what, is there something on my face? The heat bubbles almost uncomfortably under his weighted gaze. 

“I hate bugs,” you blurt out, desperate to give him what he wants, if only you knew. The girls glance at your sudden outburst. “I don’t like worms especially. I don’t mind straw beds, as long as they’re clean – I mean, I–I hope they are, the straw beds, not the worms.” 

Another eternal second of being pinned down by Joel’s frown, this one decidedly less hostile, before understanding breaks open the harsh lines of his mouth and around his eyes. His eyes go wide for less than breath, then he drops his gaze to the bowl. His shoulders shift, muscle redistributing weight as he settles his thick forearm closer to the edge of the table.

Oh, that relief of muscle says. 

“You’re not sleeping in the barn.” Joel says, head tucked down. At that, Ellie slows her ravenous eating and frowns at him. 

“Then where are we sleeping?”

Joel lifts his head, a new, special emotion just for her tugging on his mouth: exasperation. “My room. You two in there and I’m takin’ the couch.” 

Shame and embarrassment drip down over your skull, between your ears, like a cold, runny egg. 

“No, we couldn’t possibly–,” 

He shakes his head, eyes still on the split potato chunk at the bottom of the bowl. His hand flexes briefly and you think of it around the bridle of the horse. 

“It’s not up for discussion.” 

Beside him, Sarah frowns at him and you’d wonder how many times in her life he’s ever said that to her – if you could think properly over the roaring of blood in your ears. 

“Joel,” you say, something syrupy under your tongue molding the words Mr. Miller into a tone you’d use for an old friend. “I can’t ask you to–,”

Hand flexes. The seat of the chair squeaks.

“You’re not askin’, I’m tellin’.” You’re still vastly underprepared for when those eyes - those deep, dark eyes - suddenly snap on you, as if your very presence commands his entire attention. You notice the dirt underneath his nails and around the knot of his wrist on the table. He’s filthy. 

Quietly, with the surety of a dog slipping its snout between its paws, he cuts the last chunk of potato in half with the curve of his spoon. “The new mattresses’ll be here next week. We’ll make do ‘till then.”

The slurp of soup between his lips seems to signal the end of the conversation, but you can’t quite mash together your kaleidoscope-spinning impressions of the man across the table from you. 

“Thank you . . . Joel.” 

He nods, back teeth breaking apart the soft mush of the potato. He swallows and glances back up at you. 

“It’s good,” he says, briefly holding his spoon aloft. “You did good.”

His words burst the choking bubble in your chest and warmth drips down your spine, splashing in the cradle of your hips. Hunger rises, but it’s a different kind of hunger. A growl of neglect. One you sometimes wondered if it was even possible for you to ever even feel. 

Even while you were married to your husband.

You put your spoon down to keep your hand from shaking. The soup won’t feed this new churning hunger and, frankly, you don’t know what will. 

You did good, he praised, parsed out like torn bread tossed across a black lake. 

It makes you warm in places food never could.

The immediate next morning, you meet the sun early, eagerly. Eager to wake and rise and become so useful, you are intricately tied to this house; if you are removed, a vital piece of the land, the prairie is torn up along with you. Ellie sleeps softly next to you, curled up in the same position she was in the hotel bed, tucked in so tightly as if to take up the least amount of space possible. She sleeps, unbothered, blissful, and again you fight the urge to brush the hair that covers her sleeping eyes. You settle for tugging the beautiful quilt, with its stunning blue and red and green patches, up to her shoulders. 

As you tie your dress up, your suitcase partially open and on the ground, movement from outside in the dawning pink catches your eye. A brisk shadow, those thick shoulders proceeding a taught waist are unmistakable as they move towards the barn. You stand, transfixed for a moment as broad hands slide open the barn doors, you hear a faint creak, and he disappears inside. The capability of those hands; the surety, where every action is deliberate and intentional – it makes something arc up your throat. A warm piercing that bursts through bone and muscle alike. Trembling fingers tug at the wilting lace around the cuffs of your dress, imagination stretching out into the dark morning, inspired by curious and impossible ideas of those hands. 

Something – most likely Sarah next door – squeaks the floorboard and those tendrils of thought snap back as if someone had slammed a lid shut. You glance at the clock and make a mental note to wake up earlier tomorrow, to beat him to the kitchen. 

You are also desperately eager to get out of the room where you can practically smell Joel on the walls. It’s simple, just like the rest of the house, but amongst the hand-drawn sketches of himself and birds (likely gifts from Sarah), the half-spent candles and well-read books, you find him in everything. You wonder, briefly, if the indentations made on the cotton mattress are from him or you – the scent of his hair in the pillow from sweat or soap. 

The encroaching feeling that you don’t belong here in this house nearly swallows you whole as you dress in a room you definitely don’t belong in. 

Joel remains a distant figure, a familiar shadow across the lightning horizon, long after you finish the eggs and toast. You consider perusing the pantry for blueberries or something similar, when Sarah comes down. Fresh-faced, dressed with the care most people reserve for church, she stumbles in, her braces clacking as she finds a seat at the table. 

You notice a brief flash of pain across her face when you bring over a plate of food. She unconsciously rubs a circle with her thumb on her left knee as she picks up her fork.

“Pain today?” You ask, eyes on her knee, even though it’s obvious. 

She nods, strained. “Just a little bit. But it’s nothing. I’m sure it’ll go away when it warms up outside.” 

You doubt that is remotely true, but you let her hold the comforting lie. She doesn’t seem like the type to swallow pity with ease, and neither was Anna. You put on that detached but focused "nurse's" mask, your lips a straight line and brow furrowed, your voice slipping on something more commanding too.

“Let me see.” 

Sarah blinks at you briefly, evidently surprised by your shift in demeanor but eventually, she obeys. She drops her fork and slides the chair back, the chair legs squeaking against the rough wooden floor.

You crouch in front of her, gathering up her ankle first and testing its mobility.

“When were you diagnosed?” you ask, as soft as you are firm.

“Never, technically.” She watches you and occasionally winces. You wonder how long she’s grown stiff like this. “The doc had left over braces that Dad bought before the guy skipped town.”

“So then how did you know it was polio?” 

By her sudden stillness, you know this is the first time that word has been uttered under this roof in a long time. You lower her ankle, rising gaze meeting hers. Her mouth is pulled tight. You can practically read the familiar headlines as they scroll across her mind.

New Polio Cases by the Thousands

Polio Claims Life of Infant

Polio Outbreak: Thirteen Dead

“Not every case is serious,” you say, gently, using the word serious in place of fatal. You don’t want to scare her unnecessarily. But by her wide eyes, you know the word sits in her chest all the same. 

“I know. And I know it can be made worse by moving too much. That’s why Dad’s always on me about resting and going slow.” 

You return to your examination. Her skin is rubbed raw in some places by the braces. You remind yourself to ask Joel for some old sheets to make better padding. 

“That’s not always true,” you say, shifting to her other leg. “Even though she was sore after, Anna often said she felt the stiffness go away after walking around the neighborhood block.”

Curious, Sarah tilts her head, those lovely curls swaying like leaves in a breeze. “Who’s Anna?”

Your skin around your eyes tightens – how could you be so careless with such a secret – when you hear feet thundering down the stairs and a second later, Ellie swings around the lip of the doorway.

“Is that toast?” She asks, eyes wide and hopeful. “If you got bacon, I’m gonna start kissing faces.”

You and Sarah exchange a small grin before you stand up right and Sarah returns to her own meal.

“No bacon today, but who knows what else is stored in the pantry?” 

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Ellie exclaims as she slides into a chair, her own plate pilled far too for a girl her size. “Treasure hunt.” 

You see the tips of Sarah’s ears go briefly pink at Ellie’s language but the muffled smile on her face hints at awe, impressed – so you let that one slide. A stream of light through the half-shut curtain tugs your thoughts outside, to the man literally toiling in the fields. 

“Does your dad want me to bring him some food?” You ask, standing from the chair and glancing out the window. You can’t see him any more and for some reason that makes your chest go tight.

Sarah shook her bouncy curls. “No. He’ll come in and get it when he’s hungry.” 

You didn’t like the idea that you weren’t going to be directly feeding the man who employed you literally to cook for him and his daughter.

“Does he like coffee?”

Sarah arches an eyebrow at you. “Yeah, he loves it. But I’ve tried for years to make it the way he likes and he always drinks it, but I think a little piece of him dies inside every time he does.” 

“Then you must be a great cook too,” Ellie smirks up at her. In response, Sarah smiles impishly around a mouthful of eggs. 

You hold that little bit of information about Joel - something you knew that he didn’t know you knew - close, like a dollar bill in your pocket. You drum your fingers, searching for memories of how Anna used to shoe-string coffee when you couldn’t afford a maker in Boston.

“Did you eat?”

Ellie’s voice tears your gaze from the window. Her plate is only halfway empty. Her fingers uneasily move the fork around.

“Yeah,” you answer truthfully. In fact, you are rather ashamed by how much you took, sitting at the table in the purple dark, before you remembered that you had to feed three other people. “I’m good, Ellie. Thanks.”

She nods, returning to her plate and shoveling two bites into her mouth without slowing down.

“What’s first today?” Sarah asks, her eyes bright. “I can show you my sums. We have a chalkboard in the barn.”

You smile at her eagerness to show off while Ellie dejectedly pokes at her remaining floppy eggs. She had never been one for school, another thing you found hard to relate to about her. Fortunately for her, Anna nor you ever had the time to be as diligent about her education as Joel had been for Sarah. And unfortunately for her, you intend to fix that as quickly as possible. 

“I’d love to see them, Sarah, but would you mind showing me around the cellar first? Maybe there is bacon hiding down there somewhere.”

You don’t miss the small smile that creeps across Ellie’s face.

“Junk or keep?” 

Sarah looks up from the tip of her stick dragging nonsense through the barn’s dirt floor, her chin flat in her palm, elbow on her knee. She frowns at Ellie holding up . . . something that might have been a tractor part at one time. 

“I don’t even know what that is, so – junk?” 

Ellie shrugs, tosses the piece back and forth in her hands, and then chucks it like a ball to the opposite end of the barn. It collides loudly with the wall and Flora, the white and black cow, lifts her head at the noise from her stable and lets out a low groan. 

The entire barn smells of hay and animal but in a way that is warm, almost comforting. The two cows lazily munch from their troughs in their stalls, occasionally eyeing you as you carry items back and forth. It’s fortifying in a way only working outside and with your hands can offer. 

You turn to her disapprovingly but she’s already back, elbow-deep, in the pile you had designated hers to sort. Sarah, to whom you suggested rest this morning, goes back to boredly drawing circles in the dirt. Even though she clearly hates the idea of being idle, you are surprised she takes your medical advice without any fight. 

If you had successfully completed your duties as cook, now it was time to take on your other task as teacher. Sarah had a few textbooks, but mostly outdated and only one copy. You know trying to find a full library in times like these is laughably impossible, but there is nothing wrong with hoping for a blackboard. You’d made one before when the school district you tempted at didn’t approve new funding, and you feel confident you could do it again. Trouble is, you have nowhere to put it, much less set up a laughably impossible classroom for two students. 

Until Sarah casually mentioned the unfortunate pile of junk in the back of her father’s barn, “taking up at least half the space in there.” 

She wasn’t wrong.

“Yuck – is your dad a hoarder?” Ellie asks with slight disgust as she pulls up a stack of newspapers held together by twine. “Why does he even have this stuff?”

Sarah grins, delighted by Ellie’s prickly teasing. “This place actually used to be pretty organized. This was his space for a long time – where he went to think, or figured out what crops we needed for the next year.”

Her smile crumbles. “But, uh, then I got sick and now he doesn’t come out here unless it's for work.”

Ellie pinches the soft of her cheek with her teeth, nodding, her eyes downcast.

“So . . . junk?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

The stack of newspapers comes up to her knees and Ellie struggles, off-balanced, to carry it across the hay-covered floor. 

You reach for it and she gives it to you gratefully. You take it with a smile; you never know what she’s going to appreciate or just see it regretfully as charity or pity. 

“I think your dad is losing it,” Ellie says as she wipes sweat from her brow, shaking her head far too seriously. “Losin’ it, big time.” 

Sarah giggles.

You drop the stack of papers in the corner, but when you let go, the string snaps and the papers spill everywhere. With a sigh, you kneel down and gather them back together, but not before a few headlines catch your eye. 

Your heart twists.

Paralysis Takes Three Children

Join the Mothers’ March on Polio

QUARANTINE: POLIOMYELITIS

Why would Joel keep these? Everyone knew how devastating polio could be to children, even infants. Why would he –

Roughly dispersed throughout the article, sentences and phrases were underlined in blue pen. Sentences containing, “iron lung”, “bedrest”, “antibiotic” –

No cure.

Warmth spread out across your chest. Joel was looking for a way to treat his daughter, the only way he could in a town without a doctor: outside information. Something about this makes the space beneath your chest bone hurt so badly, you get a little nauseous. 

Now you consider conserving these papers as if they are important historical documents. Behind you, where Ellie and Sarah are lobbying jokes back and forth, you see more stacks of neatly contained newspapers. He looked everywhere and found nothing. 

You reshuffle the stack that fell, when you spot something else that hardens the warm feeling in your chest and makes it brittle.

Mob Over Breadline Kills FIVE

Experts Say There is No Way Out of This Depression

Mother of Drowned Children Claims She Did “What Was Best”

The rough floor hurts your knees. Eyes closed, you try to ignore the flood of images of what you witnessed in Boston, how desperate and cruel people became in Oklahoma. With each memory, your heartbeat pounds harder.

Red. Blood. Pink. Skin. White. Bone.

The riots got to be so terrible, but people were just hungry.

Ellie calling your name jerks you out of the sinking muck of memories. 

“What? What is it?”

She eyes you with distant concern then glances at Sarah. “She wanted to know where you learned all this stuff.”

“About cooking, and teaching, and nursing,” Sarah clarifies. “I think I’ve read every book in our house probably four times and I still feel like I don’t know anything.” 

“You probably know more than you think,” you offer as you scoop up the uncomfortable newspapers, easily switching tracks of thought to mute the swell of horrors from the rotting box in your mind. You leave them in the corner for Joel to do what he wishes with them and stand, dusting your dress off. “What do you call the process by which plants get energy from the sun?”

Sarah’s eyes brighten immediately. Where her body fails her, her mind is as sharp as a tack.

“Photosynthesis!”

“Good,” you nod, smiling. “And what’s the primary source of energy in animal cells?”

“The mitochondria!”

“Very good.” 

Ellie sighs angrily from her pile and puts her hands on her hips. “I think I’m gonna make like mitosis and split, if we keep talking about all this boring stuff.”

Scorned for her love of learning a second time and already in a bad mood from the pain this morning, Sarah frowns. 

“What’s your problem? Why do you act like school sucks? You had your mom teaching you –,”

“She’s not my mom!” Ellie snaps back, her knuckles white around a rusted bucket. “She’s just my aunt!”

“Yeah, well, I have an uncle I never even get to see!” Sarah stands up as smoothly as she can, but her knees and ankles are pink again. Her calves shake. “You’re lucky!”

Ellie’s teeth clench in the back of her jaw, lip curling. 

You remember distinctly more than once having to pick Ellie up from school early because she’d been caught fighting and you take a step in her direction, even if Sarah could no doubt land a few solid ones in. 

“And you’re–,”

“Ellie.” You know how rough Ellie can be. You remember the tone to take with unruly students, even if you don’t mean an ounce of it. “Don’t. Just let it g–,”

“Why do you always take her side?” That ire whips around to you. Loyalty, that was another trait her mother favored. Ellie’s shoulders roll forward, her fists clenched. “Why do you let her talk like she knows anything about us? About Mom?” 

“I’m not taking a side, Ellie,” you say firmly, your chin tilted down to her. One day she’s going to be taller than you, you know it. “Both of you, this is enough.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Ellie tosses the broken bucket in her hand to the ground and storms towards the barn doors. 

“You just like her because she’s a fucking dork like you,” she growls under her breath before shoving open the large square door. 

It swings shut, the metal clattering against the wood. The brief stream of light filtering in is shortly swallowed up into the shadows again. 

“I’m sorry,” Sarah says almost immediately, her brown eyes swiveling on you. Her skin is tinged a little lighter and there’s sweat along her hairline. With a fleeting flash of worry, you wonder if she’s in more pain than she lets on. “I didn’t mean it . . . I mean, I think she is lucky to have – but . . . I shouldn’t have said that.”

She drops your gaze and you think those dark eyes might be softer, wetter than usual. She plucks at the hem of her dress, her mouth twisted to the side. 

Where Ellie explodes outwards, Sarah implodes inwards. You never could understand Ellie’s inclination to destroy everything around her.

You hand her a broom, with a smile on your face. 

“Do you want to tell me about your uncle?” 

She takes it slowly from you, eyebrows furrowed down. This is a look you are familiar with, even when it comes to Ellie. She is stuck between answering like a kid, getting it all off her chest to be free of the emotional burden, and swallowing it all to please the adults in her life. 

You’ve also found Ellie tends to open up when she doesn’t have to look you in the eye. Sarah’s own gaze is stuck to the floor as she vaguely sweeps at the hay. 

“We don’t talk about Uncle Tommy a lot,” she mumbles. 

You focus on untangling an old bridle. “Oh? Why?”

“Dad’s still pissed at him for moving out to California. Said he left what’s really important for a bullshit dream.” Her eyes pop up, wide and shocked. “Sorry, that’s what he said.” 

Despite your limited time with him, you can easily see how Joel Miller might take something like that personally, but you just store that away too, another breadcrumb leading the way.

“Why California?”

“It’s–,”

The barn door opens again and Joel’s shadow breaks through the almost painful white light. Behind him, Everett (the horse) snorts and huffs, pulling along the giant creaking plow, the air suddenly pungent with the smell of warm dirt, leather, and animal sweat. Joel murmurs something to the frothing snout and wipes his own forehead with the back of his arm, smearing sweat and dirt across his browline. He stops when he sees you two staring. 

By Sarah’s wide eyes, it’s clear Uncle Tommy is a subject that is not often brought up in this house either. Joel frowns, but just as he opens his mouth, you interject – you know how to deflate a potentially angry man.

“We were just cleaning up the back of the barn,” you say, careful not to use words like junk or scrap heap. “I’m hoping to use the space as a school, for Sarah and Ellie.” 

His gaze settles on you, like the dust at his feet. 

“Mhmm.” His tone scrapes something low in your stomach. 

“I’m sorry – I should have asked – I didn’t think –,”

“No, it’s –,” he shakes his head. His eyes catch Everett’s foamy nose and he pats it, noting the long sweaty forelock. “Smart. Next spring, we’ll come up with something better, but there’s no time now, with the harvest comin’.” 

You nod, peeling off what you were going to say from the back of your teeth with your tongue. Joel casually drags his fingers through Everett’s forelock before stepping back to unhook the plow’s leather buckles. It’s when he shifts towards Sarah, looking to her, that he grimaces. 

He put his weight on his right knee and it immediately caused him pain.

“We could help,” you offer, eyes on his knee, his thick fingers rubbing into the muscle just above his knee cap. "Ellie loves being out in the sun and I can teach her how to plant–,”

“‘M fine,” he mutters gruffly, straightening up and wiping his hands on the cloth around his neck. “Sarah, go inside for a bit. There’s something she n’ I gotta discuss.”

His tone indicates this is not the time for eye rolling but she does it anyway.

“I’ve said for years that you need help, Dad. She’s just offering to–,”

“Sarah, inside. Please.” 

Sarah scowls and drops the broom against one of the stalls. She hobbles out of the barn, first scrunching her nose up at Joel’s obvious smell, then muttering something about having to go look for the hell spawn. You finger the scrap metal in your hands, a fluttery nervousness growing in your stomach the closer Sarah gets to the door. With one more disapproving shake of her thick curls, she shuts the door behind her. 

Everett nickers and paws the ground, eager to be returned to bed after a long morning of work. Light streams in gold from the slanted windows above the loft, separating the front stalls from the back of the barn where you stand, fidgeting. There’s no escaping the hot animal smell now, and it’s your turn to be intercepted by Joel. 

Another apology is nearly out of your mouth when he speaks first.

“Do you know how to shoot a gun?” He asks, his mouth set into a firm line. In the half-darkness of the barn, you can’t quite make out his eyes. 

You swallow against the encroaching dryness in your throat. “I-I have a gun. Keep it in my purse, o-only for emergencies and I–,” 

“That’s not what I asked.” He shakes his head, tone soft, almost gentle. He glances past you to the stacks of newspapers you had moved into the corner, the ones about violence and pestilence. He rubs his fingers between the bridle and Everett’s thick hair. “Found a hole in the barbed wire fence today.” 

You frown, the tension of his voice indicating a severity you are utterly unprepared for. “What does that mean?”

“Someone tried to cut through.” 

A white hot panic lurches up your spine out of nowhere. Fueled by fear, you see the outline of your husband shambling across the propertyline and you go cold. 

“W-why would someone do that? What are they after?”

His hand stills as every muscle in his body briefly tenses. Eyes dark beneath a tight brow, the tightness in his jaw is an answer and a threat all at once. He looks almost offended by your question.

You know exactly what they would take. 

All you can do is nod. 

Everett nudges Joel’s shoulder, impatient to get out of the harness, for that bath he so very much deserves. As though you had disappeared, Joel unbuckles the restraints, taking a brush to the gray coat as he goes. Maybe you’d misread that last signal and he thought he told you to fuck off.

You move towards the back door when his voice, timbre deep and low, stops you again.

“I’m gonna to teach you to shoot.” He announces to the lathered withers of the horse. “But you keep that gun on you, at all times, especially when you’re out with the girls. You got that?”

He pauses just as he slides the hitch off the horse's back, his arms covered in dirt as dark as the leather. It’s minute, the shift in his weight, but you suddenly realize he wants verbal confirmation.

“Y-yes. Yes. I’ll take it with me.”

The minutia shifts again, a lessening of tension across his broad shoulder, his thick back. He nods. 

“Good.”

The aching need for him to say more, for that good to turn into you did good or good job – or good girl – it sparks so fast and hot inside of you, you think you’ll choke. Instead, you leave through the door on unsteady legs, jaw locked tightly shut. 

You find comfort in the monotony of sewing. 

Anna always scolded you for it, that you were “giving into women’s work.”

How are they ever going to take us seriously when you actually like doing this dainty shit? 

But where Anna seemingly delighted in her mile-a-minute thoughts, you need an outlet – some way to settle, to ground yourself in the here and now. Furthermore, you could sew anywhere – on the train, on the bus, in a foreign house in the middle of nowhere where you were, again, dependent on the kindness of a complete stranger – 

It isn’t sewing specifically that you enjoy. If there was another activity where your mind could detach itself from your body, you would have liked it too. Here, in this space of blank concentration, you separate further from yourself with every stitch you pull together. Here, you are not a sister, a housewife, or an aunt. Not a nurse or a teacher or a failed fieldhand. 

Not scared of living or scared of your husband or scared that you’ll fail your sister over and over and over again – 

For a handful of minutes, you are not scared and you are the closest thing to yourself you can possibly be. You think, as a child that might have been the closest you’d actually been to understanding your own wants and dreams and desires, but now it is through this act of repetition, of delicate guiding, do you find yourself remembering what it was like to exist unafraid, as thoughtless as a child.

You sit on the edge of Joel’s bed, eased into something vaguely like relaxation by the needle and thread in your hand. You’d found some old pillows in the barn earlier today and surprisingly the stuffing was still intact. After watching Sarah struggle today, you knew you couldn’t spend another second watching the poor girl hobble around on painful braces. 

It’s twilight, the sun gone beneath a blanket of scarlet and indigo, everyone fed and full – the girls almost instantly forgetting their first fight in favor of a discussion about their most effective marble-flicking techniques – and you already have at least one leather-bound pad that is twice as thick as her old one. You grin, excited to share your creation to her. You wonder what Joel will say.

Through the wall over your shoulder, in Sarah’s room, you can hear the low murmur of their voices, as quick and fast as two co-conspirators. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but the words don’t matter. It is the high joy in Sarah’s voice, or the creaky laughter from Joel. They could be speaking in a completely incomprehensible language but the sentiment is unmistakable: you make me happy and I love you.

I love you.

The needle and thread stills in your lap. 

You glance out the window, to a much smaller shadow in front of the barn as it cuts and darts in the blurry half-light. The silver tip of Anna’s knife winks in the glint of the light from the windows as Ellie slashes and digs in the open air. Alone. 

In the late hours, in the hours when the veil between life and death felt so especially fragile, Anna made you promise that you'd look out for Ellie, to raise her as your own. To finally give her a childhood like the two of you never had. 

You had done that. You raised her. She’s alive and healthy and fierce. 

But would she find your sentiment about her unmistakable? Do you know hers as intimately as you knew your sister’s? 

Do you make her happy when both of you are constantly reminded of the ghost between you?

Sarah’s chatter echoes throughout the dark house, disembodied and entirely untethered.

It’s one week into this new, adjusted life in a house you haven’t yet found a home in when the unthinkable happens.

A loud, wet cry startles you awake and immediately your hand flies towards Ellie, panic like ice in your jaw. Your palm touches her shoulder, but she’s already sitting up, eyes towards the door. She glances at you and from your stumble out of a dreamless sleep, you realize it wasn’t Ellie who made that noise. 

It comes again, as sharp as a bone crack, and you both scramble out of bed.

Sarah. 

Up against the far wall, in the corner where her bed tucks up into the corner, Joel holds her like a lion clutches to prey. 

Giant, fat teardrops pour down the sides of her ashen cheeks, those bright eyes clamped shut, her mouth twisted in agony and she claws at her father’s forearm across her shoulders. His other hand is going white from her fingers crushing his in a bone-cracking grip. His voice is soft, firm, and fast in her ear, comforting and scared as hell, as she whimpers. 

Every muscle from her thighs down is stretched taut. Every muscle unwillingly tightened, flexed, the chemicals in her brain battling the commands of the bacteria. The pain, as described in medical journals, is crippling. 

Ellie glances at you out of the corner of your eye. Muscle spasms. 

“Sarah, darling, how long has this been going on?” She’s trembling from the pain and exhaustion. You wrap your robe around you before kneeling down to inspect her — and you feel Joel’s glare nearly singe the skin from your face.

“Don’t touch her,” he snarls and pulls her closer. Sarah whines and buries her face in his shoulder, trying to stifle her sobbing to keep from shaking and causing more spasms. “She’s–,” 

“I can help her, Joel.” Your training became a bulwark – strong, immobile – in moments like these. Maybe it was all an act but that first rush of hope that you could ease pain, soothe what hurts, made you feel like you were made of gold. You let that unbreakable shine pierce Joel’s gaze. “But you need to listen to me.” 

Sarah squeaks and you watch his resolve instantly break. Shakely, he nods. 

“Ellie,” you instruct over your shoulder. “Go start boiling water. There’s a pail out on the porch.”

She is out the door before you finish your sentence. She knows exactly what you need. 

Help on the way, you turn back to Sarah, her feet twisted in grotesque contortions. 

“How long has this been going on?” 

“About ten minutes,” Joel grumbles. She squeezes his hand so hard you hear his knuckle pop. She sobs, open mouth, and he presses his cheek to her. He murmurs softly, “I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry.” 

“Is this the longest fit she’s had?”

Joel reluctantly nods. 

“Sarah,” you say and gently touch her knee. She peels her eyes open, cheeks stained with tears, eyes wet with fear. “We need to loosen your muscles, okay? That’s what’s causing you pain right now. So, we’re going to use heat and pressure to do that.” 

She nods, gaze solidifying with your every word, every word a new step out of the path of pain. Joel smooths her curls off her sweaty forehead, his own wide-eyed stare never leaving your face. You roll up your sleeves and curl up your hair off the back of your neck just as Ellie stumbles back into the room. She’s got at least five towels around her neck, and she’s red-faced and straining from keeping the pail of boiling water from spilling or burning her. She eases it down next to you and hands you a towel. Both of you each take a side and immediately tear the one in half.

Before you wore gloves, some sort of protection, but now there is no time. You hear Ellie inhale sharply, recognizing what you’re about to do a second before you do it.

You dip the towel into the steaming water, let it soak, and pull it out. You grit your teeth against the immediate burn on your palms, the trail of fire over your knuckles and wrists, as you squeeze out the dripping water, Sarah’s soft cries in your ears enough to push past your own pain.

Half-way between an inhale and an exhale, you think you hear your name. 

Ellie already has another dry towel loose around one of Sarah’s legs. She glances at you, her brows knitted together. 

Ready? She asks without words.

You drape the hot towel around her leg and Sarah yelps. She thrashes in her father’s arms as you wrap the towel tighter and tighter. Expecting Joel’s inevitable bark, a hard shove against your shoulder, get away from my daughter – but it never comes. 

As soon as you tighten the towel as firmly as it can safely go, Ellie slides in next to you and begins to massage the muscles in her calves, her feet, her toes. 

Sarah whimpers again, but the sound isn’t as sharp, pain-choked. Joel holds her tighter, as if her torso is also knotted and could be relieved with warmth.

On an inhale, you pick up the other half of the towel, drench it in boiling water, and wring it out with your bare hands. A silent prayer for lotion is fleeting as it drifts through the dense focus of your mind. You squeeze out the dripping water and wrap Sarah’s other leg, prepped again by Ellie. She watches you as you tug and tuck the steaming towel, her own focus as sharp as a tack, mirroring your motions as you knead and massage the muscles. 

After a few minutes of faint whining, a couple of sobs, the room slips into an exhausted silence. Her breathing slow on his chest, Joel draws back her damp curls and finds her face relaxed, asleep. His mouth parts and the skin around his eyes goes slack.

Relief. 

With a shudder, Joel knocks his forehead against hers, his thumb on her chin as if to feel her breathing. You look away, the moment so tender it shouldn’t be witnessed. 

You realize then how badly your palms ache. 

The towels have lost their immediate heat, so you unwind them. Ellie’s small hands overlap yours as she helps. For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to look her in the eyes. The both of you fall back into roles most comfortable to you. 

The wet towels gone, you wrap her legs more tightly this time, slightly past the edge of comfort. You ease her back, flat into the bed, and some small part of you is aware Joel is letting you guide her. He slips out from behind her when you tuck her in, tight with another blanket around her legs. She could be exhausted for days after this.

“We’ll need to keep heat on her legs every thirty minutes, fifteen if we can manage,” you say as you fold up the damp towels. Joel hasn’t moved. Stares down at Sarah’s small body. “I’d like to keep a warming pan here, to have hot water on hand if she wakes up in pain again. When she comes out of it, she needs water and food. Have her eat it slowly, small bites at first.”

You remember a doctor at the hospital where you trained as a nurse give advice to a newer doctor: medical mysteries and illnesses are one thing. Nervous parents are something else. 

You call his name and he doesn’t move. 

You step forward, touch his forearm, and he blinks at you. He feels so remarkably solid.

“Joel. She’s safe.” 

“Do you want me to go get more towels?” Ellie’s gathered the damp towels off the floor, her chest wet. She stares at Sarah’s bed frame. 

“Get breakfast first. Then I might need your help later.” She nods, turns to go, but hesitates. Her mouth is pinched tight, eyes wide, looking for something to ground her, to calm the vortex that the adrenaline in her veins widens with each beat of her heart. She looks so . . . childlike. 

She looks so much like Anna.

The momentary fortified strength shatters and you're afraid again. What do you say to comfort her? What would Anna say? Good job, I'm proud of you, thank you -

But then she turns away, carrying the dripping towels, and you lose your chance to parent.

Joel has curled himself into the rocking chair by her bed, so close his knee touches her mattress. He holds her thin hand in the cup of his two massive palms. His heel taps loosely, quietly against her rug, every possible outcome of this morning striking him in the chest with each drop of his foot. His face is a blurred, dark shadow, hanging between his shoulders.

To describe Joel in this moment, nervous seems quaint. 

In silence, you gather up the tepid pale of water and exit the room, closing the door after you.

The rest of the day passes in haze, tendrils of sleep still between the cracks in your brain left there by the harsh break into consciousness. 

You have Ellie feed the animals, and you start a load of laundry. The ratio of dry towels to wet is rapidly becoming unbalanced and you know after the initial attack is over, pressure is more important than heat. Sarah has barely moved all day but she is responsive and drinks water when she comes out of her deep sleep. You’ve made soup again – a heavy meal that doesn’t require much managing and can be easily re-served – and it gives you time to think. Sarah mentioned the doctor skipping town, that he had all but dropped everything and ran. You wondered what else might be in the doctor’s old shop. Morphine seemed too valuable to have been ignored in any ransacking, but often doctors kept a secret supply, unbeknownst to even most nurses for special cases or when supply was low. You think about that and stir the pot as the sun crawls across the sky. 

With your head bent over the pot, something moves in the field outside and you watch with surprise as Ellie leads one of the cows, Fauna, out of the barn. Through the rippled glass, you watch her talking to the cow, her face scrunched up in concentration, and shockingly, Fauna appears interested, her big ears flicking back and forth. But Ellie leads her only a little bit from the barn, in the grass but visible from the house. She drops to her knees and takes out a wooden stake and a hammer — nevermind where she found those – and then ties Fauna’s lead rope to top of the stake sticking out of the ground.

Ellie wags her finger, her back to the window, her stance very serious. You smile to yourself and to Anna as she marches back inside and shortly returns with Flora, the other cow, to do the same. She gives them both a stern talking to, as evident by her hands on her hips, before turning back to the house. You glance down, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it if you saw her babysitting the cows. It was what Joel did every morning – let the cows out to graze – but she did it in her own Ellie way: on a smaller scale and perhaps with a little more gentleness. 

See, Anna, she’s all grown up.

By nightfall, both of you are exhausted. You don’t know how Joel manages to run this place by himself, especially with a sick child, but after one day, you’re ready to curl up into bed and never leave. Ellie looks like she’s about to face-plant into her soup, her eyes half-shut. You smile, stretching, before gently shaking her shoulder.

“Go to bed, Ellie. You’re exhausted.”

She blinks harshly, indignant and scowly, as you take both your bowls to the sink. “‘M fine. Just a lil’ –,” she yawns deeply, “sleepy.” 

“You’re right. My mistake.”

“Besides, we got coffee coming, don’t we?” 

On the counter, your make-shift coffee press gurgles, the cap steaming from the bubbling water over the grounds you found in the cellar. You eye her over your shoulder.

“You don’t even like coffee.” 

“Yeah but you’re staying up, right? You and Joel?”

Neither of you had seen Joel leave Sarah’s room all day. Ellie eyes the ceiling as if she can see right through it. 

“I’m taking him some food and a cup of coffee,” you say as you finish drying the plates. There’s a rigidness to your hands as you delicately lay the plates flat, unconsciously careful to keep them from making a sound as they touch. “But at St. Joseph’s, some of the nurses would offer to keep vigil, to give the parents a chance to rest.” 

You know in your heart he won’t take it. You just hope he finds your coffee inoffensive.

But Ellie doesn’t respond. She sits still, staring at the ceiling. 

“Ellie, she’s going to be okay.”

Those bright eyes fall on you. “You can’t know that.”

In your hands, you wind the damp towel between your fingers. They’re pink and still ache but the rough linen is a welcome distraction from the churning acid in your stomach.

“This isn’t going to be like last time,” you say, your hips against the counter. “Sarah’s infection is nowhere near her lungs. And she’s been responding to treatment.”

Ellie drops her gaze, her bottom lip curled between her teeth. 

“Don’t say that unless you mean it. Unless you can swear to me.” 

One of life’s simple truths: parents lie. 

You recognize there is a part of her that wants you to look her in the eyes and lie. She’d be angry, eventually, if your lies were exposed, but in that moment, as she sits in an unfamiliar house, at an unfamiliar table, with you and this wretched ailment the only things she knows to be constant – she wants a comfort you can’t give her. You are not capable of parental truth.

“I can’t promise anything.”

She inhales, breathes shaky, and exhales, the spoon in her hand trembling. “I know.” 

Hands full of a white, chipped food tray, you knock twice carefully with one hand like you had been trained to before opening the door. The lamplight has been turned on, but the room, blanketed in darkness and shadows, looks the same. Sarah sleeps deeply, if not well, her hand curled by her face against the pillow, her heavy storm of curls cradling her head gently. Joel watches her, as still and silent as the moon. His foot has settled, but now he breathes so slow he might not be breathing at all. 

Of all the terrible things you had seen during your time as a nurse, witnessing someone like this is always the hardest. Feeling helpless is a sentiment you are all too familiar with and the thought of someone just sitting there and watching you with your grief makes your skin itch. 

“Joel.” A formality, because those trapped in a cyclone of worry require a slow approach, easing a startled animal. “I brought you something to eat.”

Speaking, it lets him acclimate to your voice. 

You set the white tray on Sarah’s dresser, a piece of furniture meticulously crafted. Like Joel’s room, there are books everywhere, but more animal drawings, some directly on the walls. Sarah’s brilliant personality expanded here, in the blues and pinks, not capable of being contained in a single body. 

A body that seems so small and fragile in that little brass bed, while her father looms impossibly large.

“Joel.” Again, soft, but this time you put a hand on his bicep. Never near the neck, an older nurse warned you, that area is sensitive. His denim shirt is soft beneath your fingers, nearly bleached white from the sun and worn smooth from dust and dirt and wind. You think you smell churned earth and hot leather in the instant it takes you to kneel down beside him, your grip sliding from his shoulder to his forearm. With the other hand, you tip a steaming cup into his open palm. 

“Sarah told me you liked coffee.”

Slowly, as though he had blinked and reality disintegrated and reformed around him, Joel’s gaze slides from Sarah’s waxy face, to yours, and then the hand on his forearm. The back of your scalp prickles, the bulwark of courtesy shaking, before you remember you’d done this hundreds of times, to people of all ages, men and women. He seems to understand this – a professional gesture – and he takes the mug from you. With an almost perplexed expression, he stares into the nearly black liquid, his jaw tight. 

And then he drinks, without saying a word. 

You think you might have heard a low rumble from him, a pleased groan as heavy as the plow in the barn outside, but the floorboards creak when you stand up, so you might have been imagining things.

“This tastes good,” he says bluntly, voice weather-beaten. You smile into the bowl of soup as you wave a hand over the steam to cool it down to something bearable. “How?”

Despite his monosyllabic responses, you take this as a good sign. Something tells you that you’ve made exceptional progress by getting him to talk at all. 

“I got pretty good at making cowboy coffee, as my sister used to call it, before we moved to Oklahoma. You already had the beans in the cellar,” you say, shrugging as you bring the soup over to him. He eyes it warily, as if this is not the appropriate time to eat, as if his own suffering would make Sarah’s lessen. 

You’d only ever seen that instinct in a handful of parents while in the hospital and it made something wide and warm press up against your chest bone. 

So you don’t give him a choice. You push the soup into his hands with enough speed that he has to take the bowl or drop it entirely. He, like most people with common sense, takes the bowl. He has a second to frown at you before you turn away to Sarah. 

“And I suspect they were hidden down there on purpose?” You ask as you take out another blanket from the basket beside her bed and flutter it over her legs. You remember stories about the women working with Elizabeth Kenny filling quilts with rocks or beans, anything with weight, and putting them over the affected limbs of polio patients. The compress soothed the ache. 

Sarah snores gently in her sleep as her father behind you laughs, a soft rush of air from his nose, his mouth preoccupied with a half-grin. 

“I try not to hurt her feelings,” he admits quietly. You hear the clatter of metal on porcelain as you fold and refold the blankets to carry more weight. “That girl is a lot of things, but good at making coffee isn’t one of ‘em.” He slurs around the soup in his mouth. 

It’s hard to believe she’s only a year older than Ellie. They have both lost things, indescribable things at too-young an age. But where Ellie carries it in the grip of her hand around her knife, Sarah takes it on the chin. 

Polio, a disease of freezing agony. 

You wonder how much of Sarah’s inner world she keeps to herself. 

Like with Ellie, you fight the urge to brush a lovely curl away from her cheek. 

“You have a special girl here, Joel.” 

You feel his gaze on the back of your neck and you drop your gaze from her pristine face, remembering it’s not your place to look at her like that. Not like how you want to look at her.

Not like how you might want to look at him. 

Joel shifts on his feet, leaning forward to put the now empty bowl on the ground.

“I know.” By the strength of his tone, he admits to knowing that you see the bright light about Sarah like he does and so he lets you look. Your heart stutters at this silent transference and you grab blindly for that mask of noble duty. 

“How has her breathing been?” You sit down next to her and pick up her wrist, feeling for that steady pulse. You relax slightly when it’s easy to find. The beat of it is a little faster than you would like, but it hasn’t woken her up. 

“Good.” A disgruntled groan from the chair as he adjusts behind you. His voice is rich like molasses, dripping warmth down the knots in your spine. “Woke up here n’ there, like you said. Gave her food. Got her water. But she just went right back to sleep.”

“But she ate and drank?” 

He nods out of the corner of your eye. You check the mobility of her joints and they seem to be back to their natural looseness. Whether she’ll feel strong enough to walk is another matter entirely, but it’s not good to worry him unnecessarily. 

“That’s good, Joel. That’s really good.” 

You smile at him and finally, finally, the corners of his eyes soften, his brows pluck up, and he breathes deep. The tension leaves his body the way steam leaves a lake in the hours before dawn, the cup of coffee resting on his thigh. His gaze falls from your face to hers, shrouded in shadow.

“She’s never slept this long after an attack,” he says quietly. “Always restless, pain flaring up. We once stayed up a whole day and night when it got bad.” 

He shakes his head, clears his throat a bit as if the words in his mouth leave behind a mucky, sour taste.

“Thank you. For treating her properly.”

For doing what I couldn’t. 

It’s true. But no amount of reassuring – I’ve just had training, you did the best you could – would dissipate that repugnant scent of guilt lingering in the air. You are forced to let it linger, unable to say a single damn thing that would mean anything to him. 

As he finishes the last dregs of coffee, Joel unwinds his long legs from beneath the seat and his knees crack. Stiff joints after a long day of stillness, but immediately his fingers fly to that same spot he touched in the barn in that afternoon, his mouth tight from the unexpected flash of pain. 

Immediately you kneel down, worried at the slight hiss he made, fingers inches from his thigh when he straightens.

“You don’t have to–,” he shifts as if he can pull away from your touch and stay seated. “It’s not that bad –,” 

You frown at him. “Can the person here who has had actual medical training determine that?” 

Something light flickers over his eyes, so fast it might not have been real, smoothing the lines around his mouth. Joel nods, glancing to the floor. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

That single word almost splits your skull in half like lightning. 

You are immediately grateful for the heavy shadows in the room. Your palms, smarting all day, are now blistering with heat. Mouth shut tight, you don’t trust whatever sits behind your lips, so you begin your inspection of his muscles. Thumbs down, you feel along the lines that lead down to his knee.

Hard, firm, you notice. Made solid by work and toil. A few of the bricklayers and farmers you’d attended to had muscles like these. Despite the rough denim and how unsettling it is to be this close to him, it’s easy to lose yourself in the methodology of the human body. You’ve learned to read sinew and bone and scar tissue like a map and you come to find that the topography of Joel Miller is mountainous. 

“So, mhm, where’d you learn to make coffee?”

You thought the stiffness in his thigh was due to lingering pain, but when you look at him and his guarded expression, chin tilted into his chest, fingers tight around the bottom of the seat, you realize he is uncomfortable. He is made uncomfortable . . . by you. Something sharp pokes through a slot between your ribs and you sit up straighter, trying to make your touch even more clinical if possible. But what he says next, you aren’t sure if it’s genuine or genuinely meant to hurt.

“Your husband?” 

You shake your head. “My sister, actually. Ellie’s mom. We’d trade night shifts when she was a baby. One of us would come home from our second job, and the other would leave for their first. Anna said she’d never have survived those first years without coffee.”

You can hear the question he wants to ask buzzing in his head, your thumb rubbing therapeutic circles around the inflamed area. But instead he asks:

“And you . . . you like coffee?” 

You shrug. “I don’t think I ever slowed down enough to ever taste it in the first place.” 

With Joel Miller, silence means a thousand things. It’s not the way he looks at you, but the way he looks into you.

“Anna always said we’d be fine, that two unmarried women with a baby could make it in the city. But I wasn’t so convinced. There wasn’t much time for something like enjoying the taste of coffee because I was always busy taking every job I could get.” 

“Like treating sick kids.” He says it like he just found a piece of you off the ground and added it to a sprawling puzzle. He politely stares over your shoulder.

You swallow, throat tight. “Actually, um, Anna had it - polio - too. I took the job as a nurse to learn how to treat her from home.” 

Those heavy eyes swing into you full force and you can feel your stomach roll and collapse against your spine. 

“Every case is different, Joel. What I did for Sarah, it wouldn’t have helped someone like Anna.” 

“But she died?” A third unwelcome presence. 

“Yes. She went fast. There was nothing anyone could do to save her.”

There was nothing you could do to save her. 

Your thumbs are starting to ache, but you don’t want to leave just yet. You want to sit and listen to his voice, even if it’s pitched in anger towards you. 

But it’s not. His next words come out soft, if not a little bit disbelieving. 

“Where did you come from?” Joel asks. “You said the city, Oklahoma. How’d you end up in fuckin’ Dalhart, Texas?” 

You use your elbow on the thicker muscle up his thigh and he tries very hard not to wince. 

“We grew up in Boston. City girls all our lives. We had big plans of catching the bus line and going all over the country, just the two of us, but then Anna got pregnant and overnight, everything changed.”

He nods, knowingly. You add that to your own Joel Miller mosaic.

“I met the man I’d marry while I worked as a maid in a motel. He was a banker, or so he told me, and he wanted to whisk me away. We were three months behind on our rent, so I told him yes, I'd marry him after knowing him for a week — as long as I got to bring Anna and Ellie with me. All he talked about was money, so I thought he had it. What he did have was enough to get us to Oklahoma, buy some farm equipment for the wheat boom, and then lose it all in a handful of years.”

“And then we lost Anna. We lost my husband. I went back to trying to find a job in town with no jobs.” You pull your hands back, the deep tissue of his thigh flushed with blood from your therapy, and having nothing more to do, little more to say, you drop them into your lap. “Just after we missed the payment for the equipment for the second month, I got a letter from a man claiming to be my long lost Uncle Robert. I hadn’t eaten in three days and Ellie just got tagged by the police for shoplifting. I sent him a letter back and he said if I sent him our last twenty dollars he’d get us set up in Dalhart where he had a successful car dealership. I did and he didn’t and if you hadn’t picked us up, I don’t know what we would have done.” 

You sit with the hot truth of it and he sits with the both of you. It’s silent in a way that only a house in the middle of nowhere can be. Sarah stirs in her sleep, her legs rustling the sheets, but doesn’t wake up.

“You don’t have to do that here, you know.” He straightens his legs, just as quietly as the rest of the house. He crosses his arms over his chest and you think about the muscle just under his forearm, thick and immobile as sea-drenched rope. “Not eat . . . for Ellie’s sake. There’s enough for you and her. Always.”

You think of the cellar with its soft dirt, cool air, the endless rows of stored fruits and vegetables and meat, buried like a still-beating heart beneath the dust-whipped house in a paradise on the prairie. 

“But I understand the inclination.” With you on the ground before him and Joel leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his broad back arching under the stripe of white moonlight, he looks at you. 

Really looks at you. 

Like recognizing like.

A passing in a distorted mirror that might be me but it’s not but I think I know you all the same there is a thing just like me out in the world and it sees me.

Slowly, hesitantly, as if he’s afraid you’ll bite, he reaches forward and takes your wrist from your lap. The calluses on his thumb brush roughly against the knot of bone as he twists your palm upward. Pink, too pink, a stinging color, even in the low lamplight. Joel works his jaw back and forth, staring at your palm with weary concern, as if it told him things he didn’t want to know. 

His gaze lifts and your fingers curl instinctively in. He’s trying to make you look and you don’t want to. He sees your sacrifice and you don’t want it called that, there’s certain nobility in sacrifice, in a sort of suffering for other people, but it’s not sacrifice if you go willingly and despite you not wanting to look, not wanting to put a name to it, not wanting to take up any space at all, he looks at you like he, a man as broad and wide and powerful as he, is grateful. 

For you. 

Every bulwark inside of you, every foundation that you had built yourself because you never had the chance to grow hearty roots somewhere permanent, rumbles. Shakes, beneath a single solitary, rolling earthquake. A landslide of earth behind the strength in his eyes. 

“For her, for Sarah, I’d do the same,” he says. 

For her. For the children in your lives. 

Do you even like coffee? All you know is how to make it. What would you do with it if you did? If you liked coffee? If you loved it.

If there was someone outside yourself and Ellie to make you coffee simply because you wanted it. Because you were in a circle of people for whom people would do things for. For her. For you. 

The heart of Joel is like coffee: dark but warm. 

Your wrist slips between his fingers, finding refuge again in your lap. 

“I know.” 

You wonder what it would be like to be within Joel’s circle of people for whom he does things. To be given coffee, just because you want it. 

You bet it’s warm.

You stand up, collect the empty, used things, and wish him a good night. 

A noise and sunlight startles you awake. Your eyes tear open, hand flat on an open pool of sunlight in the center of the mattress, head twisted and knees bent up by your chest. In your sleep, your body twisted itself into a Gordian knot, unable to escape the dreams about the cellar ground turning into coffee beans, and the cramped bloodflow leaves you disoriented until you can roll onto your back and remember where you are. The smells that surround you. 

You hear the noise again and you think of Ellie and in that instance where complete consciousness returns to you, the weight of her is gone. Literally.

Ellie is not in the bed beside you. 

The room’s brightness is suddenly too bright, the clear, electric blue sky too blue – it’s too beautiful and it lulled you into a sense of comfort. Stupid, so stupid. You ignore the warm floorboards against your bare feet, the faint birdsong from outside, as you rush towards the source of the sound, towards Sarah’s bedroom – oh god, I was wrong it’s too late it took her in the night and I –

The sound you do not recognize, the sound you could not comprehend while buried in dreams and memories, is the sound of laughter. Loud, full laughter.

The brass bed creaks as Ellie uses the mattress to fling herself into the air. On the other end, just as determined to reach the ceiling, is Sarah. Hands outstretched and reaching, her legs bend and flex and propel her up and up. Every time she gets within a handful’s reach of the ceiling, Ellie’s laughing, cheering her on, and then it’s her turn, Sarah giggling as Ellie’s face scrunches up as she reaches out towards the blue sky on the other side of the roof.

“Oh, hey!” Ellie says, pink-faced and causal, half-way out of breath. Sarah spins, mid-way through a jump, her eyes bright, sweat peaking on her brow line. “Sarah bet – I couldn’t touch – the ceiling — so we’re taking turns – loser has to shovel – the barn!” 

You watch, dumb-struck, as the bet continues, the girls laughing and criticizing each other and offering techniques as they work in tandem to fling the other one higher. Sarah is flush with vitality, with life, with a dewy glow reserved for spring mornings when the earth stretches awake after the death of winter.

And Ellie . . . she looks her age. 

The earth has shifted beneath your feet, while you were sleeping, and a seedling has been planted, the dawn of something new, something fresh and utterly unexpected. You can feel it in your bones. Hear it in their laughter. 

“Not a bad thing to wake up to.” 

Joel, arms crossed, eyes soft, leans up against the door frame, blue striped pajamas low on his hips, a thread-bare white undershirt cupping his biceps. He eyes you from toe to head and stops when he meets your eyes. You wonder how long he’d been standing there – if he too woke to noises he couldn’t explain, rushed in here, and found something miraculous.

The smile crinkles his eyes as it unfurls across his face. 

“I haven’t heard her laugh like that in a while,” he says quietly, head tilted towards the bed, as if there could be any other meaning. “I owe you one.” 

You could say the same thing about Ellie.

There’s the line, the boundary of the circle to the place of being warm. He’s not cleared the way for you, not invited you across, but he’s shown it to you. You can see it, feel it, and know what it takes to get there.

Your smile blooms. The girls’ laughter rings throughout the house and into the sunlight.

But, outside of paradise, away from the river and the white a-frame house, from the horse and the cattle and the long strands of prairie grass, where there is not enough to eat and the earth is in its death rattle, the wind blows. It swallows up dust, and dirt, and fine sand, gluttonous. It swirls and pulses, agitated and restless and seeking violence. Spinning with the power to blind with a single whip of dust, it spins up over the earth in its death rattle, where there is not enough to eat, towards the prairie grass. Towards the horse and the cattle. Towards the river and the a-frame.

Towards paradise with the promise of total ruin. 

END OF PART I 

series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller series #joel miller au #joel miller imagine #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us hbo #joel miller tlou #tlou fic #joel the last of us #the last of us fanfic #joel x reader #tlou hbo #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller the last of us #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #joel miller x you #lover share your road

[merakiui]

who in the twst cast would peel an orange for you?

riddle - he doesn't understand why you're asking him, but he'll do it.

trey - absolutely. 100% no matter what! trey will peel the orange and turn it into orange juice for you if you ask.

cater - it depends. he might ask you to peel his orange in return so that the both of you can have an orange and take cute selfies together!

ace - no. and he teases you for asking, but if deuce says he'll do it instead ace will snatch the orange and promptly peel it. "what do you mean you're asking deuce? give it here. i GUESS i'll peel it. if i have no choice, but you owe me now."

deuce - that orange is peeled SO FAST. deuce will always peel an orange for you. if you want an orange, he'll buy you ten. anything for you.

leona - if you're a woman or identify as one, consider the orange peeled. if you're a man or identify as one, you're on your own.

ruggie - he'll do it, but only if you do something in return or pay him. his orange peeling services do not come free!

jack - yes. <3

azul - no. :/ if you really want him to peel the orange, you'll have to offer something in return.

jade - YES OMG. he peels that orange so quickly for you. in fact, why stop at just an orange? he'll make you a fruit salad if you'd like.

floyd - yes. if shrimpy wants an orange, shrimpy will get an orange. he'll peel it. he doesn't care if it's messy. and if the cafeteria runs out of oranges, he's tracking down a helpless student and threatening them into giving up their orange.

jamil - no. he'll tell you to peel it yourself. :( although he's willing to teach you the less messy trick to peeling an orange if you ask.

kalim - YES YES YES. he'll buy you an entire orange orchard if that's what you want, and he'll peel every orange for you!!!!!!!

vil - no. :( like jamil, i think vil would also offer to teach you the trick. that way you won't have to worry about getting juice everywhere next time you peel an orange.

rook - yes. you probably don't even have to ask. he'll already have it peeled.

epel - yes!!! he doesn't mind peeling it for you at all.

idia - LOL NO. do you think he wants to get orange juice on his fingers and then get his keyboard or monitor sticky? if you really want a peeled orange, he'll build an automatic orange peeler for you.

ortho - sure! he'll peel an orange for his friend. :D

malleus - yes! peeling an orange is an easy task for malleus. one snap of his fingers and the peel is coming off in a neat spiral.

lilia - yes, but then he'll want to add the orange (and its peel) to his suspicious-looking meal that he cooked for you. ;;; he calls it healthy and hearty, but it looks like the nine circles of hell in food form.

silver - yes! don't worry about it. if you ever need more oranges peeled in the future, please bring them to him.

sebek - no. why would you trouble him with such a foolish task?! don't you know he has better things to be doing than peeling an orange for a human!!!! ...silver peeled an orange for you? well, it would be embarrassing if one of malleus's guards couldn't do something as simple as peeling an orange. he does it, but he grumbles to you not to ask silver and to instead come to him next time.

rollo - you might expect him to say no, but surprisingly he agrees to your request. perhaps he used to peel oranges for his little brother, so he knows they can be messy and tricky at times. don't trouble yourself with peeling it; you'll just make a mess if you keep using such a clumsy technique. he'll do it for you.

fellow - yes, but you'll have to give him a kiss in return. <3

gidel - he'll gladly do it! please peel his orange in return. friends help friends in need, after all.

#meraki mumbles

[mrghostrat]

today’s adhd spiral to get it off my chest

1. thought i would stop feeling depressed when my meds came back in stock, but i am still getting hit with these random overwhelming moments of sadness. not flat and nihilistic like i was before, just awfully painfully sad. heart racing and knives in my throat.

2. woke up to another bank account deficit notification, now only have one month of rent in my savings account. i have a full month of commissioned queued up (and paid for) before i can start taking anymore or look for 9-5 work.

3. didn’t want to ask zita to front me because i already owe her thousands from the move. she reminded me i did that for her plenty of times in the past and is going to front me for a while to try and get my mentality back on its feet without money pressure. still feel horribly guilty despite all her reassurances.

4. wanted to take my meds to try and kickstart my day, to get through this commission so i could start the next one and bring some more money in. but i have to take my meds with food. i don’t have food so id have to go out and buy some. cue panic spiral

5. my ARFID is just awful lately anyway. even preparing instant noodles is overwhelming. i can barely eat unless it’s put in front of me fully made, and even then i don’t want to unless i’m dying from hunger cramps.

6. back to sad because i wish functioning wasn’t so exhausting

#ghost scribbles #negative #tw money and disordered eating

[koiir]

‧̍̊˙· Cheer up baby! ·˙‧̍̊

— How they cheer you up

Characters - Scaramouche, Diluc, Cyno, xiao,

Genre - fluff, comfort, crack

A/n: less than two weeks bro… and then I see… TWICE BABYY

“Gosh, grumpy today are we?” Scaramouche wrapped his hands behind your neck, continuing the teasing he has been doing.

“Who wouldn’t be around you?”

“And attitude? Wow [name], you’re breaking my heart.” The indigo haired looked at your face, annoyance written on your face as you scrolled on your phone, acting as if you weren’t bothered. But Scaramouche knew better. It’s been hours, you should have gotten over it by. But nope.

“There’s always next time you know, just search the album online and see if you can find it-“

“You don’t understand that was the last one! And I bet online they’ll all be sold out Scara!” You finally turned to face him, a pout on your face as you recall the moment I’m which you saw that one guy purchasing the album you wanted, and walking out of the store happy with his buy. But you were absolutely furious as you watched the man trail into his car, wanting to jump him.

Your lover looked at you, a grin making its way onto his face. A thought of a way to make you happy, annoyed in his thoughts. “Well… nothing we can do now huh?” He said that as he quickly swooped your phone, ignoring your voice telling him to stop.

“SCARA WAIT, GET BACK HERE.” You two should have stayed inside, because with the space available Scaramouche was able to run around with you trailing behind him. It resembled a game of tag, rather it was not fun going after him as he happily mocked you and teased you until finally you caught him.

“What the fuck scara! I was already tired enough and so you decide to make me run around?!”

“Yeah, had to let you blow of the steam somehow,” he winked at you happy with his doing. You rolled your eyes at him, now being pulled into his chest.

“But,” one.

“Don’t get so bothered over this,” two.

“I’ll make it up to you,” three. The third kiss Scaramouche gave to you.

Little did you know he had ordered something that would soon arrive, just in case this happened.

“You ready love?” Diluc knocked on the door, waiting for a sign that it was okay to enter.

You opened the door, seeing the face of your lover who would drop everything for you. Literally. It’s why he canceled his meeting in order to create the date he had in store for you after seeing you so worn out from work. You didn’t even know what the date would hold, not knowing Diluc had came up with it last minute.

“You know… you didn’t have to do this Luc. Staying at home with you would’ve been fine.” It’s true, any moment spent with him was all you needed, being close to him was enough. But this small act of love made you realize how lucky you were to be his.

“And why would I let you spiral into your thoughts? I want you to be happy rather than upset over today. It’s the least I could do you for you [name], after everything you have done for me.” A kiss was given to your cheek as diluc grabbed your hand and led you to the spot in which your date would take place.

The sun now setting made it the perfect view, the small patio outside looked gorgeous with flickering lights around, petals of flowers and the nature around it made it look like a scene from a movie. When did Diluc do this? You sure you would’ve noticed a place like this before, but he always had his ways.

“Diluc… It’s beautiful, when did you-“

“I’ve thought of this for a while actually, but last week. Since I noticed you’ve been more stressed about work. I knew a place like this would help calm you down.” Your heart fluttered at his words, looking away and back onto the scene that he made just for you.

He held your hand, walking over to the table placed just for you and him. Awaiting the both of you was plates of food ready for the two of you. The food was recently made, who else was in on this date he planned?

It didn’t matter though, in the moment in was just you and Diluc. It felt like a new breeze of air, finally not having to the deal with the troubles of work and instead be with the one you cherished most. Looks like his plan did work after all.

“How about-“ “cyno shut up.” The man looked back at you, his expression showing a slight annoyance after you shut him down. Was it so bad that he wanted to tell you an amazing joke of his?

“[name], don’t let your feelings get the best of you. You can’t keep being this mean to me, you know.” It felt like an entirety with how Cyno kept trying to cheer you up, but his jokes were going to be the death of you. No matter how bad the joke was, you would crack a small smile trying not to laugh. If you did, he would only continue. Even though he is still trying. So in this situation, nothing would change him.

“Okay well, let’s try something different.” Oh no. You looked over at Cyno, a small smile smirk on his face. You narrowed your eyes at him, hoping he would get the hint by now. It you couldn’t help the excitement that rose in you, wondering what cyno would come up with.

“Are you twice? Because I’ll be your once and only.” You had no idea how cyno could say these things with a straight face, he stared at you waiting for you to say something. Your mouth hanged open, if it could be possible your jaw would be on the floor.

You blinked once, still looking at him. His mouth was about to open once more, but you had to stop him before he said anything else. “Cyno… that didnt even make sense.” After that you bursted out laughing, not being able to get over what he had said.

“What do you mean? It made perfect sense to me, you should know that.” Cyno looked over at you, hand on your face as you kept giggling. Eyes growing soft as he stared at you, seeing your smile and laughter made his heart flutter.

“Do you wanna hear another one?” For once in your life, you said yes.

“I’m back,” xiao stated as he entered, coming back from getting what was needed. What you needed.

He opened the door to the bedroom you two shared, seeing you curled up in bed. Pain evident on your face, the ache coming from your legs and head while your throat felt like it was fire. You had caught a fever and had to stay in for a couple of days, today was the day you were suppose to be at a fitting. Now you missed the important date and sadness swept over you.

“I’m here love.” Xiao slid into the bed, covering the blanket over you so it covered you fully. You turned around, seeing your lover back. He wrapped your hands around you, pulling you into his warm embrace. You melting into him, the warmth that came from him giving you comfort.

“Have you felt better?”

“Not really… just feel more tired.” Xiao hummed in response, holding you tight while looking back that floor where he had left the bag. The bag contained things needed, and one little surprise.

“I got you some things you might need, and this.” When he turned back to face you, Xiao held a plushie that you saw the other day while looking through the city. Your eyes widened as he handed you the plushie, the small smile you loved appearing on his face.

“Xiao! You didn’t have to you know… but thank you, I love it.” A kiss was given to the crown of your head as he caressed your cheek, the two of you maintaining eye contact. Gazing at one another with love and passion.

“It was worth it since it made you happy, I remember the smile that you had when you first saw it.” Whatever it was, if it made you happy Xiao would not have a second thought about it. He would immediately get it, for you, the love of his life.

A/n: I sincerely apologize for the joke that was made In cyno’s part. I hope you all can forgive me for that

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin fluff #genshin xiao #genshin scaramouche #genshin diluc #genshin cyno #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche fluff #scaramouche x you #xiao x reader #xiao x you #xiao fluff #diluc x reader #diluc fluff #diluc x you #cyno x reader #cyno x you #cyno fluff #scaramouche imagines #diluc imagines #cyno imagines #genshin impact x reader #koiir writes

[bluewhitehues]

//A perfect day leading to a perfect night. //

|oneshot|

Summary: You think your husband is hot when he's driving especially the way he's grabbing the steering wheel.

Genre: One shot, little bit fluff, slight implied smut,18+

Pairing: Jeon wonwoo × fem reader

(Idol/non-idol whatever you want him to be)

Warnings: very slightly 18+, MDNI

You were going back home,you both had randomly decided to go see the beach. You love it,the calmness of it. Walking hand in hand with your husband on the beach,enjoying the sunset, talking to each other, teasing each other is like heaven to you.

Wonwoo was driving and the sight ..it's tempting, it's hot.

Hands grabbing the steering wheel and were you wishing it was you instead? You totally were.

They are just so pretty you can't help it ..the pale texture of his skin, the rings on his fingers and those veins were totally not helping you right now. On the top of that he was wearing a dark leather jacket, looking so handsome with his glasses on.

"Take a picture"..he says smirking a little.. "it'll last longer."

"What?" You tried acting innocent.

"You've been staring at my hands for like 15 minutes now."

"So? Not my fault you're so hot."  You don't even hesitate saying it, you're blunt like that ...or shameless as he likes to call it.

"Yeah? am I? " He asks smirking

"Mhm you know you' are ..and that's annoying."

He chuckles at that and the low rumble again is not helping your situation.

"Ok exactly why were you staring at my hands tho I could see you were dazed ...were you thinking of something particular? " He's purposely doing this.You can tell that from the cocky look on his face.

"Yeah why don't you take me home first I'll tell you everything about it." You say eyeing him.

He chuckles again. "Babe we still have an hour left control yourself."

"Well I'm not the one who's provoking, you should not provoke me right now if we can't do anything about it." You say glaring at him. And you still find him hot, you mentally smack yourself.

"Okay I'll shut up for now." He says quietly driving now.

Few minutes pass and you're dozing off when he's calling you.

"Baby, you wanna eat something? You love the street food from here I can go get it." He says glancing at you.

You perk up hearing that, "food yesss I'm also coming with you let's go."

He chuckles calling you "cute".

And then you both go inside after he parks the car, him holding you by your hand.

He asks you what you want tho he already knows, you point at potato spiral and tteokbokki.

He buys that for you, you ask him to buy something for himself so he gets another tteokbokki.

You both eat it while leaning on your car. It's about to be dark, the breeze is blowing and your hair are getting all over your face while you're trying to eat.

Wonwoo notices cause you're standing so close anyway , he leaves his food on the car behind coming to you, tucking your hair behind your ears clearing your face, "now eat" he says looking down at you.

You smile big at him,"thank you." And then you're trying to kiss him when he pulls back. "We're in public what are you doing." he says looking around.

"And? You're my husband its perfectly normal to kiss we're not committing public indecency relax wonu."

He doesn't want to upset you, if you want a kiss you'll get a kiss. He looks around one more time before leaning down to kiss you. You smile in the kiss it's very gentle the way he's kissing you,his kisses are the best..makes you wanna just keep loving him forever.

He pulls back after the short kiss. "You're a brat ..let's go now."

You both finish your remaining food and get into the car.

As soon as you reach home he's pinning you to the door, going straight for your lips, one hand holding your jaw the other going to your waist slipping inside your shirt squeezing the skin there in his hands, making you gasp in the kiss. You're grabbing him by his neck pulling him closer.

You both are pulling back for a second catching your breath then he's again continuing with the abuse of his lips, teeth and tongue onto yours.

"Tell me-"he says in between the makeout session.."what was that you were thinking in the car." He bites your lower lip sensually.

He's looking right into your eyes and you're returning it with your own dazed eyes, both panting for breath while being only a breath away from each other.

"I was thinking ...how I wanted your hands, how I wanted you to grab me the way you were grabbing that steering wheel."

"Yeah?" He smirks.."like this?" He asks pulling you closer with his hands clutching your waist in a firm hold squeezing it in such a way it created goosebumps on each inch of your skin. You're practically glued to each other, his one hand trailing down slowly squeezing the back of your thigh roughly, making you go crazy ... hooking your leg to his waist pulling you up wrapping both of your legs around him. You tighten your hold on him, hands looped in his neck. He's driving you crazy, now holding you with his hands on your ass squeezing it.

You gulp looking at him. He tilts his head at you "Cat got your tongue baby? I thought you were going to tell me everything when I take you home?"

"I- yeah that's all I wanted to say." You somehow manage to say that.

He chuckles at you,"mhm let's get you to talk more.. I bet even the neighbours are gonna hear what you've to say." He says carrying you to your bedroom.

And well he did keep his promise got you to talk and use your voice in every way possible.

A/N: I REALLY HOPE Y'ALL WOULD LIKE IT. It's my first time writing something of this genre(I love it so very much) I might write total smut someday but not ready for that rn hehe.

Also if my bestfriend is reading this ..bro it's all my period hormones not me bye.

#jeon wonwoo #wonwoo x reader #jeon wonwoo × reader #wonwoo smut #wonwoo fluff #svt wonu #wonu #jeon wonu #fanfic #seventeen #seventeen fanfic #seventeen x reader #seventeenimagines #svt fluff #svt imagines #svt smut #svt x reader #seventeen fluff #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #seventeen smut #smut #slight smut

[halfmoondaze]

That’s amazing I’m proud of you 💗

I’m the same anon talking about how stressed I am about my tough situation. Right now, I’m trying to be patient with myself and be hopeful about things

Tomorrow Will Be Kinder

Y/n walked through the front door of their shared apartment. She didn’t want to admit it to herself but she was going through it.

For the past couple of days, she had been working on this group project. Everything was running smoothly at first, communication was going smoothly and everyone had agreed to do their part. And in hopes of being able to get it out of the way, managed to complete her part in three days. 

Having less than two weeks until finals week, she moved on to do her finals for her other classes. 

But then she started worrying the next day, after no one responded to her on the group chat, when she asked how the work was going. Things only got worse from there, because after the chat was crickets even after Y/N finished her Human Anatomy class, her efforts to text and call each individual of the group separately, she realized it was no use as no one was answering her calls and ignoring her messages even though they were on read.

The following day was no different, and she found herself starting to spiral, at least on the inside. She had no choice but to pull as many all-nighters as needed to finish completing the group project and the rest of her final projects.

Jack on the other hand, was worried for her. He could tell something was bothering her by how all the sudden she had stopped talking to him unless it was to acknowledge his presence with the occasional “Hi”, “Hey” or “Good morning”. 

One night, Jack got home from the studio. It was around 11:45, and the only light that was still on, was coming from Y/N’s home office. 

Jack quietly opened the door and was met by Y/N’s intense angry glare at him. 

“Hey-”

“No!” she looked down at him. 

Jack turned to look down and realized there was a pile of written papers scattered across the floor and he had accidently stepped on one of them.

“I’m sorry, I-”

“It’s fine.” She said coldly taking the paper from his hand and just carried on working on her project like if nothing happened. 

“I just wanted to see how you were doing” 

“Better than ever” she responded unenthusiastically. 

“Did you eat today?” 

“What?” she turned to him. 

“I asked you if you ate today” 

“Can we not do this right now? I still have so much to get done” She dismissed him and put her focus back on her project.

“I know. I’m sorry” he scratches the back of his head finding the right words. “I’m just worried that……. you’re wearing yourself out. You should take a break” 

“No, I can’t do that. I need to get this done” 

“Y/N” 

“You don’t understand. I’m already behind on a lot of my classes” 

“It’s not up for discussion baby” 

“For fucks sake! Can you get off my ass for two fucking seconds?!” she spat fire from her mouth as she glared at him. 

Jack was taken back but remained calm and unbothered. 

Then she turned away and remained in the same spot, with her back towards Jack. 

Jack pulled her into a hug and she broke crying into him arms. 

“Shhh shhh its ok” he held her and rubbed her back.

It was like all the stress she had accumulated for the past weeks hit her like a truck.

“I’m so sorry” she said with her voice muffled.

“Don’t mention it” he kissed the top of her head.

Eventually, she calmed down and stopped crying. 

“You ok?” he looked at her.

She nodded.

“You want to talk about it?” 

“No” she softly said. 

“Ok. I’m going to run you a bath and then I’m going to order some takeout” he said wiping away her tears. “Does Chinese sound good?”

“Yeah” she softly said. 

“Ok” 

Jack ran her a bath with her favorite body wash and ordered her favorite from their local Chinese restaurant. By the time she exited the bathroom, Jack had laid her favorite sweatpants and one of his oversized t-shirts on the bed for her to get changed.

When she got to the dining room, the food was already served. 

Y/N quietly took a seat. 

“Feeling better?” 

“Yeah, thanks” 

He smiled at her. 

“Got your favorite” 

“Jack” 

“Yes?” 

“I’m sorry….for snapping at you” she said looking down.

Jack gently squeezed her hand.

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

Y/n hesitated, but ultimately told him everything. 

“I’m so sorry” he paused. “Can you still drop the classes?”

“I can’t. Finals week is just around the corner”

“I understand” he paused. “Maybe we could get you a tutor, so you can manage the workload” 

“A tutor?”

“Yeah. I would tell you to drop the semester, but I suppose it’s too late for that now. But I also wouldn’t want you to see all your efforts and hard work to waste just because some morons didn’t want to put in the effort” 

“Thank you” she was relieved. 

“It’s ok”

“No seriously. You’ve been so kind and helpful to me. And I’ve been nothing but-”

“Great. You’ve been great. You’re just going through a lot right now, and I understand that. Yeah, I was taken back by your reaction. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you angry” he let a small laugh. “But I won’t hold it against you. I just wanna help you”

Y/n got up from her seat, walked over to Jack and hugged him. 

Jack hugged her back. 

“I love you so much” she whispered. 

Jack smiled to himself.

“I love you too bubs” 

Y/N pulled away and smiled at him.

“….but I think I’ll love you even more if you eat” he pointed at her untouched plate of food.

Y/N smiled at him.

That night, Y/N relaxed for once, knowing that with Jack’s help, she would find her way out of this problem. Today was a bad day but tomorrow will be kinder.

#jack harlow imagine #jack harlow #jack harlow x reader #jack harlow x y/n #jack harlow blurb #jack harlow fluff #jack harlow x you #jack harlow concepts #jackman thomas harlow #jack harlow one shot #bf!jack #husband!jack #jack harlow imagines #harlow jack #jack x you #jack x reader #jack x y/n #jack harlow angst #jackharlow #shy!reader

[elsweetheart]

abby with a clumsy gf who is always getting into trouble so abby takes it upon herself to protect her and is always gently correcting things her gf is doing 😵‍💫😵‍💫

OK LETS GO i am so clumsy i always have bruises :(

• i think abby would be looking out for you long before you were even in a relationship.

• you’d be a new arrival, and already you’ve earned a name for yourself having constantly be running too enthusiastically and falling, or tripping over nothing, or dropping whatever is in your hands etc

• and abby is super busy, but even she notices, it’s hard not to notice when she’s also taken aback by how pretty you are

• so she takes you under her wing, because she’s noticed people are kind of picking on you for it and she doesn’t like that

• ofc you’re like a lil ray of sunshine and you don’t even notice people are making fun of you for it which makes her even more fiercely protective of you

• “i see you’ve taken an interest in the klutz.” owen nicknames you, making conversation with abby when everyone’s grabbing food.

• “and by taken an interest, you mean keeping her away from assholes like you.” she barely glances his way, loading up her plate.

• “hey, i didn’t say anything. you know she’s gonna slow you down though right? that girls like bambi on ice.”

• she doesn’t have the energy to deal with him right now, so she stalks off to find you

• she starts trying to guide you a little, and honestly if she wasn’t so worried for your safety all the time she’d find your clumsiness adorable

• she’d be sending you off to do something for her but before you run off she puts a hand on your shoulder, making you look at her. “hey, look at me — slowly. okay? there’s no rush. go slow and watch your step.”

• you’d nod, carefully trotting away being extra careful of your feet which makes her smile.

• this continues through your relationship once the two of you end up together, and now she’s more comfortable with you she can be a lot more thorough and direct.

• she hands you a little box of supplies, it’s light and you immediately grab it tucking it under your arm. she doesn’t let go of the box when you go to move, looking at you with a kind yet stern expression. you stare back up at her with confused doe eyes and she takes your other hand, placing it under the box. “two hands, baby. remember what i said?” you nod, adjusting your grip and she nods back in approval. “good girl.”

• sometimes your clumsiness really gets you down, when falling has nearly cost you your own or someone else’s life. you find yourself curled up in abby’s lap after a particularly rough run in with a clicker, which could have been avoided if you’d watched your step. you’re crying into your hands and she’s shushing you, pulling your hands away so she can wipe your tears. you’d been brave until you’d gotten back to your room before breaking down to abby, which she expected seeing how shocked and distressed you seemed after she had saved you from being bitten.

• “its like my feet just move without my permission abby. i’m so stupid. it’s gonna kill me i—i can’t—” you spiral, sobs erupting from your throat as you clutch her hard like she might disappear.

• “you need to breathe, sweet girl okay? breathe with me, m’right here. it’s not your fault. nothings gonna get you, alright? not whilst i’m here.” she rocks you in her strong arms letting you cry it out.

• on a lighter note she gets so used to your antics that she can almost predict when you’re gonna slip or trip. you’ll go to take a step on some slippery ice in the snow and without even batting an eyelid her strong hands are on your waist, pulling you back into her. she says nothing, just points at the ice and your mouth makes a small ‘o’ shape, nodding and stepping around it.

• she’ll always tend to the injuries you get from being clumsy. always. no matter how tired she is, where you are, or how silly the mistake was. she’ll sit you down, pulling out the little first aid kit she keeps on her strictly for you and wipes down any cut or graze you’ve acquired. “how’d you get this one again?” she converses calmly, to show you she’s not mad at you. “was tryna climb a wall and i slipped.” you explain bashfully as she wipes your knee down. “alright. well be careful, don’t go climbing walls without me there again, yeah?” she looks up with you raised eyebrows as she unwraps the bandaid, making you smile and nod. “deal.”

♡

#anon #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson hcs #abby tlou2 fluff #abby anderson fluff

[artbyblastweave]

So one thing that irks me about discussions of the NCR is the idea that "they're flawed because they're trying to be America again. And Being Too Much America is what caused the War" without differentiating between the vast buildup of Nuclear Weapons and Geopolitical tensions, versus, like, being a republic and having a large-scale central state.

What's your thoughts?

I think the NCR circa New Vegas is textually intended to be repeating the USA's downward spiral. They're in the process of recreating the core dynamics of pre-war America- overconsumption of resources driving imperialist expansion, capture of the government by moneyed interests, and a prolonged conflict with a peer power that's suffering under similar expand-or-die pressures- but they're constrained from a one-to-one recreation mainly by the fact that they're working with a post-apocalyptic resource base, with the scraps left over from the last people who went down this path. Peanuts compared to the Sino-American war, but likely as close to that situation as the post-war-world is logistically capable of producing.

You see bits of this from the NCR perspective all throughout the game. There Stands the Grass is propelled by projections of incipient famine in the NCR due to rapid population growth, and you see the beginnings of this in Flags of Our Foul-Ups- O'Hanaran was sent to the Army by his family to lessen their food burden. Chief Hanlon's very first line is about how the NCR is overtaxing most sources of freshwater within the core territory, and he recounts how tiny groups of settlers backed by NCR logistics were able to take and hold a well in Baja against scores of locals; IIRC there's a cut event at Camp Golf itself where you'd see NCR rangers doing the same thing to Mojave locals encroaching on their water supply. The White Wash demonstrates that the NCR's sharecropping setup in outer Vegas operates at the expense of the locals, who can only get the water they need to support their own crops via subterfuge. If you assume that Heck Gunderson's underhanded Brahmin-farming empire in Beyond the Beef is supposed to parallel the real-world problems with the sustainability of beef farming, you start to get a sense of where all of that water is going and what structural problems (Heck Gunderson) might be in the way of allocating those resources more sustainably. There are likely more examples of this storm on the horizon that I'm forgetting.

As a result of all this, there's a level on which I think introducing the Tunnelers in Lonesome Road as a dangling White-Walker style Looming Apocalyptic Reset Option hanging over the west coast was gratuitous, not because it's Avallone grinding his axe with the idea of society rebuilding, but because it's simply redundant with the political situation already depicted in the base game- If you want the NCR to have collapsed by a future installment, just establish that they weren't able to put the brakes on in time and devolved into a completely dysfunctional oligarchy that collapsed under its own weight!

(Now, as a final note, one thing preventing me from fully committing to this take is that we honestly don't have a fantastic sense of what day-to-day life looks like for the average citizen in the NCR heartland, which I feel is kind of important. Because if the textual situation is supposed to be that the resource crisis is due to misallocation due to interests capturing the government, I like that a lot better than if the situation is genuinely intended to be that there are Just Too Many Goddarn People, because that's like. Lazy and Malthusian and leads to the usual ugly conclusions pretty quickly. More and more it's looking like the upcoming Fallout TV show is leaning into the recent decline of the NCR as a plot point, so, uh, fingers crossed they stick the landing when it comes to fleshing that out?)

#fallout #fallout new vegas #NCR #new california republic #ask #asks #thoughts #meta #sorry for the delay in responding- getting back into a fallout mood due to the show #fnv

[abbyslev]

hi guys I WROTE THIS REALLY QUICK it’s been really hectic and like jjk’s been hitting really close to home and i just wanted to share this. sorry for any hearts broken (mine). i got my little drink next to me so prepare for more drunk angst lolzies:)))) been needing a real strong father figure in my life and it’s hard rn smfh

warnings: very very sad angst do not read if you’re fatherless bc it will send you into a spiral (me actually rn) i csnt think if anything else ok ily bye enjoy

Nanami had a quiet life. One where he went to his everyday office job, worked 9-5, went by the bakery and went home.

It was his quiet life up until Gojo left you on his front door step, leaving him with nothing but you and your backpack. Nanami was very angry, not with you of course. How could he ever be mad at a clueless kid?

“How old are you?” He sipped his coffee, peeking at you from the top of the rim.

“You can take me back to where i came from.” Was all you replied with.

So you were troubled. “I’m not going to do that. I spoke with Gojo, sounds like you were in a bad clan. Its not safe for you to go there, but i heard you don’t want to be like them.” “I don’t want to kill.” You mumbled. He felt that. He felt it so deeply, he didn’t want to see his friends dead on Shoko’s table, but that’s the reality.

After a moment of silence, you spoke up. “I’m 17.” You pushed at your food. “Why don’t you try some?” Nanami softly said. Gojo warned you he was a little strict and rough around the edges, but he had been nothing but nice to you. You ate slow bites, taking a sip of water here and there. He could tell you were tense. “I’m Nanami Kento. I guess you’re gonna stay with me for a while.”

-

“I landed that blow!” You high fived Nanami, running around in circles.

“A little too hard, don’t ya think?” Yuuji scratched his head. “That’s why i told you to keep focused, Itadori.” Nanami shook his head. “I just won me some good dinner, Itadori.” You fixed your skirt, smile beaming. “By almost killing me?” You help him up, rubbing the spot where you hit him. “Yup! I won me some good soup tonight.”

Nanami studied you closely. After days and days of talking, he figured out what you could do. Your technique was too good to go to waste, but he didn’t want to force you into something you didn’t want. So he joined back with you. He promised that as long as you were in there, he’d be by your side.

He never expected such a shy person like you to create so many friendships with everyone around you, especially Itadori. With your technique and his, you two were unstoppable. Nanami felt like a proud dad at that moment.

-

“Open it, open it!” You shove the box in his hands.

You wrapped the blanket around yourself tighter, smile growing by the second. It was christmas morning, and you had woken up Nanami way to early. You didn’t even sleep from the excitement. He lifted the top off the box, revealing a beach shirt. It was nice, thin fabric. A designer button up. “Thank you, this is beautiful.” He was a little confused as to why you got him a summer shirt in the middle of winter.

You slide an envelope from under your blanket. “This one too.” You grin widely. “What’s this?” Nanami’s brows furrowed. “Open it.” Your eyes are filled with excitement, glossed over. He opened the envelope in a swift move, eyes slowly reading the thick paper.

He looked up slowly, his usual bored look now gone. Replaced with joy and disbelief. “These are…tickets to Malaysia…” He broke into a smile. “Surprise!” You gave him a grin. For the first time since Nanami had met you, he pulled you into a hug. You felt his muscles grow tighter with every second, you could hear his heart beat with excitement.

“Everything’s all settled already. I got us two weeks off, hotel booked and reservations for fun things.” You whispered, patting his back. “Thank you.”

-

“In here!” You take Itadori’s hand, pulling him into the station.

You had lost Nanami, and you had been trying to find him. You can’t lose him, especially not in Shibuya. You two turned the corner before meeting some stairs. You could hear grunts and see blood splashing everywhere. You two ran down the steps, bumping into Itadori as he came to a halt. What you saw was just like your nightmare. Everything you wished never happened was happening and you couldn’t move.

Nanami’s body was half burned, worn out. His eyes looked tired, body beaten and bruised. His weapon was covered in blood, along with dead curses all around him. Mahito stood behind him, hand on his back.

“Nanami…” Itadori’s voice broke.

“Itadori…” Nanami turned around completely.

He gave you a half smile, meeting your eyes. You covered your mouth, Itadori’s grip around you arm becoming tighter. “You’ve got it from here.” He looked at Itadori before looking back down towards you. He felt so bad, having you see him all like this. You looked tired, sad, beaten, bruised, and scared. Never in his years has he seen you scared.

“I’ll see you in Malaysia, my sweet child.”

His body grew before exploding. One moment he was there, and now nothing but bloody body parts were flying everywhere. You stare at the empty spot, a deafening scream growing in your chest. You couldn’t get anything out, so you stood there, eyes full of tears, waiting for someone to kill you too. Waiting for someone to wake you up, someone to move you. Waiting for Nanami.

He woke you up. Every morning. He would come by your dorm if you misses morning classes. He ate breakfast with you in his office. He would rarely join you and the other students. He’d mentor you for hours and take you to get your favorite Udon noodles if you did good. Even if you didn’t, he’d still treat you. You had your childhood ripped away from you, and like he said, “It is not a sin to be a child.”

He really meant it. He meant every word he had ever said to you. He loved you like you were apart of him.

“We have to go.”

“But…Nanami…” You said as you pointed to the empty space.

#jjk fanfic #jujutsu nanami #nanami kento #nanamin #jjk nanami #jujutsu kaisen nanami #nanami fluff #jjk kento #jujutsu kento #jjk #jujutsu kaisen yuuji #jujutsu kaisen #jjk angst #anime #jjk anime #nanami x reader #jujustu kaisen #jjk imagines #jjk spoilers #jjk season 2 #jjk death #mahito

[hanzajesthanza]

"vampire that has resolved to not drink blood" is a done trope already that makes a sympathetic character out of a well-known mythological creature, but regis' character actually transcends the trope even more by using some crucial changes to tell a compelling story about addiction.

because following the trope, the vampire has sworn off of blood out of a noble cause, most likely not wanting to harm humans. but, were they to drink blood, it would be only natural for them to "give in," as it were, and it would be an instinctual (and perhaps animalistic) act.

but vampires in the witcher don't need blood to survive, it's like alcohol for them. so for regis, blood is not a life-giving force. it's actually the opposite.

it's what tortured him for centuries, slowly and miserably, in happiness and swaggering boldness and heartbreak and tragedy, it became everything and he lost everything. the very reason of his death.

so when regis was recovering, trying to stay sober, and wanted a drink—it's not like in the trope, where, if he could just have a little blood, it would heal him or cure him or dispel his hunger and anxiety... no... it would do the opposite. it would send him back on a downward spiral, he would not consume the blood, it would consume him. it would turn his life back into a dreadful hell. and eventually, kill him. again.

there's no good reason that he wants it. it's not logical, it's not for survival... it's just there, gnawing at his psyche and agonizing him.

it's not a physical self-restraint and a battle with the physical body which in its very nature could only ever require such a thing to live, it's a psychological self-restraint and a battle with the mind, which aches for something that will ease suffering in times of pain, grant boldness in times of cowardice. it's not an animalistic struggle, it's an exceptionally human one... his tortured intellectual character is fully suited for this story.

for the trope vampire, the audience maybe... wants them to drink blood. maybe we're sympathetic to their "cravings," for all of us have probably also wanted something only natural to us, but denied ourselves it out of social constraints or loftier ideals. we see them as a being deprived of food, of love, of life... why not just a little, after all?

but for regis, i think the audience should see his relationship with blood for what it is—recovered alcoholism. it's not "oh, if he could just drink a little blood..." "surely, there could be a way he could do it just to satisfy a desire..." no! he finally escaped from it, he finally got away from it through very difficult introspective work.

he can finally live his life without it, he can be free from it. he no longer desires it, it's not anything to him any more. because he embarked not only on a journey of recovery and sobriety, but of self-love, inner peace, healing.

to drink again would kill him. "him" as we know him now... he would have to find himself in an utterly dark, entirely hopeless, complete place of despair to be forced into drinking again. ...

#the witcher books #c: regis #emiel regis #starts crying but i turn it into a breakdance #when dandelion is like: 'not at all? not at ALL? NEVER? BUT-' and geralt asks him to stfu... the fandom and i <3 #analysis #i guess

[brimbrimbrimbrim]

The Bear and The Baker: Chapter Four - CHILL (NSFW)

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five

Summary: She’s relatable and willing to help him figure out how to stop spiraling down a dark hole of anxiety, but she’s pretty and sweet and knows what to say and do… and Carmy just can’t help himself.

Tags: friends to lovers, UST, RST, pining, wet dreams, masturbation, lots of food talk, reader used to be a pastry chef, mental health, panic attacks, anxiety, meditation, oral sex, cunnilingus, premature ejaculation, handjob, desk sex, first times, virginity, mild dom/sub undertones, kitchen sex, love confessions, blowjobs

Words: 4k

TW: panic attacks

He's chopping peppers when his attention shifts again, and this time, when his skin opens under the edge, it's not the knife being dull that's the problem. Carmy's head is fucked, and it shows. It's been two weeks to the day, and one hand is covered in a nitrile glove for all the damn bandages around his knuckles… and now he's cut down to the nail bed, shredded black elastic with red flowing off the end.

Motherfucker! 

Blood squirts out the wound before the sting hits him, but he's already in a fuckin' frenzy. No one's dared speak to him unless necessary since two-thirty. He stops, the knife still in his fist… the offending pepper having rolled between the stove burner and cutting block with a dent in its red skin. The cut's deep—the one on his hand—but it's nothing some super glue won't fix, yet he just stares at it, pooling crimson with streaky halos against the wet plastic cutting board. 

The pain throbs, becoming just another place where his pulse is pounding unhappily. Every thick, sad plunk settles between his throat and sternum. It's maddening, this silence and pain and themother fucking heartache.

'Behind!' 

Carmy hears it like he's underwater. 

'I need three chickens and four beefs; two with peppers, two without!'

The rest of the kitchen chaos drops octave after octave as he pushes his thumb into the tip of his bleeding finger, sucking down a groan. Pain shoots through his finger and forearm; it makes his forearm jerk, reminding him of how those same muscles had flexed when he had her spread open on his kitchen counter—had her quivering thigh in this hand—when he had his mouth on her… and now it's all fucked. 

Carmy watches and remembers…

She's got sauce on her cheek, and he’s feeling too light everywhere to think about it, so he leans in and kisses it, licks it off her. The giggle that puffs against his face only further unloads the heavy weights dragging him down, like cutting the ropes off an air balloon. Her fingers slide into the collar of his shirt, up his neck, and into the curls against his nape. She turns his mouth to hers for a deep kiss that takes Carmy's breath away.

When it comes back—all his air—he pecks her lips again, then her chin and throat, tasting her neck, and whispers, "I love you."

He's still smiling against her skin when he realizes she's gone stiff in his arms… that cold needle bursting his fucking balloon with a heavy dose of 'what the fuck did I just say?'

And then she's standing and thanking him for the meal with a stutter worse than his, trying to gather her things as fast as humanly possible while he's trailing behind her like some kicked puppy knowing it fucked up, wanting more than anything to fix it.

Why'd he have to open his stupid fucking mouth? 

The first girl that touches his dick, and he's lovesick… spilling his guts with basil and blueberry and pussy on his tongue, talking with all this misplaced confidence that ended in the most awkward, unpleasant end to one of the best nights of his life. 

How'd he fuck up so bad?

"Chef?"

Carmy blinks and looks up from the pool of blood, glancing at Marcus with several butter bricks cradled against his chest. "Yo, Chef. You know you’re bleeding, right?”

"Yeah.Yeah . I know," Carmy mutters beneath his breath, snapping a rag out of his apron to wrap it around his weeping finger. "Can-can you,uh , get Gary to clean this up for me?" He gestures to the cutting board, already backing away from the mess, feeling sick with muddled emotions.

"Course, yeah. Sure thing, Chef," Marcus says, worried.

Carmy nods, sniffing up the pain that's coming back and his own embarrassment, walking off the line like a beaten dog into the alley instead of the emergency sink to wash the cut clean. The burn from Marcus' confusion and concern still tickles the back of his head, but Carmy needs a moment alone. Good thing they all pick up on that cause after a few minutes of clotted, outside air, he's still by himself, clutching his sliced finger until he can't feel it anymore. 

"Stupid…fucking… " he curses, lips thin and screwed up, sliding down to the milk crate with his back against the brick wall, "Fucking idiot."

As soon as his ass hits the hard plastic, his mind starts repeatingthat night. Loops of it, all with little added details that further sour his self-esteem. The way she leaned away when he tried to rest his palm on her elbow in the doorway on her way out—that thin-lipped smile of reassurance that was so fucking fake—her verbal regret for letting her hormones get the best of her—the subtle inflection in everything that told Carmy she didn't wanna see him again. 

When the bleeding stops, and it's just dried blood and torn nitrile, Carmy throws the stained rag over his shoulder and grabs his pack of smokes out of his back pocket. The nicotine barely chills him out; if anything, it just makes his knee bounce faster—makes him itchy and on the verge of-

The back door bangs open, sending a violent throng of shock into his chest. His heart skips a beat, resetting that rapid tempo it was speeding towards. Carmy looks up to see Tina leaning out the doorway with big, dark eyes and a full, sympathetic smile. 

"Hey,Jeff ." Her eyes tear down his disheveled state, smile screwing up in sad amusement. "Customer just dropped off a pie for you or some shit. Richie put it in the office, an' he's lookin' real full of it."

Customer? Pie? Her?! Fuck…

"Wait, did you say Cousin?!"

"Mmhm."

"Fuck -" Carmy shoots up to his feet, knees locked an' aching from the day, but his heart's in his stomach wondering what the fuck Richie could have said to her—might have disclosed or did… or…Jesus Christ…

"Did he say anything to her?" Carmy tries to come across chill, but his cigarette trembles as he takes a hit, cheeks already splotching with anxiety. 

Tina arches a brow, still amused. "I dunno, but my guess?Yeah . Yeah, he did.”

Carmy curses again and throws his cigarette down to stomp it out. 

“You know,” Tina continues, “for someone who's been bitching about his ass all day, he's lookin' mighty smug now. Do you think stitches really take that long to heal, or is he jus’ bein' a bitch?"

"I gotta take care of this goddamn mess. Excuse me."

Carmy goes to slide past her into the kitchen only for her hand to close around his elbow. He stops, looks down, and arches a brow. "Chef?"

"Look," she begins, starting off uncharacteristically soft, "I dunno what you been doin’ or who you been doin' it to, but you better fix whatever you fucked up. Cause our game was really fucking strong when you weren’t being a sad little shit all damn day…" 

Carmy wets his lower lip and looks away, finding a rubber stain on the tile inside the kitchen fascinating… or trying to.

"… but these past couple of weeks?" Tina jerks him enough his eyes drift back to her as she shakes her head, pinning him with an expression of severity. "Just… get your head outta your ass, alright? You're a better chef when you're happy."

He swallows, mouth opening and closing once or twice before he clears his throat and nods. "Heard, Chef."

Inside the kitchen, it becomes abundantly clear that everyone knows abouther and the pie. Syd’s chewing on her lip at her station, trying not to smile. Tina stands behind him, chuckling. A conversation between Gary and Marcus comes to a sudden hush as Ebra clears his throat… and Richie—that fucker—grabs the doorframe to the front, swings forward, and saunters into the kitchen, loudly clapping his hands with an obnoxious fuckin' grin.

"Thismotherfucker!" Richie stands up tall as Carmy comes to a stop by the expo station. Cousin points down at him with a canary grin, looking around the kitchen for an audience. "Yo! Yo,thisfuckin' guy.You should haveseenthis chick! Guys-"

"Don't say anotherfucking word, Cousin,” Carmy grits out, veins in his forehead twitching. He squeezes his sliced finger so tight his pulse races in it.

“Who’d have thought you’d be pulling strawberry shortcakes like a fuckin’ boss!” Richie laughs aloud, and leans in to tackle Carmy into a hug, but he dips beneath the sudden swing—for once thankful he’s short—and darts past Syd, straight towards his office. 

“Told you to shut the fuck up!” Carmy yells as he walks.

"How-how can?! Seriously?!" Richie boasts while hot on his heels. "This dude— guys —this fucker struck out with every chick he's ever gotten all goo-goo-eyed for an' now he's bringing in fuckin' tens! How are we not talkin' about-"

Carmy practically kicks the door in Richie’s face with his heel and slams his back against the painted wood, barely blocking out the guffawing as Richie bangs a victorious rhythm into the other side… but all Carmy can focus on is the smell of apple pie with molasses, cinnamon, and cardamom… ginger too… and that smooth buttery melody he's forever gonna equate toher .

Fuck, it’s smells good.

'Our little baby fuckin' scored. I'm tellin' you! This broad—guys! The fuckin' rack on her—Hey, don’t touch that, Fek!’ Another bang on the door.‘Cousin! Hey! Come on!'

Carmy drops his chin to his chest and purses his lips trying not to smile to himself. It's less about the jeering behind the door and more about what the pie means: she's been thinking about him. Not ideal—not like she waited for him, probably didn't wanna see him—but she still came by the restaurant and brought him a fucking pie,for fuck's sake.  

Before his nerves come back, he lets the aroma of warmth fuel the sudden impulse to text her. Even as the now-clotted cut stings across the keys on his phone, Carmy's right cheek dimples. The hustle of the dinner hour goes quiet amidst the chatter outside the office—of the rushing of blood in his ears—as he swipes his thumbs over the bright screen and bites his lower lip.

'It smells delicious. Thank you, Chef.’

And then, holding his breath,'Do you want to talk about it? Closing. 10:30?' and hits send with ablip that makes his breathing stutter and his heart thud eagerly. Now… now all he's gotta do is wait,eat that fucking pie, and survive the rest of the day.

'I'm here.' You send the text despite butterflies on the roof of your mouth. Shivering, you pull your numb fingers back into roomy sweater cuffs, stuffing your hands under your arms, elbows tight in the frosty Chicago night. 

It's ten-thirty, and you're standing there as cars pass by behind you—casting The Beef interior in high beams—your own shadow dancing over tables and clean, polished floors. For less than ten seconds, you stand shivering outside, wondering what the actual fuck you're doing out this late. And before twenty seconds are up, you glance away from your boots to see Carmy unlocking the door, looking nervous and wide-eyed despite his droopy lids.

The door swings open, releasing a font of warmth across your cheeks.

"Thanks for comin' by." 

Fuck, you missed his voice… that sleep-deprived drawl mixed with his accented husk. Icey, sapphire eyes cut over your shoulder, narrowing with frustration so intense, you look back, glimpsing the man you left the pie with earlier that day. Awkwardly, you wave, only for Carmy to curse quietly—livid.

The man raises both hands, mouth moving animatedly, but he’s already backing up to a dark-color sedan… too far away to hear him. 

“You get here okay?” Carmy asks with forced ease, pulling your focus away from Rick or Richie—your mind draws a blank—looking directly into softer blues, clearly worn down and sleepy, but eager.

"Yeah," you exhale on a wisp of chilly air, "I took a cab. And,uh , thanks for doing this here. I just… nothing against you or anything, but I don't really—I mean, thanks for not…umm , it’s fucking cold, huh?”

There's a long beat of silence where Carmy's face is expressionless, resting in apathy with a patina of exhaustion, and you feel inclined to explain yourself, "It's not that I didn’t wanna see you, Carmy. I'm just-"

"You don't have to explain yourself. It's cool.No hard feelings. Come on, I cranked the heat up.”

You nod silently, stepping through the open door supported by a bare arm. Your eyes drift to it, corded muscles and some off-blue veins punching up through blotchy, pale skin, all ruddy from the cold. You've seen more of him than just his arms, but for a long moment, you're transfixed by the tattoos, the muscles… silver scars from chopping and trimming…

Feeling wholly outside your element, you follow close behind him as he makes his way past the thoroughfare of countertop service and two-people tables shoved against the windows. The smell of diluted bleach and wet dish rags hits you as he moves through the doorway into the kitchen. Just like the front door, Carmy braces an arm and ushers you in, then a few feet further past a small cubby of lockers into an ajar door filled with darkness and a single yellow-burned lamp. 

His office…

You spot your empty pie tin on the metal desk, leaning on a stack of manilla folders. It's small—Carmy's office—but it's cozy and organized in a way that looks lived in, like ordered chaos, not unlike his apartment… if not a tad less spartan.

"Look, before you say anything, I just," Carmy cards his fingers through his dirty hair, smoothing haphazard curls of strawberry blond into a messing slick atop his head that unravels just as fast, "I just wanna say you were right. I shouldn't have said what I said. It wasn't cool, and I-"

"Carmy…" you say his name, heart beginning to thump noticeably in your neck. He’s already so fucking wrong, and you want nothing more than to explain yourself before he starts apologizing for nothing. Because he didnothing wrong.

"But it just came out, ya know? I wasn't-I wasn't thinking, and you've got every fuckin’ right to be freaked out- "

"Carmy."

But he keeps talking—stammering.

"You're just-you're amazing and-and chill where I'm not and before… When I was tweezing mint leaves and making plum gelée, I-I couldn’t breathe. I’d stop and want to set everything on fire. Just cooking and cooking and cooking until I was having panic attacks just making jelly sandwiches and throwing up every morning… then I started fucking up more and more even when I'd gotten a handle on things— not that I felt any better —but you just kinda… you madeeverything click like-like I'm not just insane. Like, I can breathe..”

You try to stop it, but your eyes burn regardless. Tears well over your lashes as Carmy struggles to lay his heart out, just open and gaping and alive.

“These past two weeks,” he continues, gentler now, staring right into your wet orbs, “and-and you've been gone, and my hands aren’t steady anymore, and then the pie… and it's good— it's great . I don't know what it means... but I know what Iwant it to mean.”

He stops after that, shoving four fingers in his hair again, sliding them up his brows to his crown, where he grips tight enough it lifts the worry lines in his forehead. He casts his eyes down to the floor between you both like it's some uncrossable moat and sighs.

"Sorry-sorry.I'm sorry …" He nods with each word, voice dropping softer and quieter until his third 'sorry' is nothing more than a rushed exhale. You wanna stretch through the distance and touch him—hold him because there's a wet sniffle to his breathing that makes your heart break and grow simultaneously. But none of this is going like you thought. Everything is moving so fast, even your own feelings, and that's just… it's not something you're used to after years of trying to slow down your thoughts—of trying to walk softly through every single day, so you don't break the eggshells of glass beneath your feet. 

Carmen… Carmy… He makes you wanna run again, but running feels so dangerous.

"You're-" you pause, giving Carmy a long look from his well-worn sneakers, black jeans, rumpled white shirt, trembling lips holding up his flaring nostrils, and wide, black blues. 

You take a deep breath and cross the moat. 

"You make my heart beat way too fucking fast, Carmy.”

His lips pinch with despair.

“It's…” You lay a palm over his chest, relishing the sharp intake of breath and rhythmic thudding beneath. “I didn't like it at first because I've gotten so used to it racing when I'm stressed or panicking—it makes me feel like I'm gonna die… but when you told me how you felt, my heart wouldn't slow down, and it freaked me out."

"… okay.” He leans against his desk with a wet blink, fist still wrapped in his greasy locks.

Quietly, you continue, "… but I was up the other night, just-I couldn't sleep, and I remembered you said I smelt like… apples…" 

You blush, thumbing the heat and trying not to smile at how he said it that last time, with total unabashed reverence between your thighs. "… and I found myself making that pie I dropped off. Whole time my heart was thudding in my throat, but it was nice. Iliked it. I forgot how good it could feel for it to do that."

"Me too," Carmy exhales, finally releasing his hair to drop both arms at his sides. 

"Yeah," you whisper, thumb rubbing the dip between his pectorals. Even though it's just you and Carmy here, everything feels naked; each word and touch, every breath and heartbeat. 

" Umm , did you like it?" You ask, changing the topic as your pulse cools down.

His brows crease together, lips pursed into a pucker of confusion so clueless that you almost laugh, almost smile… instead you close the distance with another step, inches from pressing yourself against him, settling on massaging little swirls into his heaving chest instead. You cock your head to the side and shift your attention from those lazy still puddles of blue to the baking tin filled with crumbs. 

Carmy follows your gaze, clearing his throat with a stutter, "The-the pie, right. Yeah… you used molasses instead of brown sugar and applesauce to thicken. Old school, and obviously, it was terrible."

You smile when he cracks one, attempting to joke, and though it’s lame and his face doesn’t sell it, you love it. 

"You're good at this, ya know."

He chokes out a sardonic laugh, rubbing at his stubble-rough jaw before holding his red cheek in his flower-inked hand. 

"I don’t believe you for a fuckin’ second.”

TheSense of Urgency (SOU) is stark against his pale skin. For the first time, you note the bandages around his fingers and thumb. The angry red dent in his third fingernail, slathered in super glue.

“No?” You giggle.

“No.Fuck no. This shit is over my head," he admits, eyes closed and lashes fluttering. You should notice the shift in his breathing as something worrisome—the thudding of his heart as a sign—but you don’t; instead, you lick your lips and tell him with raw emotion, "I think… I love you too, Carmy. But-"

"But what?"

"… but I'm not a virgin, and I thought I was in love with the first person that made me feel good too. I just-I just can't if that's what this is."

"No," Carmy says with zero hesitation, "The second time I walked you home? I-I’ve been like this since then, later that day."

You almost laugh, remembering how the rain had started coming down outside All Family just as you’d been mocking the weatherman.

… you both ignore the red cross light between idle mid-morning traffic as the spitting drops turn weighty and cold. Carmy shoulders off his jacket mid-jog beside you and mutters a loud 'here, here,' stopping you just long enough to lay his jacket over your head. 

You blush as his white shirt goes translucent in seconds. His muscles flexing beside you, jogging through the topiary threshold into your apartment complex. The parking garage cuts the rain until the sting of it is gone, leaving the both of you panting in the soaked cold… 

'Guess I should have listened to my weather app for once and brought a fucking umbrella,' you wheeze, licking raindrops off your lips as Carmy leans back, filling his lungs with air. 

Your eyes dance down his chest and stomach. The murky hue of hidden tattoos beneath drenched cotton catches your attention, but it's the thick frame of muscular definition that you follow… leading to an exposed strip of bare stomach, glossy with rain and trailing dirty blond hairs… like… like a happy trail…

You freeze, gripped by a sense of longing and affection as your fingers dig into his soaked jacket, still hanging off your crown and shoulders, keeping you warm and wet... 

Carmy fans out his shirt while you're still recovering from the pang between your legs. Then, as if by some strange happenstance, your eyes meet as the rain sleuths over the parking garage roof, creating an echo chamber of heavy breaths, and backtracked droplets. Then, when your heart starts beating again, and when Carmy swallows, something monumental changes.

"When we were drenched to the bone in the parking garage?" You murmur—a gentle coo—and slowly lift your finger to his raised wrist. The soft hairs on his forearm shift to finer baby hairs over his palm and freshly scrubbed skin. Old scars bump beneath your finger pads, and that ugly gash with the glue catches on your nail. Only when your thumb rubs across a bulging vein over his jutting tendons does Carmy open his eyes and stare deeply within you.

"Yeah. Yeah, it was what you said, ya know, in my jacket. About taking it to the dry cleaners 'cause it would smell like that perfume you had on." He admits, cupping your hand over his own and pressing all three under his chin tightly—so tight, you’re reminded of life rafts thrown to castaways at sea. So much warmth in his palms… so rough from the knives and scars yet soft and… possessive. "You,uh , you were just… kinda—you looked good in it. Safe an' happy. Justreally chill, and I smelt like you all day. I just… just wanted that… every fuckin' day, 'cause I couldn't smell you in it anymore after a while."

"So, can you smell me now?” You ask, attempting coy but failing with a crack of nerves. “Still apples?"

"And rain…" His lips twitch into a smirk for half a second, lower lip trembling.

"Makes me come up with pretty words for how you smell, ya know.”

Carmy puffs a shaky breath, trying so hard to look calm.

You mistake it for adorable nerves and press your body to his, asking, “Would it kill the mood if I asked to suck your cock right now—in your office chair? I kinda owe you, and I've been thinking about it every day since you put me on your kitchen counter."

" Jesus fucking Christ… " Carmy curses, looking like someone toasted his cheeks as he leans back, gripping the edge of his desk one-handed, his expression full of terror and lopsided. Overwhelmed, sorta and…oh… shit…

Suddenly, despite the warmth of her confession—the fact she wants to suck his dick right now—Carmy’s heart palpitates, and air evaporates in his lungs.

Not now… not now, fuck…

"Was that—was I too forward? Sorry, I just-you see; I had this dream last night that woke me up… it’s not the first time I’ve dreamt about it—getting you off, of course—and I-” 

Their eyes lock, and he starts to panic, just thinking about fucking things up again. One taste of her pussy, and he nearly ruined everything.What kinda fire is he gonna set if she goes down on him?! 

“ Hey… you okay, baby?"

Baby… fuck. Fuck! No-no, he is not fuckin’ okay…

“Car-Carmy?”

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until her tone dips, growing concerned. His heart's racing like an adrenaline spike at lunch hour, but it's paired with a dizzy high of elation that confuses his body and brain, leaving him strung out as she steps closer, a weight settling over his chest. He gulps down air, but it's not enough. Suddenly, embarrassingly, he feeds the panic with more panic and clutches at his chest, struggling to breathe anything but his own shame.

"Carmy? Oh, shit… ” 

His vision starts to tunnel, and another wave of dread swells in his throat. Smooth, supple hands reach up to cup his cheeks, pulling his attention forward, into the present where he belongs and not up in his head where he can’t handle the idea that someone—anyone—but especially someone like her, loves him. 

“Carmy.Hey ," her words melt the lump in his throat, "... just keep breathing however you need to breathe, okay? Don't fight it… just let it happen, alright? It's not gonna hurt you. Whatever happens, you can handle it just fine… I know you can. I promise—I promise. It’ll be over soon." 

He nods into her palms, panting heavily as her warm hands slide down his neck, rubbing soothing circles over his collarbones and upper chest, pinching the muscles in his shoulders and raking nails up around his neck and across his scalp. Carmy shivers, heart hammering, but his attention quickly shifts to the tingle down his spine, where his shirt sticks with cold sweat. 

She smiles, forced but warm in the golden-lamp light, and tells him he's safe and it's gonna go away soon and… to just ride it out…

Let it rip , Carmy thinks… and something about that—Michael's words—and her own comforting reassurance, mixed with the stroke of her thumbs beneath his ears… he finally gets in a long, slow breath, and almost instantly, the pounding of his heart starts to ebb…

… it mellows and softens. Her lips plant kisses across his jaw with a terrified chuckle, nose nuzzling the salty perspiration cooling over his skin, chilling his heart out even more… somehow.

"… see, I told you it'd pass.Fuck ."

Carmy puffs out relief like it’s a knife in his lungs, still lightheaded. He wraps his arms around her, drawing her close enough to mold into her. The itch of her loose-knit sweater against her arms sends a pleasurable ripple of goosebumps down his limbs.

"I-did you…" he takes a shaky breath and buries his long nose in the fragrant tumble of hair at her cheek, squeezing her tighter until he can feel her heart pulsing against his own, "... did you mean it. What you said about-about loving me? Cause I…Jesus fucking Christ . I want that so fuckin’ bad.”

“Well,” he can hear the smile in her voice as her fingers pluck and twirl the hair on the back of his neck, “if you’re gonna take it that well, I might have to lie to you from now on.Seriously , how are you feeling? You okay now, Carmy?”

“Yeah, I,umm… I’m okay,” he sniffs, arms crossed behind her, grabbing her shoulder and lower back in two fists, trying to melt himself into her like a stable emulsion of buerre monté. Hot. Versatile. Spoil free. 

Carmy drags his chin down her neck and drops his forehead into her shoulder, exhaling against her, only to choke up the second she draws him even closer… 

… his dick’s hard, and she knows it, swaying her stomach against his. He moans, grinding forward as he hands drop down to her lower back, then brazenly scoop up her backside, finger in her soft cheeks, and angles her even closer. 

“Fuck… so, was that ano to sampling somecrème de Carmen ?”

“ Jesus ,” Carmy laughs, cheek dimpling against her shoulder, genuinely amused and lighthearted for the first time since they’d eaten Michael’s sauce on his sofa, “No, no-I mean… Yes,please . You can sample whatever you want.”

“Really? Right here? Your office,” she teases, slipping her fingers down his chest to shove several fingers between skin and black denim. Carmy swallows, thrusting against her a couple more times before picking his head up in time to feel her lips skim his nose, cupid’s bow, and then his slack mouth. It’s electric—a bunsen burn caramelized with a swipe of her tongue. 

He’d never let anyone do this in the restaurant, even though Richie’s probably gotten laid a couple times in here… but as hypocritical as it is, the thought of getting off in here sends a thrill down Carmy’s spine—a high that’s clear of anxiety like the palpitations of before.

All his milestones happened in a kitchen—a restaurant—for the most part, so why should this be any different?

Carmy's lips are swollen n' wet from her kisses when he stumbles backward, being gently shoved down into his chair. Metal hinges squeak loudly in the small office, but it's the rustle of her knitted sweater that echoes in his ears. He blinks, catching a glint in her eye from the sole light source; that single, aged desk lamp flooding everything within its reach in hard shadows, but it gives him the perfect view of what he hasn't seen beneath her baggy tops…

Her breasts swell against a simple black bra, heaving with every breath, making his sliced-up fists grip the armrests until his fingers are pulsing. Carmy's seen tits before, most recently at the bachelor party they'd hosted for Cicero's buddy, but it'd been through window panes or peripherals while breaking up that fucking fight… right now, it couldn't be more different—it's for him and no one else.

“You’re-you really want to-“

Her naked sides press between his knees, forcing his thighs open. 

She smiles when she says, "Is it really that surprising?" and balls up her sweater, reaching up to fluff it behind his neck, immediately filling his senses with that crisp, fall perfume and the subtle warmth of her body heat smoothing the tension in his neck. Carmy swallows, leans back, and stares up at the ceiling in bewilderment, throat bobbing with a nervous gulp. His cock's been rock hard since the second or third kiss—since she'd grinded him against his desk with her tongue skimming his inner lip… fingers unbuckling his belt.

Now Carmy is taking in ragged breaths through his nose as her fingers pull down his zipper and tug just enough for his erection to press up against his boxer briefs. 

"I guess the question is," she pauses to snap the waistband at his hip, "doyou want to?"

"Yeah-yeah, but… haven't gotten better since the last time. Not gonna last long, and it,uh , it's been a long day," he admits, hoping she understands his meaning without having to explain it's been avery long, sweaty day serving Syd's perfected braised beef ribs.

"Longhard day, huh?" She giggles, and he can't help but let out a mindless chuckle, sorta still reeling over what's about to happen: his first-ever blowjob.

Unconsciously, he's been preparing for this moment. 

While they've been avoiding one another, Carmy's hormones have not, and he's been coming home every night this week, meditating—or trying to—laying there on the sofa with his phone slurring out gongs and chimes, doing his best to ignore the steely pulse of his dick. And every night, he's found himself edging off several times until he can't contain it anymore, cumming in thick, steamy ropes across his stomach with her name on his lips. But try as he might to last longer; even on his own, he can't. All that tension in his stomach—the simmering swell in his balls—it's about to boil over, and she hasn't even touched him yet.

Carmy hisses as she flicks his waistband again, waiting patiently with a hesitant smile, "Carmy?"

"Chef?" He says out of habit and a little bit of fantasy, "I mean…" because the idea of having her work at the restaurant, making pies and pastries alongside Marcus, hasn't left his mind since the moment he tasted her scones… 

She sucks in a breath—a laugh—and peels back the elastic cotton, exposing his bare, cherry-red cock to the open air. It's never been this engorged; flared at the cap and so swollen every heartbeat makes it twitch. A dewy drop of precum rises and spills over the curvy head, sliding around the bulbous veins curling down the left side. 

"I'm gonna-if you don't-"

She sweeps forward with her pink tongue and licks away the clear dollop from his slit.

" Fuck! "

Her slippery touch lingers, scooping beneath his frenulum and around the distended cap. 

"Jesus…fucking —b-baby. Wait-wait!"

She gives his dick a wet kiss and swirls her tongue again, pushing and sweeping over the weepy slit.Jesus Christ… fuck, he's gonna cum, and hedoesn't wanna… not yet. He wants it to last longer—wants to hover in this forever, but he'd take five minutes just for starters. 

In a moment of weakness, he whimpers her name and grabs a fistful of her hair. She hisses but quickly lays her hand over his palm before he can release her. Carmy mutters a weak apology, though, caught somewhere between wanting to shove his cock down her throat or pull her off so he can kiss his taste off her tongue. He's never sampled himself… but he figures anything would taste good from her lips… even his own cum.

"You can be a little rough, Carmy," she whispers, hot over his cock

“Really?”

“ Mhmm… ”

Drool slides down his shaft from her tasting tongue, flicking and circling around all those nerve clusters until he nearly chokes when her fist clenches around it, firm and tight, almost exactly how he does it himself. But it's too much all at once. Carmy can't help himself, so he pushes her head down—silky strands between his bandaged fingers—and suffers the overwhelming heat of her mouth with a pinched brow and clenched teeth. She sucks and squeezes her fist, and that's… that's how Carmy finds himself white-knuckling her hair and his armrest, thigh muscles tensing, toes curling, and cumming down her throat. 

“ Ffffuck… fuck—shit, you’re… Oh,fuck .” He hisses, and paints her insides with more violent spurts, moaning out heavy, wet breaths that echo back at him in the tiny office. 

"I didn't mean-" Carmy tries to apologize, then shivers as she sucks and pulls up, extending his orgasm from a hit to a drag…

Another string hits the back of her swirling tongue as his sack drags right against his body. 

" Fffuuuuck -fuck, yeah ."

She gulps, and Carmy hears it—feels it. Another pulse shoots through his cock, then another weak drizzle’s quickly slurped up and swallowed with a hum of contentment. His lashes flutter; his heart thuds happily as buckets of dopamine bastes his brain, making his lips curl up into a loose, lazy smile. 

Exceptional. Amazing. Pure… distilled and refined like clarified butter. He feels… so good…

Carmy shivers as her lips drag upward, sucking delicately before detaching from his softening cock. He releases the armrest and sweeps his sweaty curls off his forehead, feeling feverish and weak, like some overcooked slab of rump roast.

Against his cock, her words come out sticky-soft, ��Was… was that okay, Carmy? I mean… I can taste howokay it was but I-"

Let it rip… don’t overthink it. Just do it.

Carmy scoops her up as she stumbles over her words, ignoring the drag of his wet, flaccid cock against her thigh and gathers her into his lap. His thumbs sweep around the balls of her shoulder, and leans down, kissing his flavor off her lips. She’s acerbic brine and… creamy, with a lingering note of nutty sugar. Layers coat Carmy’s tastebuds until her tongue presses to his. A flick here, a swipe there… teeth and lips, and a tilted suck against his tongue. His cock is hard again in minutes… and her fingers are wrapped tightly around it, stroking until Carmy is dizzy and gasping, asking her breathlessly, “Wanna fuck you… Can I fuck you?—on the desk—anywhere you want. Please?”

She whimpers, lips against his again, and nods, “... yes-yes, please.”

AO3 Link: HERE

#carmen berzatto x you #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x you #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #the bear #the bear and the baker

[xoxomoonlightxoxo]

Somewhere Between Hello and Goodbye | Ch. 3: The Lucky Day

Warning: This chapter contains mentions of an eating disorder and depression, please read with caution as topics may be triggering.

a/n: Alexa, play Daddy's Home <3 Anywho, OC's spiralling summer was inspired by Bella's montage of passing seasons in Twilight ... I'm sorry, but I need to preface that OC will be going through it this whole season, I have already cried thrice. Also, a side question, can you guys actually play the songs I post for these chapters? Meaning, does Tumblr let yall do that or am I trippin? Because I truly think they add a lot to the overall experience. If not, please let me know, then maybe I'll just turn them into a Spotify playlist.

Sleep has become my escape. A temporary withdrawal from reality in which I live to remember everything Jungkook has forgotten. Sleeping through each passing day, I know that at least in my dreams we are still together. In my dreams, I will always find my way back to you, Koo. Even if you don’t remember it, the moon knows that we were once in love. It hears my helpless cries at night and feels every atom of my being that misses you, fearing the idea of us becoming strangers once again. 

It’s as if my happiness was erased with his departure. Holding my hand through each step of the way, he showed me the beauty in life and ended up being the one to take it all away when my fearing heart failed to reciprocate the painfully obvious love tethered between us. Now, my life is dull and pointless. How can I love someone else when every night I dream of you, Koo?

Swallowing pills to mute the sound of my heart beating for his barest touch, I’ve become lost in my own mind, haunted by everlasting thoughts. Although I thought I would be able to at least pretend to be happy for the sake of my family, it’s all become too much. Thus, it was only a matter of days, before my deteriorating behaviour sparked concern in my parents, fueling tension in the air we shared. It all started with fatigue, which then transformed into chronic sleep and in the end began to affect my eating habits. Feeling nauseous from the mere thought of food, I’ve grown to dissociate myself from it. I was hungry, but I couldn’t eat. And, as my hope slowly diminished, so did the number on the scale. 

“Mira, you have to eat,” my mom’s voice echoes in my ear as my eyes fixate on the plate of steamed broccoli in front of me. 

“I’m not hungry, I told you,” I sigh, swallowing down the lie with some water. 

“Mira, honey, please talk to us. What’s wrong?” my dad asks softly, placing his hand on top of mine. Hearing the trembles in his words, my eyes swell with tears before I shake myself out of it.

“I’m fine … just feeling a bit under the weather,”

“The sun has been at its highest peak this whole time, what’s seasonal about this?” my mom tries to remain composed as she shifts her chair closer to mine. 

“Talk to me, honey. What’s gotten into you? You were so excited to come back,” her hands caress my tangled hair as I nibble on the dead skin on my lip. 

“Mira, you’ve been silent since you came, and now you won’t even eat. Your mom and I can’t bear to see you like this,” 

“Come back home, Miraya. We can find another university here,”

“No. It’s not that. I’m fine, I swear. I just … I just need this break to end already, so I can focus on my studies again. That’ll keep my mind occupied,” I whisper softly, attempting to fake a smile as my empty gaze searches their scattering eyes. Recently, that's how most of our conversations ended. With helpless promises feeding my delusions. However, with each passing day, I come to realise that promises are nothing more than sweet lies. If it weren’t true, I wouldn’t have to find excuses for the aching feeling in my heart, but rather, melt in the overflowing passion of Jungkook’s burning love. 

Excusing myself, I throw away the cold plate of food and head back to my room, one which was once filled with laughter and a carefree sense of ambition. The same walls that watched me cry out of happiness upon receiving my acceptance letter just a few months ago are the ones that now echo my pathetic cries for help. Every inch of this room has become cold and numb, and I’m afraid that there is no more warmth in me that could fix this. 

Crouched in a fetal position as my body shivers under the floral duvet my mom gifted me as a welcome present, I dial Jimin’s phone number. It has been weeks since he moved back to Busan, but I have yet to receive any updates from him about Jungkook. In hindsight, maybe, it’s for the best, but if silence is the thing that'll save me then why do I still hold onto the smallest glimpse of hope for us? Even if it means walking across a minefield of rejected possibilities that would ultimately send me into a never-ending spiral, why do I still care?

“How is he?” I ask with hesitation. 

“Different. He’s different.” Jimin replies softly. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, he seems distant. Which is fair, I guess. But, he doesn’t quite seem to remember me,” 

“At all?” my voice shakes as I choke up. 

“Well no, he is still able to recover our memories from when we were kids, but recent events are very blurry,” Jimin goes on. 

I, was recent to Jungkook. We, were recent to him. Four months, that's how long I've known Koo, but I’ve been missing him for the last seven. Each day I daydream, reminiscing our memories, feeling the void in my heart knowing that I’ve been without him longer than I’ve been with him. Maybe, Mrs. Jeon was right. I would be lying if I said that a little part of me didn’t think that the reason for her ultimatum was purely based on a simple dislike of me. You know? Like, she didn’t see me as a good match for her son? Because, even then, her disapproval of my character would have been an easier pill to swallow than knowing that now, in Koo’s empty eyes, I’m no longer his Peaches, but a stranger. God, it hurts to even say it out loud let alone accept it. I can’t accept it, but I have to now, don’t I?

“Please take care of him for me Jiminah,” I manage to let out, wiping the tears rolling down my face. 

“I will Mira, don’t worry. I’ll see you soon, okay?” 

“See you,” I end the call, throwing my phone across the bed, my puffy eyes irritated by the brightness. 

That night was especially hard. Although my body was desperately wanting to succumb to the exhaustion, my mind wouldn't shut up. It kept replaying our memories, reminding me of the things I should have said. The words Koo never heard, but deserved to.

--

Hugging my mom, her trembling hands tighten their hold on my sweater as I take in the smell of her perfume for the last time. I missed her a lot, and the guilt of putting my parents through that torture has been eating me alive this whole summer. All they wanted was to see their daughter smile and I failed to fulfill even the simplest of their wishes. If only they knew how much I wanted to smile again. 

“Mira, I’m telling you again, we can find another university here,” my mom says with teary eyes. 

“Just say yes, and we’ll deal with all the transfer stuff, honey,” my dad joins, caressing my palms, as I let out a soft chuckle before shaking my head no. 

“That’s not fair. You guys didn’t raise a quitter,” I manage to let out, feeling my throat tighten from the build-up of emotions. 

“You’re right, we didn’t. But, even the strongest soldier needs a shoulder to cry on. Remember that we are and always will be by your side, Miraya,”

“Call us as soon as you land, love,” 

Passing through the airport security, I wave to my family my last goodbyes before heading to my gate. Am I excited to come back to Seoul? I don’t really have a choice, do I? That God-awful Nursing degree won’t finish itself, so yeah, I kind of have to go back. But, I know that school isn’t the only thing pulling me back. I know I can’t, but I still wish to see Jungkook, even from afar, it doesn’t matter. All I want now is to know that he is doing well.  

I’m not sure how, but as soon as my head rested against the seat my body shut down, falling into a much-needed sleep. I probably would have slept through the whole 12-hour flight if it weren’t for the bright beams of sunlight penetrating through my heavy eyelids. Taking a glimpse out the airplane window, I no longer saw snowy mountains but rather blossoming fields of greenery scattered within the busy cities of Korea. And, as the captain went through his ending speech, a flood of international students lined up near the exit, eager to get back into their previously established routine. It’s funny because I was sitting next to one of my cohort members from last semester, but we were both too tired to even realise. 

Nonetheless, putting my passport and ticket back into my carry on, I rolled my luggage down the escalator before a familiar voice called out my name. Searching the crowd of strangers filled with overwhelmed emotions, my eyes stop at a particular boxy smile. 

“Long time no see, Flip-flops!” Tae shouted across the hall, before waving me down to where he was standing with Jiah and Jimin who were just as excited about my arrival. Feeling my eyes swell with tears, I couldn’t help but laugh at his cute, little dance as he pulled me into a warm hug. 

“Tae, I’m certain you just don’t know my actual name,” I say with a grin, looking up at his sparkling eyes. 

“Of course, I do MJ,” he grins, rubbing the top of my head. Ha ha ha, isn’t he just a comedian? For context, my government name is Mira Jean … hence, the birth of MJ. 

“That’s enough, let us hug her too,” Jiah chuckles, opening her arms as my body virtually melts into her embrace. With tears rolling down our faces, her grip tightens around my form as she lets out a sudden gasp. 

“Mira! My goodness, why are you so small?” she asks with a concerned tone, her wide eyes scanning my body. Although, I always managed to maintain my normal weight, I guess, not eating properly for 3 months left its mark on the way I looked. As the numbers on the scale decreased, I became more and more fixated on the protrusion of my bones. I hated the feeling, but, I also couldn’t stop. Because I couldn’t get myself to eat, I relied on baggy clothes to create an illusion that would satisfy people’s perception of me. Unfortunately, I failed to fool Jiah as she saw right through the act. 

“I just stopped eating so much junk food, I’m fine. Trust me, this is a good thing Jiah, now I can finally fit into my favourite pair of jeans,” I try to laugh the pain away, caressing her hands as her furrowed eyebrows slowly release their tension. She isn’t convinced but also, doesn’t want to create a scene in public. I know that follow-up questions will be brought up along the way, but for now, my attention is focused on looking for someone who I know isn’t there. It’s silly, but before spotting Tae, a little part of me hoped to see Jungkook. To witness his sparkling doe eyes and bunny teeth, once again, like the good old times.  

“Okay, it’s settled, we are all going to my favourite Korean BBQ place,” Jimin exclaims, giving me a quick wink before grabbing both of the luggage out of my hands, and handing one to Tae. And, as Jiah intertwines her hands with mine, we exchange soft smiles exiting the airport as my skin finally feels the fresh, humid air of Seoul. Stopping mid-walk, I let out a deep sigh of relief. I hated every second of my summer, it was nothing short of pure torture but, at least, it too passed. 

“You’re good?” Tae whispers, softened gaze focused on my flushed cheeks. 

“Yeah,” I say softly, taking another deep breath as his arm caresses my shoulder. 

“He’s fine, Mira,” his words pierce through my ears as I unconsciously shoot him an alarming look. 

“You’ve heard from him?” I rush my words, anticipating his answer as my chest heaves up. 

“No, but I can feel your pain,” his tone is quieter now, eyes still searching mine. 

“I’m fine, Tae,” I mumble under my breath, lowering my head in fear of breaking down in front of them. 

“Just know that I’m always here for you, okay?” he says, pressing a soft kiss on my head before wrapping his arm around my shoulders. If only he could hear the way I’m screaming inside. The way I’m calling out for help. For someone to find hope in my hopeless state of mind. If only he knew how much I miss Jungkook. 

“Okay,” I whisper.

“Following the tradition, I will be hosting my annual house party before school beats all of our asses,” Jimin chuckles, caressing Jiah’s hand as their eyes focus on each other. Forcing down some dumpling soup into my system, I feel nauseous, but can’t risk growing Jiah's suspicion more, so I attempt to eat as little as possible without her noticing. 

“So, Mira, please come. Jungkook will be there as well,” Jimin continues with a soft smile which slowly fades upon noticing my gaze drop. Letting go of my spoon, my fingernails dig into my cold palms, as I’m back at square one. How am I supposed to face him when I can’t even handle the mere mention of his name? It’s not fair. None of them know about Mrs. Jeon’s ultimatum, and I fear that I can’t just simply tell them. So, I gulp down the pain and manage to put on another act, one that I seem to have mastered over the summer. 

“Mira, you’re okay?” Jiah asks, gently rubbing my forearm. 

“Yeah, sorry, I’m a bit jet-lagged. Sure, of course, I’ll come,” I reply with a reassuring smile, before looking at Tae. I recognize the sadness in his eyes because I see it in my own every passing minute. But, I can’t let him in. I can’t betray Mrs. Jeon’s trust, again. Even if it means that I have to betray my own heart.

--

We’ve been walking around the mall for probably 3 hours now and Jiah has yet to find something with that wow factor, meanwhile, I have already found 4 of the nearest exits. The party is set for tonight, and although I have already agreed to come, I can’t get myself to actually face the consequences. I can’t go, what was I thinking. What? Did I think everything was going to be fine once Jungkook saw me? Mira, he doesn’t remember you. 

“Jiah, you know, I really don’t think I should go tonight?” I say, slowly walking in circles as she eyes another mini dress. 

“What? Why?” she stutters, going through racks of possible options. 

“I’m just not feeling well,” I lie, fiddling with my fingers to calm down the nerves. 

“Mira, is something wrong?” Jiah stops what she’s doing before walking closer to my anxious self. 

“I’m fine, really,” I lie again. 

“You don’t look fine. You barely eat, barely sleep, barely talk to me,” she exclaims with a  tone firmer than before. 

“Then stop looking. Please, can everyone just leave me alone? I’m just tired, okay?” I burst, feeling everyone’s eyes on my distressed self. 

“Okay, I’m sorry. What do you need?” she says gently, reaching out her hands.  

“I just need space,” I whisper, crossing my arms in front of my burning chest. 

“Fine, I’ll give you some space. Please call me when you’re ready,” Jiah’s words cut deep as she walked out of the store, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The ones I’ve been trying to run away from this whole time. I can’t even get mad at her. She is only trying to help, but how can she when I keep shutting everyone out? It’s all my fault, I know. I just hope that this isn’t how it ends. I hope I don’t push everyone away, and someone sees right through the mask I put on. Because I’m so lost. I don’t know what to do or who to talk to.

Locking the door behind me I plop onto my bed before finally resting my heavy eyes. And, within minutes, I’m passed out again. I think, I've grown to become eternally tired, no matter how much I sleep, there is just no end to this fatigue. Moving restlessly, I pull the white cover over my shivering body before hearing my phone ring. 

“Ugh, what is it now?” I grunt, squinting from the screen brightness as a small gasp escapes my parted lips. It was 8 pm already. How is that possible? I swear, I just laid my head. But, no, apparently I’ve been asleep for the last 5 hours. 

“Hello?” I manage to let out. 

“Flip-flops? Where are you?” Tae screams through the loud music in the background. 

“Tae, I’m home. What happened?” 

“Mira hurry, Jiah is drunk. You need to come pick her up,” he exclaims with panic in his voice. 

“What? Where’s Jimin? Can he not drive her?” I stutter, lifting myself off of the bed before putting my hoodie back on. 

“You want him to drive under the influence? Of course, he is drunk too,” 

“Well, why can’t you drive them?” I whine, almost pleading. 

“Who said I wasn’t drunk either?” he chuckles, sending me a flying kiss through the phone. 

“Fine, I’ll be there in a bit. Keep an eye on Jiah,” I sigh before grabbing my keys and ID. 

Thankfully, Jimin’s place wasn’t that far from our dormitory so, the ride there was only 10-ish minutes. Nonetheless, I could feel my heartbeat in my throat. And, as the driver finally pulled up to the apartment complex I practically ran inside. Following the sound of loud music, I made my way through the crowd of people who clearly had a little too much fun, as the alcohol in their system could be detected from the next block. 

“Flip-flops!” Tae exclaimed with a big grin. Stopping in my tracks, my eyes diverted to Jiah, who was standing beside him with absolutely no sign of a hangover. In fact, she looked better than ever in her new mini-dress. 

“What? You lied?” I snap, eyebrows furrowing more and more with each step I take towards them. 

“How else was I supposed to get you to come?” Tae chuckles, trying to rub my head before I push his hand away. 

“Get off me,” my tone is harsh as I lower my piercing gaze, shaking my head in disbelief. 

“Oh! Mira, there you are,” I could hear Jimin’s voice getting closer before turning my flushed face. And with that, it felt like time stopped altogether. There was nothing and no one in the room except for him and I. Koo and I. Feeling my gaze soften, I choke up from the rush of emotions in my throat. 

“Hi, I’m Jungkook. It’s nice to meet you,” he says with a warm smile, reaching out his hand as if meeting me for the first time. Before replying, I take a moment to analyze his face. The one I dreamed about every night and the one that caused me so much pain. He looks the same, except, his eyes no longer sparkle like they used to. I guess, we got that in common. 

“Hi …I’m Mira,” I let out a soft smile, before reaching out my own hand. 

“Yah, Kook, you already know her, you guys were best friends,” Jimin chuckles, patting Jungkook’s back.

“Oh, I’m sorry, please forgive me. I'm still trying to piece everything back together,” Koo says, covering his mouth before shutting his eyes from embarrassment. 

Feeling my throat tighten, I quickly excuse myself, before rushing out of the packed room towards the nearest fire escape. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but why does it feel like I’m going to pass out? It’s as if all the air was knocked out of my lungs. Feeling lightheaded I hold onto the railing and close my eyes for a moment. I can’t believe it. Koo, I saw you but you didn’t see me. You saw a stranger. And, suddenly, there I was, alone again, realizing that everything I feared had come true.

Regaining my composure, I decide to walk back to the party before my eyes are met with his. 

“Not a party animal, huh?” Jungkook grins, stopping in his tracks as his arm leans against the wall. 

“It’s my day off,” I let out a small chuckle, unable to keep his eye contact. 

“So … we were best friends?” he asks softly, hands fidgeting with the chains on his belt. 

“Yeah …” I nod slightly, nibbling on my lips. 

“It’s funny because I don’t remember anything from last year. I could barely recognize my own dad for a while. Jimin helped me a lot, he basically recalled sparknotes of my past for me,” he laughs. Oh, how I missed his laugh.  

“You really don’t remember anything?” I finally look up, searching his scattering eyes. 

“No, not one bit,” his muffled words are interrupted by the growling sound coming from my stomach, as I let out an awkward smile. 

“Oh, are you hungry?” he grins, bunny teeth on full display, as my gaze softens again. 

“No, no, no, I’m fine. I think I’m gonna head home now,” I shake my hands, zipping my hoodie before attempting to walk past him. 

“No, it’s fine, I’ll drive. I’m starving as well,” Jungkook assures, gently pulling onto the fabric as my heart sinks to my feet.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I agreed. I couldn’t say no to Koo. Not, after all the sleepless nights I’ve spent missing his mere presence. And, as we entered the nearest restaurant, everything felt real. He felt real. Even if he couldn’t feel it, my heart was beating for the both of us. For our first hellos, last goodbyes and everything in between. Just for tonight, I wanted to pretend like nothing happened. 

“Oh, look, Mira, they have a special deal on shrimp dumplings, do you like them?” his voice, brings me back to reality as I mute the thoughts running through my head. 

“Yeah, my mom made them for me all the time when I was little,” I smile. 

“Then, I guess it’s your lucky day,” he chuckles with a satisfied grin, before calling one of the waiters. 

“I guess, it is,” I say softly, feeling my throat tighten as I struggle to swallow the lie. Searching his naive eyes my own swell with tears while my body shifts restlessly in the seat. Desperately wanting to cave into the emotions, my mind is haunted by the thoughts of Mrs. Jeon’s letter. And, as I close my eyes for a moment, all I can see are the painful reminders of our enforced distance. Don’t call … Don’t write … Don’t interact. Yet, here we are, here you are, Koo. Live in the flesh, separated by a table and the forgotten story of our past. So close, yet so far that it physically hurts. To him, I’m just another piece of the puzzle that would fill the void in his memories. But, to me, he is the only piece that could make me whole again. 

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