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icallhimjoey · 1 year

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In 120 Hours

♥ ♥ Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

Summary: You work as a temp and are offered a very exclusive interview for a very exclusive job. You see, someone needs a personal assistant for a very eventful week, and you happen to be the perfect fit.

CW / disclaimer: 18+, language, mentions of drinking, rpf, fem!reader

Author’s note: I have no idea what being a personal assistant entails, or what London Film Festival is actually like, but we can all pretend that this is accurate shit, right? Enjoy!

Wordcount: 3K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

“Have you got any–”

You were already holding a hand out to him. Joe saw, grinned, opened his hand to receive a piece of gum from you and looked out the car window, hand on the door handle but not quite stepping out just yet.

Then he turned in his seat, back towards you a bit, but stared into the space in front of him.

“I’m not sure how I...” Joe trailed off, then looked at you, not finishing his sentence, but hoping that his eyes would do the talking for him.

“Could thank me? Have ever managed to function without me? Will go on living your life without me?” they were all jokes, and you were smiling, but Joe just nodded and went, “Yea,” with a crazed sort of look in his eyes. “Exactly all of those things.”

Joe stalled, looked at you, until you nudged him with a knee.

“Go on, the people are waiting,” Not just the people you could see from the car, but you imagined also all the important people, actors and actresses alike, in the cars queueing up behind you.

“Come with me,” Joe suddenly said.

“I will, I’ll see you right after the–”

“No, come with. Let’s do the whole thing together,”

You hesitated. This wasn’t in the job description. Lots of things hadn’t been, sure, but those things had been, you know, not quite so out in the open. Not like red carpets were, anyway.

“I think we’ve been spotted together enough as it is, I don’t want you to-”

“I kind of don’t want to get out without you.”

And you frowned, but only slightly, because there was that smile again. Fuck, that smile had gotten you into enough trouble as it was, and Joe fucking knew it too.

You checked the time. There was over twelve hours left still, technically speaking. That was over ten per cent of the entire job – quite a few too many hours to screw everything up and risk not getting paid. You had said you were reliable. Professional. You couldn’t, really...

“Please?” Joe opened a hand, presenting you with his palm.

But, ugh.

Fuck it. Why not?

You grabbed Joe’s hand and silently wondered if this was breaching the NDA you’d signed. Maybe not. You knew exactly who it was going to piss off though...

Stepping out of the car with Joe, you were met with girlish screams of adoration. Well, Joe was met with girlish screams of adoration. Then cameras flashed brightly, blinding you almost instantly, and you thought back to how precisely one hundred and six and half hours earlier, you would’ve never envisioned that this is where you’d end up.

Doing a red carpet with Joe.

In a slutty dress. With slutty high heels on. Without the engagement ring on.

Not even a full five days had passed...

Not even a full six days had passed, since you’d phoned your friend and she had told you about the vacancy. The whole thing felt like a vague fever dream now, like it had happened years ago.

“Please tell me you have nothing going at the moment,”

It was a weird way for your friend to answer her phone when you called to ask her if she had time to go for drinks that week. Because, consequently, you had all the time for all the drinks, you see, because you had absolutely nothing going at the moment.

No professional things. No personal things. Zero job. Zero fiancé – you really had to remove that ring, but you couldn’t yet. It used to belong to your grandmother before, after all, so it kind of felt like if you just wore it on another finger, it’d be fine.

Still adjusting to life as a single woman - with big bills that belonged to single women - working as a temp and having a best friend work at a temp agency, the two of you seemed a match made in platonic heaven. She always kept all the good stuff back for you, called you on her breaks to slip you information she definitely wasn’t meant to be giving you, so you could officially apply for the right jobs at the right times and use the right words to actually be invited to the interviews. It was perfect.

Sometimes, the good stuff would be going through PowerPoint presentations in stuffy conference rooms in deeply exotic places, like Belgium. Or you’d manage an entire office for two weeks, a holiday-cover that would start Christmas eve and left you in charge of a lot of empty desks because, didn’t everyone take time off around Christmas and New Year’s?

But then, other times, the good stuff was actual good stuff and had you help run huge music festivals, unexpectedly brushing shoulders with the likes of The Wombats and Liam fucking Gallagher backstage wearing knee high wellies, covered in mud.

“Oh my God, what have you got?”

No dillydallying. As a temp, there was never time. All jobs came fast, and all jobs went fast.

“It just came in, this phone call is unbelievable timing because I’m allowed to recruit for fucking once, finally, and you’d be so perfect for it!”

She had said that too when you’d been hauled off to dog-sit a poodle for some CEO of a company you had never heard of for two months, so you held off on the jumpy excitement your friend seemed to be exuding down the phone.

“It’s very short term and the money is amazing – I need a personal assistant for a high-profile client.”

“How short term, how much money, how high-profile?”

Like you said, no dillydallying.

“We’re talking not even a full week, just five days, all expenses covered and the salary’s generous. Very generous. And the money isn’t even the best part.”

Temping meant everything was short term, but this was the shortest a possible job had ever lasted you.

“Okay,” you said, knowing things were always too good to be true. There had to be a catch.

“If this is for a tory politician, or like, actual royalty, I’m out,” you warned, earning a huffed laugh from your friend.

“Don’t let this put you off, but there’s nothing else I’m allowed to tell you. You’ll have to sign a non-disclosure agreement before I can even send the job description over, and I’ll need you down in London for the interview as soon as possible, like, today? Could you do today?”

Oh, she was serious serious.

Okay, so... what was five days, really? If it was shit, it’d be over quick enough. You could really use the money too if it really was as good as your friend was making it out to be. And maybe you’d meet Meghan Markle, you know, if it was actually going to be royalty.

“Are we... are we talking like, Hugh Grant or whatever? Adele, maybe?”

Your friend laughed heartily.

“I can’t tell you anything else until you sign the NDA, but, I’m being so honest with you right now, you’re not going to want to pass this one up.”

And so, you’d given her the go ahead. Sure. Try get me in for an interview, why the fuck not? She said she’d make a call, get your CV into the right hands, and would call you back in a minute. When she did, not all but 11 minutes later, she’d already e-mailed you the NDA to sign. The interview wasn’t that day, but the day after – still too soon, but ok – and if successful, you’d start immediately too.

“Don’t worry, I think the interview’s just a formality – they love your CV, and from the sounds of it, they’re desperate. You’re a shoo-in. Get that NDA back to me and I’ll send you everything you need to know.”

She ended the call letting you know to reach out to her if you had any problems, and you said you would, knowing very well that you wouldn’t. You didn’t have problems. It was part of your charm. You carried solutions. You were dependable, reliable, one hundred percent guaranteed to make everyone’s life easier.

The only person you ever made things difficult for, was yourself. The proof of it was around your ring finger – on the wrong hand now, but still there.

From the names mentioned in the e-mail, which you’d immediately googled, you became none the wiser. They really kept you in the dark about who you were going to be working for, and the job requirements list was a lot. But you were good at job interviews. You knew the right things to say, the right energy to exude, the times to smile, the times to frown in serious thought – you could sell yourself better than you could sell anything else.

And you were competitive to a fault. No matter how arrogant of a celebrity was going to need someone handling their business for five days; you were going to get that job, and you were going to excel at it. Watch me, you thought, as you packed a carry-on with enough underwear to last you five days in case you were right. And if you were wrong, you could just spend money you didn’t have and maybe stay in London for a few days anyway. Visit old friends and old familiar places, because you kind of missed the place if you were being honest.

The next day your train had been late, and the tube had been packed, and you’d almost been run over three times, but you didn’t care. London was gritty and grimy and perfect. The London-shaped hole in your heart could really only be filled with the smell of searing, hot dust that lingered underground and became thicker and more prominent the deeper down escalators would take you.

You aced the interview. Of course you did.

Every question you were asked felt like they were trying to find reasons to not give you the job. They were all questions about what you thought about certain things, what your opinions would be about certain situations, what you really wanted, and you’d rudely interrupted. You’d said that none of it mattered, did it? It didn’t matter what you thought about anything, what your opinions were or what you really wanted in any situation – what mattered was that you would do your job. What mattered is whatever the client wanted.

They’d congratulated you. Said you got the job. And then, right on cue, the door had opened behind you.

“Joe, come in, meet your new PA who’s going to be with you for the rest of the London Film Festival.”

Joe mother fucking Quinn walked in, smiling, looking at you, like you were an actual person that people could actually perceive.

“Hi, nice to meet you.”

It was only a brief introduction before Joe was off again, called out of the room by someone else, and he said he'd see you later. Smiled again, and God, it was the kind of smile that could defrost the coldest of hearts. Joe's expression was objectively neutral, this was just his face, but his eyes exuded kindness in its purest form. Almost dreamily so.

You cleared your throat as the door shut behind him. All right. Back to business.

You were talked through the things you had already read the day before; the things you'd received in your e-mail. Things that didn't really need further explaining, but you listened politely anyway. You got a long explanation of how NDAs worked and it was almost laughable. Yes, they'd sue you if you broke it. You got it. But they were very adamant, needed to make sure that you really did in fact get it. Having to drag you to court wouldn't just be an awful thing for you personally, they also didn't want to do it because it was a lot of work on their end which they didn't have the time for.

Noted.

"All right. Get your things and meet us downstairs, your car is waiting."

"Car? Where are we going?"

"We're not going anywhere. You are. The itinerary, his full schedule, you'll find it all in your e-mail."

And when you looked at your phone screen, you saw you'd just received it, mere seconds earlier. Man, these people ran a tight ship.

Opening your e-mail in the car, you were greeted by a digital calendar that had all of Joe's days planned out, down to the literal minute. You could see past the five days that you would be working for Joe too, and although less busy, Joe had things happening nearly every day for at least the upcoming three months it seemed.

"Wow,"

This was... a lot.

It had everything on there. Wake-up calls, car pick-ups, lunch time, phone calls, coffee breaks, fittings...

There were several film screenings scheduled every day, obviously, that was how film festivals worked, and you wouldn't get to go to any of them. You weren't hired to sit and watch films with Joe, unfortunately. You were hired to haul Joe from one place to the next. Accompany him. Get him coffees. Check for schedule changes, because, “Everything is always up for change, so you better keep an eye out!”. Things could be delayed, or be postponed, or switched around – times, or locations – and it'd be up to you to sort things out. Make it all run smoothly. It was your job to make sure Joe would get to the places he needed to be on time.

"And he needs close eyes on him, because he tends to wander. Keep him company. He's used to having someone with him. A family member, a friend, but none were available for this. So, now he'll have you."

So... you were a luxurious babysitter, if you really thought about it.

"What other things are important? Anything that’s not been mentioned yet that needs special attention?" you had asked, and were met with a fast answer.

"Networking."

This whole week was all about Joe being seen and being spoken to by industry giants. Joe was invited to see many films, just about all of them, but it wasn't necessary for him to actually watch all of them. As long as he went to meet the directors, he'd be solid.

There were other obligations too. Besides the screenings there were screen talks, in depth-interviews, panels, debates, workshops, partner events (Joe wouldn't be going to those, no worries) and networking events (Joe had to absolutely be going to those, worry a lot). The industry happy hours were where it all happened, you'd been told several times.

Then, on Monday, day four, there was Joe's film screening - not his film, but the one he starred in. That showcased him. It'd be followed up by a Q&A, and then of course, happy hour after.

To make things even easier, more simple, not at all hectic or stressful: Joe also had studio photoshoots, two of them, and phone interviews to accompany the shoots. They were scheduled, slotted tightly in between all the in-person events and to be honest, it all seemed a bit much. Too much. No wonder they hired a PA for the week. This was overwhelming to say the least.

Your duties would end after the most important day. The awards ceremony. Film Festivals were a competition, and there were awards up for grabs. You'd need to make sure that after five extremely busy days, Joe would make it to the ceremony in one piece, in the right outfit, and at the right time, because people had already been talking, and Joe was meant to give a little speech up on stage if his film was to win.

"Remind him of that. Maybe help him with the writing, too?"

Sure. Why not?

"And there'll be two boxes delivered, not huge ones, it'll only be about 5000 copies, but they all need signing,"

Delivered where? Copies of what?

"Copies?" you asked, deadly afraid of sounding stupid.

"Photographs."

Oh. Alright. Of course. Yes. Fine.

In the backseat of a car, on your way to wherever they were taking you - they hadn't been clear at all - you saw that the signing of the photographs hadn't been added into Joe's schedule yet. You put down a few options and would check with Joe later until what time he minded working before you'd set it in stone. First task done. Your job had officially started.

Five days. One hundred and twenty hours of this. You checked the time. One hundred and eighteen still to go, technically, but, who was counting?

The car stopped and you heard the ratcheting of the handbrake being pulled by the driver. You'd arrived.

"Um, where are we?" you asked, undoing your seatbelt and gathering your things, but before the driver could answer, your door was opened from the outside.

"Hey, welcome," it was Joe, and he held out a hand to help you out of the vehicle. What a gentleman. That warm smile, there it was again.

"Are you ready?" Joe asked, taking your suitcase from you with an excited glint flickering in his eyes, and you weren't sure exactly what you were meant to be ready for. The whole week, was the correct answer.

Joe walked ahead of you, up the steps of a beautiful South London terraced house. Quite the mansion, by London standards. Joe stopped and turned as he reached the door. "I've only just moved in, so please, don't mind the boxes and, um, the lack of furniture. It's a mess. The only room properly done up is yours, so don't worry about that! They've made sure that at least one of us has a nice bed to sleep in,"

Oh.

"They made it look like a proper hotel room, I'm kind of jealous of it,"

This was Joe's home. His actual place, where he... you know, lived, and stuff. And where apparently, you were going to be staying too.

"This is your house?"

Joe stood in the door opening, and beckoned you in.

"It's just easier to have you close, come on in,"

Oh, this was going to be an interesting couple of days.

"Wonderful, thanks."

---

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icallhimjoey · 1 year

Text

In 120 Hours

♥ ♥ Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

CW / disclaimer: 18+, language, rpf, fem!reader

Author’s note: I have girlies helping me out, telling me what LFF is like, telling me what parts of being a PA are realistic - it's amazing! Thank you so much for reaching out, it helps a lot! Here's part two!

Wordcount: 2.5K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

“Um, oh my God?”

Your eyes were pulled up towards the high ceilings in Joe’s hallway, peering up the stairs that curled ‘round at the top. Down the hall you could see into the kitchen, and you assumed that the door on the side lead into the living room.

Joe placed your suitcase down at the bottom of the stairs and scratched the back of his neck.

“Yea, I know,” he looked almost guilty for how nice this house was.

“Is this all Stranger Things money?”

Joe bit both his lips into his mouth, made big eyes and didn’t answer. Though, he did, because those eyes spoke volumes. This was all Stranger Things money.

“Holy fuck,”

“Wait ‘til you see upstairs,”

Joe was right. The upstairs was insane, because that’s where the newly redone bathrooms were. They had deep tubs, and shower heads the size of pizzas that stuck out from the ceiling. Joe showed you around, and although you marveled at every room, Joe had been right about the mess and lack of furniture too. Most rooms were empty, just had boxes in, and it kind of looked like no one really lived there at all.

Except for the guest room. Your room.

“I’ve got to stop saying oh my God, but, oh my God?”

It kind of felt like you walked into a very fancy hotel suite. Tall headboard, wide dresser, lush curtains and big doors to an inbuilt wardrobe that Joe walked towards to open.

“Look,”

They’d redone it to have a desk inside. A little office nook, so you could hide all of the work mess by closing the doors before you’d go to bed. The room was large enough to have its own little seating area too, without it looking silly or overcrowded.

On the dresser they’d left you what could only be described as a care-package, except it spanned the whole surface area of it. Packets of crisps laid next to bottles of water, and perfume samples laid next to make-up wipes, and skin care laid next to spare phone chargers.

“If there’s anything else you need, just let me know,” Joe said, and you scoffed at him.

“I think you’ll find it’s the other way around for the next five days,”

“Oh, yea, you’re right,” Joe laughed at himself. He’d never really had someone new as a personal assistant before. Not like this, anyway.

You took another look around, walked around to see the ensuite and sighed.

“Could I not move in permanently? Shit, this is gorgeous,”

Also, Joe was gorgeous. But, you know, you were a professional. Kept the compliments for the inanimate objects rather than, you know, his ass.

“I know,” Joe laughed. “Come see my bedroom, it’s ridiculous compared to this,”

Up another flight of stairs, you stepped into a comically large space that made one of the larger pieces of furniture – his bed – look absolutely tiny.

“What the fuck,”

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Joe scrunched his face, and you would've laughed at it, but the room really eyed kind of... sad.

The space itself? Beautiful.

Pretty much the size of your full flat. But this reached Airbnb levels of bad. Zero personality. No curtains on the windows. One bedside table, on the left. Two big, opened suitcases on the floor with clothes spilling out. Not even proper bedding on the bed. A small skinny table was placed in the middle of the room, and on it stood a flatscreen TV. And Joe had zero cable management. Extension cords, phone charger, laptop charger, the TV cables – it was a jumbled-up mess on the floor and made the place look untidy.

“I'm sorry but, yes. This is terrible. You can't bring girls up here, not with it looking like this,” you gestured a wild arm around, knowing very well that the comment was edgy. But you were in his bedroom. In his house. Just the two of you. The entire situation was a bit edgy overall to begin with.

“Oh shit, quick, close your eyes,” and like you'd been friends for years, Joe moved both his hands over your face, not touching, but definitely close enough for your eyelashes to tickle his palms if you were to blink and you were reminded that, oh, yea, you were in fact a girl.

It was a short little joke, his hands backed away just as quickly as they'd been shoved into your face, and when your laughter died out, you wondered how long Joe had been living like this.

“When did you move in?”

Because this looked like Joe was 17 and had just moved out of his parents’ house, priorities being the TV he could now watch from the bed and um, nothing else, really.

“A month ago,”

“You’ve been living like this for a month?” the words were out of you before you realised how offensive they sounded, but they just made Joe laugh.

“Technically, yes. But I’ve only spent the night here maybe... four times?”

Joe’d been off to The States for a few weeks. Very cool, made him instantly sound more impressive than he already was. He pointed at the suitcases for proof, which honestly didn’t mean anything to you – you’d gone on holiday and left suitcases out for weeks upon returning. But, all right, you’d believe him on his word.

On your way back down, you asked if Joe needed help furnishing the place, and he said, yes, he absolutely did, but not to worry about it.

“Are you sure? The things I could do with this place,” your minds-eye was already decorating the spaces that weren’t yours, but God, would this place not look fantastic in soft neutrals with strong black accents all throughout? Warm, but high contrast? Contemporary with some vintage thrown in for the vibes?

“Be my guest, but please don’t feel obligated, we’ve got a lot going already,”

And Joe was right, because you checked the time, and realised you had 20 minutes until you’d have to leave for a studio in East London somewhere for a photoshoot for a magazine and Joe had to bring an outfit – or wear one, which was easier – that he could wear after, because it was straight from there to a film screening and even if he wasn’t going to get his picture taken, he was probably going to get his picture taken.

In Joe’s living room there was one large armchair. And there were two paintings on the floor that leant against the walls they had to be put up on. But that was it. Yes, boxes, they were there too, but there were boxes everywhere.

His dining room, however, wasn’t a dining room at all, because there was no table to sit at. Instead, there were two clothing racks, the wheelie kind, that had Joe’s good stuff on, and Joe said, “Please, help, I like all of it, but if no one tells me what to wear, I tend to pick the exact things that don’t go together.”

Men.

“Can I ask what you would pick? Just to get a gist?” you asked Joe, and he looked, pulled a few things out and you said, “Actually, that’s nice,” but you thought that, actually, Joe would look fucking stunning in just about anything. Or nothing. You'd have him either way. But then Joe pointed at a pair of shoes, and you went, “Maybe not,” and suggested perhaps he could go with the less flashy black boots. He didn’t fight you on it, picked them up and handed them to you.

You thought you'd selected a pair of shoes that weren’t designer, but learned quickly that actually, all of the clothes down here were very much designer. Even the items that absolutely didn't look it. You were staring at an absolute fortune on black velvet hangers and felt stupidly underdressed in your outfit that was one hundred per cent black H&M items that were no longer black, but instead had been washed into a sad state of charcoal grey.

“I promise I have normal stuff too,” it was as if he read your mind.

“Balled up in the suitcases upstairs?” you joked, and Joe was about to reply, but the doorbell interrupted you. You both looked at where the sound came from, and because you were in Joe’s house, you expected him to make his way over to answer the door. But he didn’t, and you realised then that, oh yes, you were an assistant now, and you could open the door to his house like you’d lived there for years.

Better get used to this fast, bestie, you thought to yourself as you made your way to the door and greeted a delivery driver with two smallish boxes at his feet.

Behind him, you noticed that the car you’d gotten out of a little while ago was still there, driver still in the drivers’ seat, waiting. What a life; huge house, designer clothes, drivers waiting, a personal assistant... a very good personal assistant, mind you. One that admittedly, yes, wanted to stare into Joe's eyes for hours on end if she could, but also was going to furnish his whole house in a few days.

How? No clue. But you didn't have problems - you carried solutions. You were convinced that if you kept telling yourself that, it would somehow be true. And if it wasn't, at least you could fool yourself and feel better about it.

You signed for the delivery and learned quickly that the small boxes were heavy. Of course, they were. Joe called out, “Are those the photos?” and you remembered. You ripped one open to check and were greeted by shiny large photos of Eddie Munson’s face, tongue out, fingers up as horns beside his head. Five thousand of them. “Yep. Which reminds me... until what time do you mind working?”

During the photoshoot, you hung back a little. Afraid to be in the way, because, shit, how many people were actually involved in a fucking photoshoot, Jesus. And half of them looked like they weren't really even doing anything. But then, you kind of belonged to that group a little - girl sat on her phone, tapping her feet to the music, looking up to scan the room every now and then to see if you were needed.

You kept an eye on the time, made sure Joe had water nearby, babysat Joe's phone and his cigarettes, crossed things off the schedule, fiddled with your engagement ring that was no longer an engagement ring, double checked the rest of the day and googled interior design styles to show Joe later. To see what he liked.

You liked that Joe seemed human. Had humour. Eased situations that could've very easily been awkward because, how long had you known each other? And you already had access to pretty much all of him?

You tried imagining what this morning would've been like had it been any other celebrity you'd be working for, and you honestly couldn't think of someone better. Wait, Ryan and Blake, maybe.

When Joe was asked to change outfits, you saw his eyes search the room. He located you, nodded the tiniest of nods to himself, and followed the stylist to the racks of clothing waiting for him.

That almost felt like he was checking to make sure you were still there. As if he needed to be reassured of your presence, and you felt something in your chest that you didn't really like.

Keep him company. He's used to having someone with him.

You made your way over, with no real goal in mind other than to just be a bit closer.

Joe and the stylist were quietly talking, going through several colourful clothing items, and when you stepped into earshot, the stylist smiled at you.

“What do you think, pink, or blue?”

And it was very kind, too kind, almost a bit patronizing, because obviously you had no real say or any influence here, but you still said pink, and then Joe said, “Then pink it is,” and minutes later you were watching Joe pose in a pink suit and it all felt a bit surreal.

He looked so good, so hot.

You were only like, what, five hours into this job? And now you just got to stare at this and be paid for it?

Stupid.

But then it got bad, and it got bad fast. Because after the shoot, you were both sat in the backseat of a car, your car, on the way to a film screening – one Joe was actually excited to see – and you went through the rest of the day together.

Screening first. Drinks in the lobby after. Not quite industry happy hour yet, but important to stick around for a little while none the less. Then you'd fit in dinner somewhere and then, there was the proper networking event. Joe nodded, said yep throughout, said he fancied seafood for dinner, and oh, yes, his fridge at home was empty. You added a Tesco order and delivery to your to do list, and then, whilst stuck in London traffic, asked Joe if he wanted to do the phone interview that needed doing, the number already typed in, ready to go.

“You're asking me if I want to?” Joe challenged. “Or are you telling me I have to?”

Beginners mistake.

The interview was in Joe's schedule. He'd just done the shoot. He had to do the interview now. Joe had his head cocked to the side, looking up at you with raised eyebrows and that smile. Fuck, that smile. It was going to get you in trouble if you weren't careful.

You chuckled in defeat, and Joe was already holding out his hand to take the phone from you as you pressed the green call button.

“No, it's nice you asked, really,” Joe said sarcastically, teasingly, trying to deepen the blush you had going just before they picked up on the other end, “Hey!”

And you made a face at him, mocked anger, shock and sheer frustration because now you couldn't make the snarky comment you wanted to make and as a response. Joe squeezed your knee for a few seconds in recognition.

Just placed his full palm over your knee.

Used his fingers to squeeze into your flesh.

You felt your stomach muscles tense up.

For what?

Joe talked on the phone and squeezed your knee.

For that.

It only lasted a mere second, but then, when Joe had safely made it into the screening and you'd found a coffee place to sit and order Joe some groceries, you still felt his hand there. Firey skin, just tingling away freely under the table.

And you were going to have to sleep at his house?

Oh man.

You checked the time. Did mental math. One hundred and ten and a half hours left, still.

Fuck.

You were so screwed.

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