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toomanystoriessolittletime · 3 hours

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I wish I could put into words how much I love how you write their slowly developing relationship, how much she trust Joel already and how Joel is trying to figure out what is going on that makes her the way she is

The way I want to strangle her father…. God I’m so mad

Personally I’d like to see Joel fight her father for the way he treats his child(ren) but that’s just me

And that kiss?

I died. Dead.

𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚢𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 · · · · 𝚅. 𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 ║ ⓒⓗⓐⓟⓣⓔⓡⓔⓓ

𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚢𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 || 𝚗 𝚊 𝚟 𝚒 𝚐 𝚊 𝚝 𝚒 𝚘 𝚗 || 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 | PAIRING(s): Joel Miller x fem!OC/reader

| RATING: explicit material | 18+ | CHAPTER CONTENT: POV switching, flirting, fluff, angst angst angst, pining, inherent power imbalance due to boss/employee dynamic, Southern culture slander just for @jupiter-soups, multiple instances of violent men/situations, predatory/SA behaviors, Sad During the Holidays™, financial/emotional/physical abuse, high functioning alcoholism | WORD COUNT: 18.3k lmaoooo

| CHAPTER SUMMARY: You try to make the best of the "holiday season," and Joel tries to piece together the secret you've been keeping from him.

The shopping centers around town had all hung their plastic wreaths with bows and fake candles from the light poles that lined the increasingly crowded lots. You never understood why the accompanying flags said Happy Holidays! or Season’s Greetings! when all the decorations were clearly Christmas themed. No matter what anyone celebrated, you dreaded this time of year.

The disappointment was obvious when you were a kid and Santa didn’t come some years because you’d “ been too naughty.” You’d get a few meager gifts from your parents that were clearly an afterthought, but you were always left with the failure and profound sense of shame of not being good enough. Of not having tried hard enough. Of not proving yourself. Of not wanting it badly enough.

By the time you were a teenager, you reasoned that those years where Santa didn’t visit were probably due to the volatile, strange relationship your parents had with each other and with money. Your dad had always brought home enough pay to afford the basics and then some, always offering the allure of a financial safety net for your mom, never having to worry about missing a payment on something or not being able to afford what the neighbors could afford. He was outraged when she took up part-time work, thundering about how it belittled him and isn’t what I make good enough for you?

Your mom made awful choices, often one after the other, but you knew she couldn’t have chosen to love your dad. Who on earth would choose to love someone with such a massive inferiority complex? Someone who needed to keep you under his thumb in case his ego needed a boost or his temper needed an outlet? Someone who kept you strung along just enough to make you see what things could be – dangling the carrot on a stick – just to yank it from you because you weren’t worthy of it yet.

It was your dad’s ego and need for validation that led him to cheat on your mom. That was your best guess, anyway. It’s not like the family sat down to talk about it ever. Everyone knew, but no one was allowed to speak on it. Unless of course it was your parents screaming at each other in the middle of the night, accusations and confessions flying.

One of the times your mom had gotten it the worst from your dad is when he’d discovered her fooling around with somebody at her part-time job. After he made sure her body wouldn’t ever move again without a reminder of him, he made her quit and sign over all her remaining pay to his private account. It was probably some sort of punishment for her hard earned money to go into his personal, private account. What’s mine is mine, and what’s yours is mine.

It never stopped her from lashing out at him, though. She always finagled her way into an account or stealing a card before blowing a bunch of money on something insignificant just to spite him. You never understood why sometimes she’d cower from him and other times openly defy him. They’d hit each other and then sometimes he’d just hit her. He always hit Calum, though.

When your mom couldn’t disrupt that dynamic, she started leaving the house more often. If she couldn’t stop it, then she didn’t want to be around to see it. The anger you carry for that still bubbles up every now and then, often when it’s least convenient to address. You and Calum were never given the option of leaving.

You were both expected to fall in line with whatever whims were being had by whichever emotionally stunted adult was home at the time. You were both expected to tune into the mood of the household and adjust yourselves accordingly.

It took a long time after your mom left for you to realize why your dad chose Calum as his main target: he was the next in line that posed an inevitable threat to his authority.

Calum had always leaned more towards the scrawny side, but a few growth spurts after age 12 had bulked him up and upped his height significantly. You can still vividly remember the first time it clicked for them both that Calum was finally a physical match for your dad. They were arguing about Calum’s grades, as if the horrible stress of your mom leaving on top of the already shitty home environment weren’t a clear source for the poor academic performance.

When your dad shoved him, he shoved back. Hard. Hard enough that your dad stumbled backwards into the wall and cracked some of it with his shoulder. The tense silence that followed felt like it went on forever. You watched on in horror, anchored to the spot and shaking. It felt far-fetched and perfectly reasonable all at once when you briefly feared that your dad might kill him.

Before he could say or do anything, Calum scurried off to his room and slammed the door shut. Your dad rounded on you and slapped you clear across the face for “just standing there watching it all.” For bearing witness to the shame of him being challenged and bested. You’d automatically apologized and ran to your room.

You didn’t have fun family holiday traditions like everyone else seemed to. You didn’t have fond memories of a cherished gift. Your parents didn’t have funny stories about the mayhem of beating out other parents to snag the hottest toy of the season for their kid. You didn’t have a favorite holiday movie. You didn’t have fun, quirky stockings or personalized ornaments or special recipes that were only brought out this time of year.

Your distaste for the holidays had grown into an outright dislike for them altogether. If it wasn’t the stress of your parents fighting or whether or not Santa would deem you a bad kid again this year or having to hear all your classmates buzzing with the excitement over break once school started back up, it was the glaring truth that you were different and had to hide because of it.

Everything was a lie. Everything was a carefully concocted and delivered story. To avoid prying questions. To ignore the hurt of what you lacked. To keep anyone from finding out about your home life and getting you and Calum separated.

You tried not to stew in it. You tried not to rain on everyone else’s parade. It wasn’t their fault you’d grown up like that, and it wasn’t your right to be angry with them because they hadn’t. Still, this was your first Christmas without Calum home. Thanksgiving had been more manageable since everyone treated it as a single day of celebration – a half week at most. But come December, it was just a month long barrage. Twenty five days straight of reminders that you were alone. You hated it.

You made sure to keep that to yourself, though. Joel had sheepishly kept the radio on a holiday station, mumbling something about how Sarah would always make him leave it on. You didn’t tease him over it, didn’t mention the obvious fact that he seemed to like the music, too, but wasn’t sure how to acknowledge it without getting grief for it. Tommy for sure would say something just to get a rise out of him. You wonder what they were like as kids at Christmastime.

You jostle in your seat as Joel takes a particularly sharp turn. The usual shopping center route he took as an office cut through was busier with cars and people with all the holidays looming. You cherish the extra 3 or 4 minutes of alone time this alternate route gives you.

It’s only a few days into the month when he strikes up a conversation about getting gifts early so he’s not scrambling at the last minute. He tells you all about how he should know better by now and how many years he spent rushing around at the last minute with Tommy sat up at the house while Sarah slept just so he could try to get his hands on what she’d asked Santa for.

You think to yourself how you wish you knew what to get him for a gift. Not that you’d do it. You barely have any money, and you don’t even know what he’d like. Plus, it’d probably be rude or look weird to not also get Tommy something. At worst, you’d get Joel something you could actually afford, and it would just be a cheap gift no matter what. You’re also not well-versed in Christmas gift exchanges considering your upbringing. It’s probably best to just avoid it altogether at this point in your life.

“You know, you could use a vacation day if you wanted. Or even a half day if you don’t need the whole day.”

You pivot in your seat from where you’d been gazing out the window at all the random, tacky decorations that popped up seemingly overnight. Calum would’ve laughed at them with you if he were here. “What?”

“Yeah, you can use some time off. You’ve already earned some.”

You blink a few times and try to figure out what he means by bringing this up. Did he not need you as much? Were you too unproductive to keep around? Was he trying to let you down easy while he told you the job wasn’t yours anymore?

“I don’t want a day off.”

“Oh. Okay. It’s nothin–”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Huh?” He tilts his head to meet your eye. He looks just as confused as you feel.

“If I made it seem like I don’t want this job, I do. I really do. And-And I can work harder, too. I can take more hours. I can take on more responsibility.” It all comes spilling out of you in a frantic rush. Whatever he needed to hear so that you didn’t lose this job. So you didn’t lose Joel.

“Sweetie, I just meant if you had Christmas shoppin’ or somethin’ like that. You could use a vacation day instead of fightin’ off the crowds on the weekends.”

Oh. Of course that’s what he meant. And of course it hadn’t occurred to you because you don’t have anyone to get gifts for. The lead brick of embarrassment knocks around your head and leaves little bruises of self-doubt at every point of contact. You could’ve just thought about it for two seconds instead of making a fool of yourself.

“You know,” he starts gently and sounds a lot like he’s choosing his words carefully. “You’re a hard worker. And a good person. And there’s nothin’ wrong with me recognizing that – or anybody else. Even you.”

Your throat feels tight and prickly, and your nose feels suspiciously like it wants to start dripping warm with sentiment. This is already embarrassing enough without you sniffling and getting all bleary eyed. You want to clam up and bury it all deep until you can act like a normal person again. But something about Joel’s earnestness and kindness pulls at the loose thread that’s keeping you from unraveling altogether.

“I thought you were firing me,” you blurt out.

Apparently this is outlandish enough that Joel has to pull over for a moment to digest it. “What in the world?! Why would I fire you?!” He doesn’t sound mad, just genuinely perplexed. “Look, if I’m givin’ you that impression, you gotta tell me because that is NOT what I wanna portray here.”

“I-It’s not you,” you assert. “I just–I get in my head sometimes.”

He softens at that and reaches out for your hand. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

You grab onto his hand but can’t meet his eye, choosing to look out the window again instead. “This job–you–This job means a lot to me, and I just get scared sometimes of losing something that makes me happy.”

You feel the dip of his weight bow the bench seat as he scoots across it to nestle closer to you. You practically melt on the spot when he wraps his free arm around you. “Hey, you ain’t losin’ this, okay? I don’t want you worryin’ about that.”

You shake your head side to side like you’re trying to dispel all the disorienting thoughts. “Sometimes I just feel like I don’t do enough, like I don’t—I dunno, like I have to keep showing that I’m useful or something. It’s like that guy who has to push the rock up the hill, and it just keeps rolling down.” You fix your eyes on a spot in the distance to keep yourself distracted enough to keep talking. “I feel like it’s gonna crush me one of these days,” you confide in a strangled whisper.

You don’t protest when Joel wraps his other arm around you and pulls you snug against him. It’s an awkward sort of embrace in the confines of the truck, and your tired, pliant body isn’t helping things much.

“Sweetheart, what’s goin’ on?”

It’s not a demanding question at all, but it certainly feels that way with how trapped you are in your own secrets. Joel couldn’t possibly know what he’s asking you to divulge.

“It’s my dad,” you confess quietly.

You feel Joel’s body stiffen against you. How much had he already pieced together? You couldn’t tell him like this. He didn’t deserve to have this shoved onto his plate. He’d just been so happy talking to you about all his good memories from this time of year, and you’d gone and ruined it like you always do. You backtrack a little. A half-truth. A half-lie.

“Ever since Calum left, it’s just been harder, you know?”

His body relaxes slightly. “Your brother? Is that why you’ve been on edge? And your dad?”

You clock the relief in his voice. He must’ve been thinking it was something worse. He must’ve been too close to realizing the truth.

“I miss him,” you sniff. “I know him and my dad were never going to get along, but I just wish somehow he could’ve stayed.”

He holds you close, and you angle yourself to fit right into the crook of him. You’ll allow yourself this comfort, just this once. You know from now on you’re going to have to keep a tighter lock on things. This wasn’t anyone’s problem but your own.

“He didn’t make it home for Thanksgiving?”

You shake your head against his shoulder. “No. Probably for the best, though. I always just end up getting caught up in the middle of them.”

“That sounds really hard.”

When you let out a shaky breath in reply, Joel rubs your back and shushes against your temple. “You been dealin’ with this by yourself?” He doesn’t wait for your response. He already knows. “You shoulda come to me, sweetheart. You could’ve, you know?”

“I know,” you sniff.

He pulls back just enough to see your face.

“You come to me if you have somethin’ you wanna talk about, okay? No judgment here. Hell, I won’t even offer advice or say anything if you don’t want. I can just listen if that’s what you need.”

Your bottom lip quivers, and you tug it into your teeth to keep it still. You nod and drift into another hug from Joel.

He’d recognized the shift in you. Something had been even more off since Thanksgiving. You’d said it was a nice day, just a lowkey event. As always, there was the presence of something unspoken just in the periphery of the conversation, but Joel knew better than to ask or to push you for more information. He’d been worried about your notably quieter and somber mood, though. He found himself worrying about you a lot these days. He got the distinct feeling you needed something – someone, maybe – and it drove him crazy that he couldn’t seem to flush the answer out of the reeds.

And then finally, finally, you’d said something that made things clearer. Your brother up and leaving all those months ago was the missing piece. It made so much more sense now. Your dad’s prickly, on edge demeanor. His overbearing worrying about your comings and goings. Maybe the whole bank account thing was just him trying to hold onto the one kid he still had left at home. It wasn’t the healthiest approach, but Joel couldn’t really blame a parent for doing anything in their power to keep their kid in their life. The misdirected upset at you was still irksome, though. You didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of your dad’s unresolved issues about your brother leaving.

Joel painstakingly replayed the conversation over and over again in his head, trying to piece together all the crumbs of information you’d left here and there.

You and your brother got along well enough that his absence weighed heavily on you.

He and your dad didn’t get along at all.

You were always caught in the middle of it.

Your brother left because he and your dad couldn’t work things out.

Did you blame yourself for not being able to keep their relationship intact? Did they still put you in the middle or make you choose sides? Were you still acting as referee to their disagreement?

As many questions as your admission had answered, many more took their place.

“You okay with your bonus bein’ in cash, too?”

He always asked even though he knew the answer by this point. You wonder if he wanted you to say no and just get paid like everyone else did. “Oh, I didn’t know I was getting a bonus.”

“You’re an employee, aren’t ya? Employees get a holiday bonus.” He says it like it’s obvious, and for once you appreciate the finality of the conversation. You didn’t have to wrestle with yourself over whether or not you deserved it because Joel and Tommy were going to give it to you regardless, just like every other employee.

“Thank you,” you say politely in a small voice.

He hums in reply and looks over at you. His jaw slides back and forth a few times in thought before his eyes are on the road again.

“You did good this mornin’.”

You snort and roll your eyes, face angled at him to emphasize your amusement. “I didn’t even do anything. Like, a few laps in a completely empty parking lot isn’t really anything to write home about.”

He smiles softly. “Progress is progress, ain’t it?” he contends. “One successful driving lesson under your belt is plenty enough to celebrate as far as I’m concerned.”

Your cheeks warm at his praise and insistence that something you did deserved to be acknowledged and commended. “I dunno, I think my instructor is a bit of a softie,” you tease. “Feel like I could’ve driven his truck straight into a ditch and he still would’ve found something nice to say.”

Joel chuckles and shakes his head. “Now I don’t know about that one, ya little weasel.”

“Weasel?!” you laugh. “Okay, that’s a new one.”

He laughs louder now and fake pinches your side. “Well it’s the first time you’ve suggested driving my truck into a ditch and gettin’ away with it. Had to bring out the big guns on that one.”

You giggle and jerk out of his reach when he goes to fake pinch you again. “Surprised you didn’t put some weird southern spin on it like usual. ‘Cheesy wheezy weasel goober doober’ or some shit,” you laugh. “Constantly making up words. Real country bumpkin shit, Joel.”

He breathes out a laugh and rolls his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “What am I gonna do with you, huh?”

“I dunno, Goober Doober. What am I gonna do with you?”

“If I’m Goober Doober, you’re Plucky Duck,” he challenges.

You both burst into a fit of cackles at the ridiculous nickname threats. The laughter dies down eventually, and the usually unbearable lilt of Judy Garland crooning from now on, our troubles will be miles away in the background feels almost cozy in the confines of the truck.

For once, when she serenades with through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow, you aren’t thinking about your broken family, your broken home, and all the broken, splintered things that could’ve been. You’re thinking about Joel and all the overwhelming urges to be closer to him and keep him with you as long as possible.

The pull of whatever this is that you share is undeniable. Your fingers reach out to him almost without your permission, body reacting and acting in spite of your brain trying to keep things rooted in professional, neutral territory. Your retaliatory pinch ends up as more of a greedy grab to his soft middle.

“Goob,” you huff.

“Pluck,” he shoots back as he grabs your hand.

You pull it back slowly and place both hands in your lap, smiling like an idiot still. Your brain has entered the picture again and is furious with your autopilot heart for constantly pushing the boundaries. The click of Joel’s blinker and the subsequent honk from another car wrench you from your self-chiding.

He jerks the truck back into the lane before laying on his horn and yelling, “Jackass!”

Your hand grips your chest from where it flew up in fright from the sudden maneuver. “Jesus christ! Where’d that guy come from!?”

“Was speedin’ over that hill back there. Can’t see what’s past it until you’re already on top of it. S’why the speed limit changes about four times on this stupid road,” he grumbles. “Hate takin’ it because of that very reason. Fuckin’ hardware store is over this way, though.”

“Fuck I thought he was gonna hit us!”

“Just about did. Fuckin’ idiot drivers. Honked at me like it’s my fault he ain’t followin’ the signs,” he huffs. He glances over at you, arm still clutched across your chest. “You okay?”

You nod and adjust in your seat. “Yeah, yeah I’m okay. Just scared me a little. Are you okay?”

“I’m good, sweetie.”

It’s a quieter drive to the hardware store where Joel checks on you one more time before leaving the engine running for you while he pops inside for a minute. “Just gotta grab another set of these brackets real quick.”

You sit patiently and listen to the not-so-grating-anymore Christmas music that plays in a low hum on the radio. A lively rendition of Jingle Bells spurs a completely forgotten memory of the year Calum sang the Batman parody version of it over and over again until you were both just about peeing your pants trying to keep your laughter down. You grin and mumble-sing what you can until it all comes back to you.

Jingle bells Batman smells Robin laid an egg The Batmobile lost a wheel And The Joker got away

You giggle and scoot closer to the driver’s side to turn the radio up more. Maybe you did have a happy holiday memory after all.

The nostalgia is cut short when the driver’s door flies open to reveal a surly looking man shooting daggers at you. You scream and reach to shut the door, but he hops onto the truck step and blocks you. He crowds into the frame of the door, not quite entering the truck, but effectively blocking a main exit. You start to scramble for the passenger side but think Joel’s truck getting stolen would be worse than you getting hurt by some psycho. You inch backwards and put your hands up in a placating show of submission.

“Hey, you fuckin’ bitch! You almost made us wreck back there!” he shouts. It’s so much louder in the cabin of the truck.

You shake your head, eyes bugging out wildly at the baffling charge.

“Back on Beaufort? Just over the hill? You’re really gonna act like you didn’t almost make me hit you when you came into my lane?!” he seethes.

It dawns on you that this is the driver of the car that had come hurtling over the hill and honked at Joel a few minutes ago. You hadn’t even noticed him going this same direction. Had he followed you? Obviously not too closely otherwise he would’ve seen that it was Joel who’d gotten out of the driver’s side. Unsure of what to do, you go with your tried and true default: apologize even though you hadn’t done anything wrong.

“I-I’m sorry,” you warble.

“Sorry? Oh, you’re SORRY? Well I guess that fixes everything, huh?” he barks. “Sorry ain’t gonna fix all of us getting pancaked in a pileup just because some girl thinks she can run around in a big pick up truck and keep up with the guys. You need to learn to stay in your fuckin’ lane – literally and figuratively!”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat in a quieter voice.

He leans into the truck and demands to see your ID card and insurance so he can “make a report.” You don’t even know what that means, but it doesn’t sound good.

“Please, I’m really sorry!”

He yells again, and you flinch. Had this been 5 seconds or 5 minutes? It was all a blur. The adrenaline is coursing through you and making it hard to hear over the pounding in your ears. He looks at you expectantly. He must’ve asked a question and you missed it. You shake your head, tears welling up in your eyes. He laughs, completely devoid of amusement, and shoves a pointed finger in your face. You don’t even hear what he’s screaming at you. You can just make out the furious twitch and pull of his expression, spit flying as he berates you.

And then, he’s gone. Like a giant cane pulling an act off stage, he launches backwards and out of the truck. You shrink onto the floor of the passenger seat and huddle down. The shrill whistle in your ear eases up, and you hear Joel shouting something. There’s someone else shouting, too, but it sounds pained and pitched. Surely that wasn’t the same man who’d just been in the doorframe screaming at you. It sounded so distressed. The loud roar of an engine and then tires peeling against concrete erupt from somewhere behind the truck. It’s quieter again.

The passenger door swings open to reveal a panting, panicked Joel. His eyes lock on yours, and you’re no sooner scrambling up to grab hold of him with your entire body. His arms wrap tight around you as you hitch yourself to him, clawing and hooking your limbs around his shoulders and hips.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, I’m right here,” he says over and over. You slump into him, your body melding against his however gravity sees fit, and breathe in the grounding scent of him. His arm is braced against your back and locking you against him. He shuffles forward to rest you on the edge of the seat so he can look you over for any signs of injury. “Did he touch you? Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head side to side, fat tears spilling over with the movement, and pull a shuddering inhale that catches a few times before it takes. “No, h-he was just p-pointing in my face and yell-yelling.”

“Fuckin’ monster,” he hisses under his breath.

A few beats pass as you steady yourself. The abrupt hostility of it was most upsetting, and you tell yourself over and over again in your head that the threat has passed. Joel switches between looking you over for injuries and pulling you against him and rubbing your back.

“And to a fuckin’ woman, too. Goddamn coward ain’t no man.”

Joel’s unwavering, southern gentleman trope come to life commentary makes you giggle despite the circumstances. It catches him off guard as much as it does you. You sniff and brush your arm across your eyes. “Just, like… s-something about you being equally offended that he did th-that but also that he d-did it to a wom-woman is funny to me. S-Sorry.”

Your lopsided smile makes the drying tracks of your tears crinkle on your skin. Joel’s head inches back a little, bewildered and amused at the sharp turn in mood, and smiles a laugh. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m-I’m okay, I think. Just shook me up a little,” you say in a firmer tone.

He sizes you up for a moment and nods, satisfied with whatever clarifying bit of information he’d pulled from your demeanor. “I mean, it is worse that he’s a man doin’ that to a lady,” he emphasizes as though you weren’t entirely understanding where he was coming from.

You close your eyes and grin. “Joel, you’re just, like, the epitome of southern gentleman no matter what. It just struck me as funny. That’s all I meant.”

“I don’t think women are inferior,” he insists with a pleading look in his eye.

“No, I know that. Look, you– this conversation is going sideways. I know you don’t. I-I like how you are with m–how you are with women,” you quickly correct.

He smiles tenderly at the quick switch, obviously catching your original, unfiltered thought. “Just think some things should be taken care of, is all. Nothin’ manly about treatin’ a lady bad. Drives me up a fuckin’ wall.”

You sniff and hug yourself a little closer as the adrenaline starts to fade. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to th—”

“I know. I want to,” you interject. “So, thank you.”

He sighs and rubs a few circles on your knee where it’s bent against the edge of the seat. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Anytime. M’just sorry it happened at all.”

“Not your fault.” You shrug and poke at the side of his thigh as he drifts closer to you again. “Besides, you showed up in time. You came to my rescue, right?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He peers off at nothing in particular in the distance before fixing you with an earnest look. “You know if you needed somebody to show up for you, I’d show up for you. Right?”

You swallow down the wave of warmth budding from your chest and nod. “Yes.”

“Good. ‘Cause I need to know you understand that.”

“I do.”

He considers you again like he’s making sure you’re not just saying all this to appease him. He looks over his shoulder and leans back. “Alright, you ready to get outta here?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

He makes sure you’re situated in your seat and shuts the door for you before climbing into the driver side and pulling out of the lot.

It made him sick to his stomach every time he thought about how frightened you’d been. You were jumpy in the truck for a few days after but had settled down since. He hated to think what could’ve happened to you if he hadn’t been walking out at that moment. It makes his chest tight to imagine if he’d decided to just walk around the store for a minute to look for something else rather than just going in to pick up what he needed and heading right back out like he had.

He’s sure it was driving you crazy to have him constantly checking in on you, but he couldn’t help it. He had to know you were alright. He hadn’t planned on telling you that he’d always show up for you, but it was so compelling in the moment he couldn’t stop himself. You looked like you believed him. God, he needed you to believe him. To understand how fucking deep this went because he was awash in all of it without any understanding of how it’d happened so fast.

He hadn’t known you long enough to justify this sense of duty and devotion he had for you. This innate need to protect and care for you. You were plenty grown enough to take care of yourself, and you didn’t need some old man inserting himself into your life. But he just couldn’t stop.

At first he told himself he was simply showing you gratitude for helping out in the work bind Jenn had left Miller Contracting in. But you’d been around for a few months now, and his sustained level of interest and appreciation felt less and less appropriate for somebody just showing thanks to a new employee who’d stepped up when the company needed it.

He was wrestling with himself even now as his hand hovered over the send button. He shouldn’t be texting you like this. He shouldn’t be pushing for more than what was necessary for work. Even Tommy had picked up on it and given him a little talk about “just being careful with it” as if Joel was some idiot teenager who let his dick do all the thinking.

Joel hated it even more because Tommy was justified with everything he’d said. How you were younger – a lot younger than Joel. How things were weird because he was the boss and you were under him. How even if everything was above board and two consenting adults were venturing into something romantic, there was still the optics of “fucking the secretary.” Joel had winced when Tommy put it in those terms, but he understood why he’d phrased it so harshly.

There were so many things that screamed this isn’t smart, but Joel couldn’t ever find anything to convince himself to turn away from you. It felt like he was hurtling towards the sun and accepting the burn if it meant a moment of warmth.

He sighs and hits send. Your text bubble pops up almost immediately.

Joel: What would it take to convince you to help me wrap these Christmas presents?

You: idk how big are the gifts

Joel: Normal sized? I dunno. There’s hot chocolate in it for you.

You: do you even have hot chocolate lol

Joel: I could if that’s what it would take to convince you.

You: haha you’re actually so ridiculous You: be there in a min

And there it was. The reason he couldn’t stop himself. You gravitated to him, too. He knew you felt it, too. He didn’t know if you felt it as deeply as he did, but there was no denying it existed for both sides. And as much as you liked to poke fun at his traditional southern gentleman tendencies, you sure seemed okay with being looked after that way.

He hoped you understood where it came from. It wasn’t ever about sticking to gender norms or playing a part. It was just expressing an intention of care and devotion to someone that deserved it, to honor a beautiful, strong woman with the sort of reverence she inherently deserved.

At least, that’s how he’d been raised. It was hard to shake when it felt so good to take care of somebody, to offer protection and something solid and strong to someone who maybe wanted to lay their defenses down for a little while. To be the safe space for someone to not have to keep those walls up all the time. And in return let him be soft and attentive and competent and strong.

It felt good to be someone a woman could trust, especially in a world as fucked as this one. And when it was more than just being friends, it felt special to be that sort of man for a woman in all those ways, too.

He waits by the window for you like some sort of creep, unable to miss out on the way you glide up to his house on that old bike of yours. He should really get you a new one. He wonders how much of a fuss you’d make over it before just accepting the gift. He meets you at the door and doesn’t even chastise himself over appearing too eager to see you again after wishing you a goodbye and a good weekend not even 20 hours ago.

“Hey, Goob,” you greet with a wry smile.

“Pluck,” he greets back with matched energy.

His heart beats faster and swells with joy when you let yourself in. You felt comfortable here. You felt comfortable with him. An odd sense of pride takes root in him knowing you feel safe with him and recognize even in a subconscious way that you belong here with him. Together.

He grips his thigh from the inside of his jean pocket in an effort to keep his mind from wandering into such ridiculous avenues. He had no business with those sorts of possessive feelings on top of everything else he felt for you. You said something to him, but he had to ask you to repeat it because he was so fucking distracted.

“I said, were you just planning on kicking back and watching TV while I did all the wrapping?”

You point to the TV playing some random, old Christmas movie he can’t even remember the name of. “Oh, no. Just had that on. Was too quiet around here, you know? Good to have some noise.”

Why was he so flustered today? Where had his cool, collected back and forth with you gone? It was like this attraction to you was making his brain rot with it the longer he held it in.

You seem almost flattered that you being here was helping it not be so quiet, like you felt honored in some strange way that you were being asked to be present and just exist as yourself in a space. That impression is further enforced when he asks about what sort of movies or shows you’d like to watch instead.

“Oh, I don’t really watch too much stuff, honestly.” You lift and sag your shoulders so loosely it’s obvious you’re trying to be flippant about it. “My dad sort of prefers the quiet. Work gets him stressed or whatever. Just likes things to be quiet unless he’s got something on.”

“You don’t watch anything together? Y’all don’t like the same stuff?”

“Uh, yeah. I guess we just like different stuff.” It’s a stiff delivery, and you busy yourself with searching for the tape and scissors in the box of wrapping supplies Joel had brought down. He hadn’t even really intended for you to wrap anything. He would’ve been happy to just sit on the couch together and shoot the shit over some schmaltzy Christmas classic in the background. You seemed like you invited the distraction of it, though – something to blame for your diverted attention away from the curious things you were sharing about your homelife.

“Well, d’ya think you’d like watchin’ more movies? Or TV or whatever?”

He can’t ask the things he really wants to, like why on earth you aren’t allowed to watch the TV in your own damn house or why you have to exist in silence just because your dad calls for it. If he ever tried to pull that with Sarah, she’d laugh in his face and tell him to get a grip.

“I dunno. Maybe. Probably.” You sit for a moment and pick at the ribbons. “Yeah. I think it could be nice.”

He wants things to be nice for you, and he wants to be the one to make them happen. It should be done right. You deserve that much. He can do things right for you. He can do right by you.

Christmas morning is just like any other morning, except it’s a weekday and you don’t get to see Joel. Not a great start. Then of course your dad had sprung the news on you yesterday that Denise and her two young kids were going to be coming over, so the house needed to be “presentable.” He’d been spending more and more time with them, and you could only imagine the sort of lines he was feeding her. It wouldn’t be any use trying to warn her about his true colors, though. She was decidedly frosty towards you for some reason. You didn’t much care to have a relationship with her or her kids, anyway.

Your dad is awake and dressed in a nice sweater, mulling around the kitchen and straightening things that didn’t need it. “You look nice,” you offer up in a show of keeping the peace for the day.

His eyes glide over to you and give you a once over. “Wish I could say the same. Can’t you put something else on?” His nose wrinkles at your sweats and tshirt.

“I’m still in pajamas, dad. I’m gonna change,” you explain.

He snorts and goes back to his pointless tidying. “Maybe it should be a bit of a wakeup call that I can’t tell the difference between your pajamas and your regular clothes.”

You don’t rise to the bait. “Maybe.”

You just shrug your shoulders and mosey towards the fridge to look for something to nibble on before you have to fake your way through the day. You eye your dad’s perfunctory inspection and correction of your work from yesterday and bite back the nasty comment you wish you were brave enough to make. He’d of course been missing the entire afternoon as you swept and scrubbed and cleaned. All to put on some show for his girlfriend and her kids.

Deciding it might be best to know what the schedule was for the day so you could play your part, you ask if there’s any sort of itinerary. He must have some nervous energy he’s looking for an excuse to take out on you because he scoffs and throws a demeaning scowl in your direction. “What do you think they’re coming over to do? What do people do on Christmas, genius?”

You once again swallow down the urge to scream in his face. How were you supposed to know what people were “supposed to do” on Christmas when you’d never had a “normal” one in your entire life? Keeping your calm as you chew a small bite of food, you finish and deliver a neutral response. “Unwrap gifts? Eat something?”

“Always knew you were brilliant,” he snorts sarcastically. It’s derisive and upsetting – just as he intended.

You wander into the living room and stop in your tracks when you see the shiny pile of presents under the sparsely decorated tree. You scold yourself for the flash of hope that tears through you, thinking and wishing that maybe there was something under there for you. But you hadn’t gotten your dad anything. What if he’d gotten you something, but you didn’t get him anything? He’d be upset, wouldn’t he? That would be selfish. Even though you weren’t supposed to exchange gifts. That just wasn’t something your family did.

“Don’t touch them,” he snips from behind you. You jump, unaware that he’d followed you. “Don’t want you getting crumbs and fingerprints all over them.”

The subtext there was of course that these gifts were not intended for you. Your heart sinks, and you want to admonish yourself for even being stupid enough to hope for a moment that anything your dad put effort into would ever be for you.

Something spiteful and angry brews in your stomach. All those sparkling, shiny gifts for two kids that weren’t even his. Hell, they weren’t even his step-children. You and Calum had never had a Christmas that looked like this. Your bitterness bubbles over when you consider that your dad never had a reason to lovebomb you both when you were already stuck with him anyway.

“Lots of presents for two kids,” you remark before you can talk yourself out of it. It’s a mistake to voice anything akin to negativity, though. You should know better by now, but the hurt of having to watch two other children live out the sort of childhood you’d never had was just too much.

“They’re good kids,” he snipes back pointedly. “And you better not say a fucking thing, either. I already told Denise we don’t exchange gifts like that, so nobody is gonna listen to your little pity party over no gifts. Got a damn roof over your head for free and you still find something to bitch about.”

“I wasn’t complaining! I was just saying it looked like a lot!”

“You need to quit running that mouth of yours, little girl,” he warns.

“Dad, I’m trying to say that if you got them more than Denise got them, it might make her feel bad,” you lie and clarify in an attempt to smooth things over.

He fixes you with a nasty smile and gestures to the gifts. “Guess what, genius? They’re from me AND Denise. Christ, you’re a real fuckin’ piece of work, you know that?”

Your cheeks heat with embarrassment. There’s no way you would’ve known that, but you still somehow feel stupid anyway. The embarrassment quickly bleeds into resentment. “So, what? I’m supposed to sit here and watch two kids I don’t even know open gifts from people that aren’t me? That’s so weird, dad. Come on,” you huff.

You know this surge of indignation is only going to land you in hot water, but you can’t seem to stop your mouth from running a mile a minute. Perhaps you were bolstered by the fact that somewhere in your subconscious you knew he wouldn’t do anything - not today, at least - with their impending arrival. A wrecked house and a wounded daughter weren’t exactly what you wanted when you were trying to sell a fairytale to some woman.

“They’re going to be here within the hour. You have 20 minutes to get the fuck out of the house and stay gone until I tell you that you can come home. Do you understand?”

“What?! It’s Christmas! Everywhere is closed! Where am I supposed to go for half the day?!” you stammer

“That’s for you to figure out.”

“I’ll stay in my room, okay? I’ll shut the door, and they won’t even know that I’m—”

“No. You should’ve thought about that before being disrespectful and showing how fucking selfish you really are. You were too busy running your mouth instead of rubbing two brain cells you’ve got left in that heard of yours together to form a singular, smart choice. All I know is that I’m not gonna have you ruining this just like you ruin everything else. Get your shit and get out.”

He turns on his heel and stomps back to the kitchen. You scramble to your room to collect your wallet, your phones, your keys, a hoodie…. You grab whatever you think you might need that doesn’t weigh your backpack down too much.

You change into whatever clean pair of jeans and t-shirt you can scrounge up. You’re out the back door before your dad decides you shouldn’t come back until tomorrow or some other harsher punishment.

You don’t know where to go except for the office, and the entire bike ride there gives your mind nothing but time to whip itself into even more of a frenzy. Why couldn’t you just shut up this morning? Why did you let yourself be so surprised over his shitty attitude and hurtful words? Why hadn’t you just played along and kept the peace?

Your thoughts are a full-blown whirlwind by the time you get to the office. You punch in the wrong code at first and set off the alarm because of course you do. A new wave of panic slams into you when you remember that the system sends alerts to Joel’s phone and will call him to verify a false alarm. You get it together long enough to push in the right passcode, but you aren’t sure if the alert has already gone to Joel’s phone. You scurry inside and fish your work phone from your bag.

You: hey if you get an alert about the security system at the office it’s just me 🤦‍♀️ You: punched in the wrong code like an idiot You: merry xmas 😬

Your stomach drops when his contact picture takes up the whole screen.

“Hi, I’m sorry,” you groan.

“The hell are you doin’ up at the office? How the hell’d you even get there?” He sounds concerned and befuddled at the odd situation.

Your brain is fried from everything that’s already transpired thus far today, and you contrive some story about forgetting a gift at the office and trying to sneak out of the house and grab it real quick before anybody noticed you were missing.

“You biked all the way up there?” he sputters. “You shoulda called me, sweetheart. I woulda drove you!”

“Joel, it’s Christmas. I’m sure you’ve got stuff going on with your family just like I do with mine,” you lie.

“Not until later, but that don’t matter anyway. What’re you doin’ takin’ your bike that far? That’s not safe.” He sounds like he’s actually upset with you for once, and you can’t take it. Not today.

“Look, I’m extra careful, okay? Besides, I’m just popping in to get the gift and heading back out. It’s a quick trip.”

You hear keys jangling and the scoot of something against hardwood over the receiver. “You stay put. I’m comin’ to get you.”

“Nope, already on my way back out,” you lie again. “Seriously, it’s no big deal. I promise I’ll call you the next time, alright?” He doesn’t respond, and bile starts to lick up your throat. “Joel, can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I heard you. I’m just ignorin’ that ridiculous statement like I’m gonna let you bike all the way back home.”

“Joel, I’m in a rush! I gotta get this gift back home, alright? I’ve already got everything packed up and am heading out now. I appreciate the offer and everything, but I gotta go,” you assert in as firm a voice as you can manage. Your hands are shaking with the effort of keeping your nerves in check.

He grumbles something that doesn’t sound much like he approves before speaking clearly again. “Fine. You better text me when you get home safely, you hear me? I mean it. The second you get home.”

You hold back a sigh of relief and promise to text him when you get home. You practically crumple to the floor when the call ends, anxiety overwrought and mind going so fast it might as well be empty. You estimate how long it would take to bike home and text Joel once the window closes.

You: made it home You: sorry again about the alarm

Joel: It’s fine. Glad you made it home safely. Please don’t ever do that again! Call me next time!

You: ok ok I won’t! 😳

Joel: Good. See you in a couple of days. Joel: Merry Christmas, Pluck. Joel: 💚❤️

You: happy xmas Goob ❤️

Your limbs feel like they’re strapped to concrete blocks as you plod towards the back of the building to Joel’s office. His jacket hangs from the hook just inside the doorway. You pull it down and take it with you as you cuddle up in one of his plushier chairs. You bury your face in the smell of him until you’re able to drift off and forget about your life for a little while.

Sleep had been elusive over the past couple of nights, most hours spent tossing and turning with the events of Christmas playing on loop in your head. It was the cherry on top of the shit sundae to come home later that evening and learn that your dad had proposed to Denise with a big, flashy ring. Just another way of making it clear that you weren’t worthy of his resources and attention and that he was steadily building a new life. A life without you. A life that left you behind, just like everyone else always did.

You push away the nagging thought that money from your account was put towards the ring as you sit waiting for Joel to pick you up. You look awful, no doubt about it. He wouldn’t say anything, but you were sure he’d notice.

You’d never felt like it was work to be around Joel, but keeping all of these disruptive changes to yourself felt like a unique sort of agony. He grew more attuned to your moods and feelings the more time you spent together, and, while that had once felt like a breath of fresh air to not have to explain every single little thing to someone for once, it now feels like a cloud over your head that you have to duck to avoid.

His truck rumbles up the driveway and comes to a stop. He’s out the door and opening yours before you make it down the front steps. You misjudge his body language and go in for a hug. It’s clear you’d misread it with all your inner thoughts flying every which way when he lets out a surprised little exhale. He quickly recovers, though, and wraps his arms around you with a quick, smoothing pass of his palm against your back. It’s like your subconscious needed this, needed the closeness and stability of him, and puppetted you into his broad, solid frame.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he hums.

“Morning.” You step back and rub a nervous hand along the nape of your neck and climb into the truck.

His mood feels buoyant and light, like the interior of the truck is five times bigger just from trying to contain such a vibrant air in such a small space. You latch onto it and siphon as much as you can into your own mood.

“So, did ya get anything good?” he asks, eyes glittery with something eager.

“Oh, mostly gift cards,” you bluff. “I’m sort of hard to buy for I guess.”

His eyes slide over to you in a dubious slant, but he doesn’t comment. “Hm, so whatcha gonna get yourself?”

You weren’t expecting the question, and it makes you hesitate. “Oh. Um. Not sure yet.”

“Hm.”

“Um, did you get anything good?”

“S’gonna sound cheesy, but the best thing I got was just gettin’ to spend some down time with family. Got to see Sarah and Ben for a little bit longer than I expected, so that was real nice.”

You’re aware of your rapid, unnatural blinking, but your brain feels like it’s short circuited a bit. You aren’t sure how much more you can handle talking about family right now, especially if it was the warm and fuzzy kind of bond.

“That’s cool,” you offer up weakly.

Joel’s face flickers confusion, but again he doesn’t remark on your reserved conversation. “So, what did ya have to bike back with anyway?”

“What?”

“The gift? You went up to the office to get a gift, but you never said what it was. I was hopin’ it wasn’t too big for you to lug back since, you know, somebody wouldn’t let me drive them home.”

Shit. Shit shit shit. The fake gift for your dad. The dregs of your mental fluidity and deftness weren’t producing a convincing answer like they so often did when you found yourself in need of some believable excuse or story.

“Book,” you blurt out.

“A book?”

“No. Um. A few books. A series,” you stutter.

You suddenly feel wide awake now and on edge at the flimsy alibi that just tumbled from your mouth. Even a series of books could’ve been hidden at your own house. There’s no reason to have them stored at the office. You’ll just have to say you forgot it.

Wait, isn’t that what you’d already told him? You’d told him something already when he spoke with you on the phone that day. Had you said you were storing it there on purpose and had just forgotten it? What lie had you already fed him?

Joel sits in a contemplative silence as he drives you to the office. “What’s the series called?”

It’s an unassuming question, but you feel the probing connotation beneath it. He was fishing for something. He was suspicious. You weren’t lying well enough.

“Um, The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly.”

You don’t know why your brain went with a Western that you vaguely remember watching as a young kid, but now you’re stuck with it.

His lips purse, and he clicks his tongue softly as he turns into the parking lot. “Never knew they were books.”

“Oh, yeah. The movies are from the books. John Wayne was a huge fan of them. I’m pretty sure that’s why he got involved with the movies. Turned out to be a pretty good move, I think. Launched him into fame for sure. Staple cowboy from then on.”

“Well aren’t you just a trivia trove,” he chuckles.

You shrug and force a smile. Your heart stops pounding so hard when it seems like he’s moving away from the topic. You can’t believe you managed to remember so many details about the series. Conversation shifts into easy small talk as you both head inside. You just about descend into a panic again when Joel asks you to step into his office for a minute. Had you left his jacket out? Had you not put the furniture back the right way? You’d been so careful when you were leaving to make sure nothing was out of place.

“Is everything okay? Did I do some–”

Your breath catches in your throat as you take in the shiny blue bike propped against Joel’s desk. He’s beaming and holding his arms out like he’s presenting a prize on a gameshow. He adds a little tah-dah! for good measure.

“What is that?”

“Merry Christmas.” His smile is impossibly wider. “It’s a few days late, but, yeah. Little Miss I’m Too Hard To Shop For. Pppfffftttt. Think I did pretty good, huh?”

Your mouth doesn’t work. Your tongue isn’t cooperating. Your lungs are taut and fixed.

“Are you serious? This is–Is this for me?” you breathe.

“Yep,” he replies plainly with an emphasized pop on the P. “D’ya like it?”

You inch towards it and don’t even want to mess it up by touching it. “This is too mu–”

“We ain’t doin’ all that, so you can cut that short,” he interrupts.

You’re shaking your head when he grabs something from his desk. “Sorry it’s not wrapped.”

Your eyes bug out at the small box of bluetooth headphones he handed you.

“Sarah said it should connect with the work phone, and once we get some apps on there you can use my password. I don’t got all of ‘em, but I think there’s a pretty good selection.”

“What?” you ask a little breathlessly.

“Streaming apps or whatever. You know, movies. You said you wanna watch more movies, so you can just pop the headphones on and watch it from the phone this way. Won’t be too loud and all that for your house. Figure between the two of us we can figure out how to get all of it set up.”

He rocks on the balls of his feet before leaning against the desk. Your mouth feels like you’ve been chewing sandpaper. “But… I.. didn’t get you anything?”

“So?”

“I didn’t get you anything. And-And you got me something, though.”

“Yeah, I got you somethin’ because I wanted to. Don’t need anything in return. And I’m the boss, so I’m callin’ it boss privilege that you can’t feel bad about it. It’s against the rules.” He folds his arms across his chest and grins at you, all boyish and clearly pleased with himself.

You’re still shaking your head when he stands upright again and pokes at your side. “C’mon. Let’s see you take a spin on this thing before everybody else gets here. I’ll load it up in the truck after so we can get it home today.”

You’re stunned into silence at his persistence that you enjoy this – just let it feel good for once. He walks the bike out of the office and calls over his shoulder to you. “Give you five bucks if you can pop a wheelie on this thing!”

His goofy challenge spurs a laugh to bubble out of you. You feel lighter, like each breathy laugh had expelled part of the weight you’d been shouldering lately. You jog to catch up with him. “Make it ten and you’ve got a deal,” you bargain.

He smiles wide at you and agrees.

“Are you sure you can’t walk in the sparkly ones?” Kenzie asks for the fifth time.

“I dunno, Kenzie. Do you want to deal with me spraining my ankle or falling on my ass halfway through this thing?” you lob back at her pointedly. “Besides, the tights have rhinestones all over them. That’s plenty of sparkles.”

She rolls her eyes and sighs. “Fine. Just saying they would be a lot cuter.”

You’re well aware that the almost flat “heel” of hers you’d decided on wasn’t the most sexy pair of shoes to go with the staticky, clingy dress you’d picked from her closet, but you didn’t want to spend your entire New Year’s Eve worrying about looking like a newborn giraffe every time you had to walk. Then again, this event was sure to have plenty of stumbling drunk people, so maybe if you did wobble here and there you’d fit in just fine.

“What was the theme again?”

“I think Monte Carlo or Casino Royale or something. I dunno. It’s not even real gambling since that’s illegal in Texas or whatever, so it’s just like you can earn chips to put towards a raffle or something. I have no idea. I just know we’re gonna be with the Double Phoenix setup most of the night,” she explains.

She applied a heavy swipe of glittery shadow to her lids and leaned back to assess her work. Seeming pleased with it, she started on the other.

“I’m not even planning on drinking to be honest since this is sorta like a work thing. I mean, I’m not, like, technically with the company or this account, but I could be. It’s sort of weird with the whole internship thing. I think it’s like a test or something, so we gotta make sure we’re paying attention.”

“And Double Phoenix is the name of the company?” you clarify.

You wanted to get this right for her. It wasn’t often that you were invited out for things like this. Turns out your more sober tendencies were perfect for something like this since Kenzie was approaching it as a networking opportunity rather than a wild night of partying on somebody else’s dime.

“I don’t know what the parent company is called, but the vodka is called Double Phoenix. I guess after Logan and Charlie – that’s who we’re gonna be with most of the night. It’s their first alcohol brand or whatever. Just coasting off the success of Trial By Fire to be honest, but don’t tell them I said that.”

You don’t even know enough about Trial By Fire – the dating game reality show Logan and Charlie had been on that saw them rise to fame quickly as fan favorite “loveable bad boys” – to even say anything about it, but, regardless, you assure Kenzie that you won’t tell them all the disparaging remarks she’s made about them. You busy yourself with putting your hair back in a few glittery clips while she finishes up her makeup. You opted for as little as possible so you wouldn’t accidentally rub your eyes or lips and smudge all of her hard work.

You mess around with your hair for a little bit until you get the half up half down look presentable enough. You turn your head to catch the light on the sparkly claw clip Kenzie insisted you had to wear. The little dangly fringe pieces glittered in the light whenever you moved your head, much like the little crystal dangly bow earrings she’d shoved into your ears. “It ties together with the bow shoes you picked,” she’d said. You inspect the black velvet slingback pumps and their neat little bow on the back of your heel.

You take the opportunity to assess the entire look in the full length mirror when Kenzie wanders into her bathroom for god knows what. She was smaller than you, but the black cinched dress had a little bit of give.

“Is there, like, a fancy cardigan or something that goes with this?” you ask. “I feel like I’m gonna get cold.”

Based on Kenzie’s reaction, you would’ve thought you’d just asked her to name every single pope in chronological order while jump roping to the beat of deli meat going through a slicer. Her mouth is hanging open in what you think is disgust but might also be a heavy dose of disbelief.

“A cardigan?” she chokes.

“Can you not?” you half-heartedly snip. “It’s not outrageous to just wanna be warm, Kenzie.”

She sighs and shakes her head, hands raised to the side like she’s doing a quick meditation for the distress you’d put her in.

“Babe. Babe,” she starts. She takes a deep breath and looks at you as if she’s trying to reason with some wild animal who’s stumbled upon her picnic in the woods.

“What keeps us warm are the thoughts of how bomb we’re gonna look in the pics, okay?” she says slowly and clearly like she’s explaining a difficult math problem. “No cardigans. This isn’t study hall, babes. We’re gonna work with nothing but these cute as hell ‘fits, okay?”

“Oh my god,” you grumble under your breath. It was bad enough this dress didn’t have pockets, which meant you had to carry a tiny purse (called a clutch for some reason), but now you were gonna be cold, too.

“It’s one night of sacrifice for an eternity of hot pics, okay? When you’re, like, 87 you’ll be able to look back and say ‘thank you, god, for giving me a friend like Kenzie who didn’t let me ruin my Hot Girl Outfit with a librarian’s jacket’,” she proclaims like she’s the Shaman of Thirst Traps.

You snort and roll your eyes but can’t hide the emerging grin on your face. “Yeah yeah. Fine. You’re the expert.”

She claps her hands together victoriously and lets out a dramatic exhale. “Ugh, yes. Finally, you get it. Let me be your guide, okay? Besides, I bet you won’t be complaining when you send Joel a little pic and get his reaction.”

“Um, no?” you sputter. “I’m not sending Joel of picture of myself in all this. He’s gonna know it’s all borrowed, anyway. I would never have the nerve to buy or wear something like this on my own.”

“Um, yes?” she argues back. “Ain’t nothing borrowed about you in that outfit, okay? It’s giving very much ‘I own this’ energy, okay?”

Your chest feels warm and light at the genuine compliments, and you can’t help but agree with her a little. You do feel pretty cute even though you’re not really used to dressing up and going out like this. It felt nice to do nothing but primp and preen yourself for the past couple of hours.

Even Kenzie had an air of excitement about it since this was her first time venturing into a dressy work event. You’d seen plenty of pictures of her “in her heyday” with strappy, tight dresses that showed every bit of glistening skin that was legal to have on display. She looked incredible in all of them, of course, but it wasn’t exactly what came to mind when you thought about career networking.

“You picked really nice outfits.” You shoot her a warm smile that grows wider when she returns the gesture.

“Okay, I was totally freaking out about it, too. Like, obviously I am gonna look good no matter what, but I was so worried that I was gonna end up looking like an Amish lady or something,” she laments.

You can’t help the abrupt guffaw that fills the entire room. “You’re literally wearing a brown sequin minidress with poofy sleeves, Kenzie. I don’t really know how you could be worried about looking Amish in that.”

“First of all, it’s chocolate burgundy. Secondly, they’re ostrich feathers,” she corrects with pretend insolence. “And last of all, I didn’t even have to search through my underwear drawer to find a pair that wouldn’t show in this dress, so that’s basically Amish for me.”

You both crack up at her ridiculous parallels as you check yourselves in the mirror side by side. You might not be as glitzy as she is, but you both go together somehow in a nice little balanced image.

“Okay, let’s go to the backyard to get some pics,” she announces as she snatches your work phone and her phone and prances out the door.

You indulge all the stylized, practiced poses that Kenzie makes as you have a mini photoshoot for her. You smile every time she switches into a new angle and posture. It’s so silly for her to do so many different ones when she looks good in every single picture. She’d argue with you over that, of course. When she declares that it’s your turn to take pictures, you oblige with a few standard poses, which she immediately rejects and insists that you “loosen up a little bit.”

She does manage to get you to genuinely laugh when she retells the story about how your old boss Jeremy most definitely had a lover’s quarrel in the middle of the cereal aisle with what could only be a friend of his grandmother’s or a sugar grandmomma. He’d been so embarrassed even though you both wouldn’t have had anything nasty or negative to say about it. A few “eat me out, sonny boy” jokes between yourselves, sure, but nothing to his face.

“Okay, just a few more.”

She fiddles with the settings on your phone, explaining to you how your flash exposure wasn’t set right and other jargon you don’t fully understand, and takes a few more photos once she’s made the necessary adjustments.

“AAAAnnndddd, done!”

“I don’t even post anywhere, Kenz. I don’t know why I need so many pics,” you protest.

She just shrugs and sports a shit eating grin, which you don’t understand until you receive a notification on your phone that Joel has texted you. The mortification takes hold the second you open to the text thread and see that Kenzie had sent him several of the photos she’d taken of you.

Joel: WOW! Joel: 🤯 Joel: Where are you going dressed to the nines like that?

You: omg I am SO SORRY my stupid friend sent those to you like an idiot You: she’s such a moron sorry You: idek who she was trying to send those to

Joel: I like the pictures. They’re really nice. 👍 Joel: You look like you’re already having a good time. Joel: You have a ride set up for tonight? Lots of dangerous drivers on NYE.

You: we’re not drinking but also Kenz ordered us an Uber

Joel: Okay well please text or call if you need a ride. I’ll be up. Joel: Be safe and have a fun time! Joel: 🪩🥳🥂💃🕺

You smile down at your phone and giggle. You’ll remember to be upset at Kenzie in a minute.

You: I will 🫡 You: are you staying home the whole night?

Joel: Yep. Tommy is probably gonna come around for a bit, but otherwise I’ll just be watching TV or something. Too old to be out there partying. Might throw my back out if I tried to dance to the popular stuff.

You: lol I would pay so much money to see that

Joel: I bet you would, ya little punk.

You: 😇

Joel: Okay, angel. And you never said where you were going.

You: here 📍

You attach a link to the venue where Kenzie said the event was being held. You explain the circumstances of it because it’s a lot nicer of a place than most twenty somethings would probably go, especially for such a big party night like New Year’s Eve.

Joel: Pretty nice place. Looked it up on Facebook. Says it’s a charity casino night. Invite only. 😵💰🎰

You: yeah idk we’re just gonna be there with this vodka brand from Kenzie’s work You: she does this marketing internship thing and this vodka is a client

Joel: Fancy. Already sounds like y’all are some high rollers. 😎

You: lol maybe Kenz is. im just the plus one You: you should see her outfit then maybe you’d know what i mean 💀

Joel: Nah, you got sparkle tights. That’s the winner right there.

You: wow a fashionista too is there anything can’t you do?

Joel: Yeah, I already told you. Dance ha ha. Joel: 👴🏼

You: i highly doubt that but ok You: we gotta leave in a few but ill text if i need anything

You punch in a heart emoji but hesitate for a split second before throwing caution to the wind and sending it anyway. Your entire body warms at his reply.

You: 💖 Joel: 🥰❤️ Joel: I’ll be thinking about you. Joel: Be safe. ❤️

You: i will 💖 You: happy new years in case i don’t see you sooner

Joel: Happy New Year’s, and I hope you see me sooner rather than later. Want to start my year off right. ❤️

You’re too giddy from texting with Joel to truly be upset with Kenzie, a fact she relishes in the entire Uber ride to the venue. You still feel light as air as you make your way to the Double Phoenix display area and meet the two guys associated with it — Charlie and Logan.

You quickly see why Kenzie hadn’t had a lot of positive things to say about them both even though they weren’t patently terrible right off the bat. Maybe to most people the plastered smiles and forced carefree attitudes would distract long enough to hide the truth of their actual personalities, but you were a little more used to getting a quick grasp on people.

Charlie was younger, but you wouldn’t have known that from all the cosmetic procedures he’d had done. His face didn’t even match with the version featured in all the promotional materials with their images on them. An unnaturally chiseled jaw, lips that seemed plumped and deflated all at once, a marshmallowy cheekbone, and eyebrows that didn’t move enough. It all combined into some strange, plasticine version of a man.

Logan had leaned into the rugged and handsome look quite well, but his teeth were remarkably white to the point that it contrasted with the rest of his visuals. You wanted to laugh at how forced it all was. You knew rugged and handsome well. Joel Miller was the end all, be all to rugged and handsome in your humblest of opinions, and he actually had the life experience that made it authentic. Men hadn’t ever really been much of your “type” - especially not the overtly masculine ones - but of course that had changed fairly recently.

You were grateful that they both zeroed in on Kenzie’s attention and left you to wander close by for a few minutes. The glowing neon and sleek black everything made the entire venue hum with a sort of subdued electricity. You’re sure once the event actually begins and people start showing up that it’ll take on a life of its own as the background to a perfect night of revelry.

You lost track of time for a while as you meandered through the various setups. You can’t begin to guess how much all of this costs to produce and put on. You know without a doubt that you could never afford to get in. With Kenzie’s borrowed outfit, you don’t appear too out of place, and you try to work with the feigned confidence of someone who belonged here. By the time you make it back to the Double Phoenix setup, Kenzie is shooting you where the fuck have you been?! eyes, and you give her an apologetic grimace.

“Ah, there she is!” Charlie booms. He sounded like he’d been sampling the goods, and the stack of empty shot glasses scattered around the tables only lent to that hypothesis. A few frantic looking waitstaff scurried around with rags and fresh glasses. “You wanna do a shot?”

Your face scrunched, reluctant and put off. “No thanks, I’m good for right now. Maybe later.”

“Oh, come onnnnnnn,” he huffs. “It’s fuckin’ New Years! Live a little! Come on, just do a shot.” He starts spinning in almost comedic half-circles in search of shot glasses and liquor. Kenzie is looking a lot like she’s got a headache brewing – but not from any bottom shelf vodka shots. “Tell your friend to knock the sand outta her vagina and take a fuckin’ shot, Kenny!”

“It’s Kenzie, and that’s not a very—”

Logan, who appeared just as sober as when you’d left them all, stepped up with a crooked grin and patted his friend’s shoulder. “Definitely just getting the night started, right? No need to rush a good time, Tank.” He glances over to you and winks, and you think he means to convey that he’s stepping in between you and his rude, pushy friend.

Charlie snorts and taps Logan’s face with a loose, goofy smile. “You’re right, man. Just so fuckin’ PUMPED for this brand, dude!”

Kenzie scoots around to you and guides you away from the front of the setup so you can speak more privately. “This guy is an asshole!” she hisses.

“Yeah, is he seriously already drunk?” you scoff. You note the heavy smell of alcohol on her breath and raise an eyebrow. “Exactly how many shots did y’all even have? You don’t even do shots of vodka, do you?” The last part of the question is up several octaves in uncertainty. Maybe you weren’t a big drinker, but you knew enough that downing shots of vodka was sort of an “alcoholic activity.”

She rolls her eyes and grips onto your elbows. “It tastes so bad,” she groans. “It’s supposed to be ‘so good you don’t need to mix it.’ I honestly underestimated how good of an actor Logan is because he barely even made a face when we were all taking a shot for their Instagram Story. And Charlie? I don’t even think he cares to be honest. He would probably drink hand sanitizer if it gave him a buzz.”

“That’s really sad,” you reply in a low, gloomy tone.

She responds in kind with a cheerless shrug and nod. “I told Logan that we could do a few more shots with some of the bigger local names so they could put it on their socials, but I said we should definitely be cutting Charlie’s shots with water. He was surprisingly cool with it and thanked me for looking out for him.”

“Yeah, that’s smart,” you agree. “How many did you do already? How many are you going to do? I thought you weren’t planning on drinking?”

You try to keep the nerves from creeping into your questions, but a tremor or two slip through. You really, really didn’t want to end up the sole sober person in a room full of rowdy, drunk partygoers. It was more of an upscale setting, but that was never a guarantee that things wouldn’t get sloppy.

“I’ve only had two, don’t sweat it,” she assures you. “I’m totally good to take a few more, especially if they’re spread out.”

“Okay, just be careful. That Charlie guy seems a little aggressive.”

“I think he just likes to party.” She shrugs and eyes the two men who don’t seem to have noticed your side conversation yet. “C’mon, let’s get back before they see we’ve snuck off.”

Kenzie wrangles Charlie into doing a few staged photos around the setup – you assume before he gets even more drunk and won’t photograph well – and Logan strikes up some easy conversation with passersby before wandering back over to you. He shoots you another apologetic grin and holds a hand up in an awkward wave.

“Hey, listen, I’m sorry about Tank. He gets a little nervous for these types of events sometimes and hits the bottle a little early and a little too heavy,” he explains.

“Tank? Why’s he called ‘Tank’?”

He flushes with a sheepish grin and admits it’s from “one crazy weekend” where he repeatedly wound up in a “drunk tank.”

Your nose scrunches and pulls against your unimpressed frown. “Charming. Sort of goes with the whole telling women they have sand in their private parts thing he’s got going on.”

He squints and grimaces. “That was totally out of line. I’m really sorry.”

You sigh and let your shoulders slink down. You hadn’t realized you’d been holding them so high and tight. “I guess it’s not your fault he’s got a problem.”

“No, it’s not my fault, but I should probably do a better job of stepping in before he goes around disrespecting women.”

He scratches the back of his neck and looks off. He mindlessly watches the crowds of people walking by the setup and waves to a few before turning back to you.

“Well, uh, I’m Logan. Just in case you didn’t– um, you know, didn’t catch it before. And I, uh, hope you have a good time with Double Phoenix tonight even if it started out a little rocky.”

He sounds genuinely embarrassed by his friend. Maybe you’d misjudged him at first. You give him the benefit of the doubt and a small smile. He flushes again and busies himself with chatting up some local DJ who stopped by to do a promo shot with the brand.

It’s much the same for the next hour and a half, except you notice that Logan and Kenzie both have taken several shots with numerous local celebrities. Logan at least has enough sense to remind everyone to drink water in between and munch on something. He goes around and checks on the waitstaff to make sure everything is running smoothly. You think without his legitimate interest in this brand, Kenzie would be running in circles trying to keep things on track.

You pull your work phone from your clutch. It’s somehow only 9:00pm. You suppose you had arrived before the event even started, so it’d been at least 3 hours of this. You can’t imagine another 3, but you’ll push through it for Kenzie’s sake. You’re about to tap on the messaging app to see if Joel had sent anything when a shadow passes over the screen. You look up to see a more lax Logan smiling down at you.

“Event's that boring huh?” Yeah, he’s definitely a little drunker than when you’d last talked.

You look around for Kenzie and spot her talking animatedly to some random woman in the brightest neon green dress you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Oh, I was just checking the time to make sure Kenzie was still on track,” you bluff.

“Gotcha, gotcha.” He nods and runs a hand through his hair. “So, uh, you want a drink or anything? I can just get you a soda or something if you didn’t want to try the vodka.”

Something about the way he says it sounds like he’s already disappointed at what he thinks your answer will be. You feel bad, but you don’t know why.

“Listen, I know it’s not, like, the bestest there is, but I think we did a pretty good job of it. I’d love to hear what you think of it,” he hedges.

One shot won’t kill you you remind yourself. You shrug and agree to a single shot with a sugary chaser. He beams like a golden retriever and lopes off to grab your drinks. You smile at his back as he runs off. It’s sort of cute how excited he seems. Maybe he really did give a shit about all this and had to deal with a business partner who didn’t do much of the legwork. He’s back shortly with a canned soda and two double shots for each of you.

“Whoa, that’s way too much!”

He stares blankly at you for a second and then shakes his head like he realizes he’d gotten double shots. “Shit, that’s my bad. Hold on, I can—” He turns to look for somewhere to dump part of your shot out.

“Look, I’ll just have half, okay? You can have the rest or throw it out or whatever. Or give it to Charlie. I dunno.”

He laughs at that and gives you a cheers. You swallow down a little more than half by accident, and you think it must’ve been the shock at how god awful the taste is. Whatever Kenzie had said, it was ten times worse. You choke your one and a half shots down and grab for the canned soda, snapping the tab open and chugging down several large gulps. The sting of the vodka still burns as you watch Logan down your half shot as well as his two doubles. Your eyebrows shoot into your hairline at the amount he’s downing in one go.

“Aren’t you gonna get sick?” you sputter.

He giggles a bit and takes the soda from your hand, downing the rest of it. “Eh, I’ve done all the brand commitment stuff. I’m sort of off the clock now.”

You blink at him and wonder how the hell that’s supposed to explain how he’s not going to be throwing up in about 15 minutes.

“You make me nervous,” he giggles.

He leans in a little, only to list backwards and wave a hand in the air. He erupts into a fit of laughter and covers his face with his hands.

“Christ, I’m so sorry. I’ve been wanting to tell you all night how beautiful you look, but I didn’t really feel like there was a good opening after, you know, Charlie went and talked about your sandy vagina.”

His eyes bug out like he realizes what he’s said, and he slaps a hand over his mouth. It might be the alcohol surging into your bloodstream, but you laugh at how ridiculous it all is. He chortles behind his hand and flushes a million shades of red.

“Fuck, I am so fucking sorry,” he gasps. “I just wanted to tell you you’re beautiful, and then I just said sandy vagina and I’m really really sorry, and I’m, like, very sure your vagina is probably perfectly fine and doesn’t have any sand in it.”

You giggle even harder at his distressed stream of consciousness. “I-Well, thanks and all, but I’m – I don’t really mix business and personal, you know?”

He nods like he perfectly understands your position. He puts his hands up in surrender and gives you a sort of bow before kissing your hand. “I’m– I understand. Definitely. No worries at all. And thanks for trying the vodka even though it’s shitty.”

You laugh loudly at that and wave him off. He chuckles to himself and strolls over to the bar area. You take your time walking to Kenzie, who jumps up and down when she sees you. Not wasted, but definitely not sober.

“That vodka tastes fucking awful!”

She grabs your forearm like you’d just said the most profound thing she’s ever heard. “Yesssssssss ohmygod.”

You hug onto her for support as she whispers in your ear about how she’s got a really good feeling about the impression she’s made with the brand and how this could be a huge opportunity for her. You commiserate together how nasty the taste is but both agree that she sort of had to do shots for social media unless she wanted it to look like she didn’t enjoy it. She snorts and rolls her eyes when you relay the flirty, drunken conversation that Logan tried to have.

“He probably isn’t used to being turned down,” she posits. “S'prolly good for him to hear 'no' every once in a while.”

You giggle and lean against the counter for more support. You felt very warm now – cardigan debate all but forgotten – and a bit like you need to pee. Knowing the extra effort it’s going to take for you to get the tights down enough to use the bathroom, you excuse yourself sooner rather than later.

Everything is a lively haze of big energy as you make your way to the bathrooms. One of the main raffles is taking place, so you don’t even have to wait in line. You eye yourself in the mirror and think you still look pretty good. The little bit of alcohol you had is in full effect now, and you hope it starts to ebb soon.

You make your way out of the restroom and stumble when you hear the excited cheers from the main dancehall. Someone must’ve won something big. You lean against the wall for a minute until you feel more certain these shoes won’t cause any issues.

“Sneaky, sneaky thing,” Logan giggles from beside you.

You jump at the sudden voice coming from the dimly lit hallway. “Jesus christ you scared me,” you hiss.

“Sorry sorry. Just had to take a leak and then had to sit down for a minute. Mighta had too much.”

He seems bigger somehow even though he’s slanted to one side. Maybe the alcohol making him so loose was also making him seem unrestrained, too. “Soooooo, you coulda just asked me to follow ya know?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets as he saunters closer.

“Huh?”

“Earlier? You said you weren’t interested, but-but- and then I see you sneaking off to the bathrooms. Coulda just asked me to follow you, and I woulda.”

“No thanks,” you exhale.

“C’mon you don’t gotta put up a front, 'kay? Your friend won’t get jealous if she doesn’t see us, right?”

“What are you talking about?” you groan.

His body is up against yours, pressing you into the wall. “Let’s mix up a little business with a little pleasure,” he purrs. Your entire body freezes up, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “It’ll feel real good I promise.”

“Logan, there’s been a misunderstanding,” you insist. “M’not interested in–”

“Ssshhhhh,” he coos. “You can quit pretending. Be good 'n I’ll let you take a pic during to show all your friends, 'kay?”

“Get off me, you creep!” you hiss with a shove, but his body doesn’t budge. Another round of applause and cheering comes from the main hall.

“Let'sssssee,” he slurs. His thigh parts your legs just as his hands go underneath the sides of your skirt to grope your ass. “What kinda panties you got on?” He starts to lift your skirt above your hips when you knee his groin with as much force as you can. He doubles over and staggers backward. He chokes out bitch! a few times before vomiting all over the floor. You hurry away to find Keznzie, heart beating a million times a minute. She’s at the bar doing yet another stupid shot.

Between her drunkenness and your flustering, it takes several agonizing moments before she grasps what you’re saying – that you’ve been assaulted by somebody and left him on the ground near the restrooms. She’s looking around for security and asking you what the guy looks like. You tell her again it was Logan. Her body stops mid-movement like some sort of eerie robot that’s been unplugged. She blinks a few times like she misheard you.

“Logan? Logan Logan?”

“Yes!” you practically shriek.

She’s hesitating now, no longer hellbent on finding security, and you can’t figure out why. Where had all her urgency gone? Why had her entire mood just shifted? Why wasn’t she comforting you?

Then her eyes meet yours, and you see it. The reluctance to make a fuss over it because of who it was. The mental math to calculate that it wasn’t right what he’d done but that it hadn’t “gone too far” and he hadn’t “gone all the way” with it. The hesitation to hold off on involving security if this all sounded like a drunken misunderstanding between two people that didn’t need to be escalated. The sort of “mistake” that could be fixed with a few sober apologies.

“Kenzie…..," you whisper.

Like she’s on a sinking ship that’s quickly taking on too much water, she shakes her head and grabs your upper arms to pull you closer. “This will blow all my chances with this brand and maybe even the job.”

Her eyes are pleading for you to understand the position she’s in, what all she has to lose by taking up for you in this moment, and the gut wrenching realization that you’re not worth it to her begins to sink in. She sways a little on the spot and hiccups.

“He’s–He’s prolly so drunk he doesn’t even know what he was doing,” she pleads.

“You sure you’re not so drunk you don’t know what you’re saying?” you snap back. “Because I’m pretty sure a bad friend would tell you to drop it when somebody just had their hands all on you.”

Her nostrils flare at the accusation. “Well maybe a bad friend would make her best friend lose her whole future just because some guy felt up her butt, like that doesn’t happen all the time on the bus and in clubs and, and, and everywhere!”

“All you care about is yourself!” you hurl at her.

You turn on your heel and stomp your way to the exit. Tears blur the edges of your vision, but you’re enough of a mess that people sort of make way for you until you emerge from the building and into the cool night air.

You’re shaking. Your brain is a soupy mess as the alcohol starts to wear off. You pull out your work phone from your clutch. It flashes 9:48. How on earth had so much gone so wrong so quickly?

You fumble through some of the apps and end up downloading several rideshare apps, but they’re all crazy expensive because of the holiday. You can’t risk that large of a transaction showing up and your dad seeing it. You’re not even sure how far of a walk it would be to get home, but you don’t want to go home, either. Your dad was probably out, but you didn't want to risk it.

You shiver and stare at the homescreen.

If you needed someone to show up, I’d show up.

That’s what Joel had said after that guy confronted you in the parking lot. And then tonight he’d said to call if you needed a ride or anything. You don’t have much of a choice, but even if you did, you’d still choose Joel.

You find his contact and hit call.

The influx of pictures of you all dressy and smiles was the perfect distraction. He’d been mulling over the lies he’d caught you in, and it was making his head buzz.

You’d lied about the gift for your dad. Clint Eastwood — not John Wayne, like you’d claimed - had starred in The Dollars Trilogy. A Fistful of Dollars, A Few Dollars More, and The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. All screenplays, never books. He’d grown up watching enough Westerns to know that much.

That was plenty of proof that you weren’t being entirely upfront with him, but he didn’t understand why. When he went into the security system profile and checked Christmas day, his heart sunk when it showed you hadn’t left when you claimed and in fact didn’t set the alarm again until several hours later.

He tries not to take it personally that you were lying through your teeth over very strange things, but it was hurtful and made him feel a little foolish for some reason. He knew in his gut that you were an honest person, so he could only assume the only other thing that made sense was that you didn’t trust him, which stung in a particularly painful way.

At this rate, he didn’t believe that you even got any gift cards. You didn’t give the impression that you gave much thought to your own wants and needs. It’s like it’s been drilled into your head to put yourself last every time.

He sighed and flipped through the pictures you’d sent — or, rather, your friend had sent on your behalf. The one where you were smiling the biggest was a little blurry, but it was his favorite nonetheless. He’d set it as his homescreen background without a second thought.

He was letting himself get lost in how stunning you looked in the photos when a call popped up. It was you. After the surprise of receiving a call from you wore off, he hit answer and pressed the phone to his ear.

“Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay?”

“Um,” you sniff. “N-Not really.”

His whole body goes rigid at the sound of your trembling voice. “What happened? Where are you?”

“Um, I’m still at that same place I sent earlier. Do you— Can you come get me?”

He’s snatching up his keys and starting his truck in a flash. He stays on the line with you until his headlights reflect and sparkle across the glitter on your tights. He hops out and gives you a quick once over, looking for some sort of hurt. He draws you up into a hug and helps you into the truck.

“What happened?” he breathes.

“Just, um, had a fight with my friend.”

“Is she okay in there? Does she have a ride home? Is she hurt?”

As honorable as his concern for Kenzie’s safety and wellbeing was, something about it irked you. She hadn’t given you any support, so why on earth did she deserve any? Maybe being drunk and left to deal with those jerks on her own would change her perspective. Maybe Logan would hurt her, too, and then she’d have a different opinion on what constituted a big enough violation to be addressed. You instantly feel guilty for thinking it, but the anger doesn’t entirely subside.

“She’s fine,” you grumble. “I don’t really wanna talk about it if that’s okay.”

“Sure, of course,” he soothes. “Let’s just get you home, yeah?”

“I don’t wanna go home,” you whisper, fidgeting with your hands in your lap.

“Okay, sweetheart. You don’t hafta go home. You can come stay with me, alright? Is that okay?”

You nod. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Of course. Of course ya can,” he insists.

The drive to his house is quiet, and he keeps stealing glances your direction. You keep your eyes fixed on the road, fearing that looking him directly in the eye again will crumble all your resolve and you’ll fall into a million pieces and tell him everything – all the rotting, ugly truths of your secret life.

He pulls into the drive and helps you out of the truck and into the house. You let him lead you as you walk unevenly in your heels. He guides you to the living room couch and slips your shoes off. He gives your feet a firm, kneading rub when you wince.

“Feet hurt?”

“Yeah.”

He massages them for a few beats, and you realize it probably hurts his knees to be bent on the floor like that.

“You hungry?”

“Yeah.”

He leads you upstairs and shows you the guest bedroom — Sarah’s old room that still had a lot of her personal decorations and items throughout. He leaves you for a moment and returns from his room with a pair of drawstring sweatpants and a button up flannel. He asks if you need anything for a shower, and, despite feeling utterly drained, the thought of washing this day off you is too appealing to turn down.

He digs around the hallway bathroom, which you learn was Sarah’s once upon a time, and pulls various toiletry items out from the cabinet. While there aren’t any shower specific items, there is a bottle of cosmetics remover and a roll of cotton pads, and you gather them up alongside the borrowed pajamas to take with you to Joel’s bathroom.

He gives you a quick rundown on how the shower works and leaves it running before slipping out the door to give you privacy. His heavy footsteps descend the stairs, and you’re struck by how alone you suddenly feel. You carefully extract yourself from Kenzie’s dress and tights and set them on the vanity. You strip away your undergarments and toss them into a pile near the corner.

You don’t bother adjusting the temperature of the water. You leave it just how he’d left it running for you, and it beats down onto your itchy, too tight skin with a purging heat. You lather in his soaps and shampoo and feel like you can breathe easier with it fogging up around you. It felt safe. Your hands dip to your hips, groin, and backside, and you hesitate for a moment before rushing through the area. You can still feel Logan’s insistent hands on you.

You rinse off and drip dry for a few seconds. The dry, fluffy towels wrapped around you make things feel normal again for a fleeting moment. The cosmetics remover and cotton pads clear away the streaking mascara and flecks of makeup left behind. You look in the mirror at your naked body and feel like you should be able to see the traces of unwelcomed touches painted onto your skin in bright, blood red. Your bare form reflects back to you, and you force your attention away and to Joel’s clean clothes he’d left for you.

The sweatpants are cozy and worn down. The flannel is soft like it’s been worn a million times. You roll the cuffs on the flannel and do the same to the sweatpants a few times, giving the strings a pull to cinch them on tighter, until your feet and hands aren’t flooded in fabric. The smell of him on the clothes only heightens as your body heat warms the fabric.

Wanting to be lost in the scent of the real thing, you head downstairs and find Joel in the kitchen with a tall glass of water and freshly made sandwich. He opens his mouth to say something but falls short as he eyes you. He swallows thickly and meets your eye again.

“Clothes alright? I know the sizing is a bit off.”

“They feel really good.”

“Good. Good.” He clasps his hands together and moves aside to gesture towards the food.

He gives you the option of sitting at the table or sitting in front of the TV while you eat. You opt for the latter and start on your sandwich as Joel flips through the channels until it lands on the Ball Drop Countdown. You sit quietly together, but you can sense the weight of unasked questions emanating from him.

“Guest bedroom look alright? Everything you need in there?” He’s being sincere, but you can tell he’s trying to fill the silence with something.

“It’s really pretty in there. Sarah has really cute taste.”

“She does,” he agrees with a crooked grin. “Kept up the girly stuff for way longer’n I thought she would. I always had a soft spot for that kinda thing, I guess. Kinda made it feel like my little girl wasn’t busy growin’ up and gettin’ ready to head out into the world without me.”

“Do you… Does she see you a lot?”

You aren’t sure why you’re asking or why you want to know. Some part of you is maybe just a glutton for punishment to hear about families who don’t hate each other. Or maybe just confirmation that such a thing was possible.

“Not nearly as much as I’d like, but I shouldn’t complain. She calls all the time, and that helps. Video calls and all that, too. Makes the distance feel shorter, you know?”

You nod like you do know, but you’d never had such an experience. You would kill for a video call with Calum. You weren’t going to think about that right now, though. Not on top of everything else that happened tonight.

As if he could sense the direction of your thoughts, Joel carefully asks if you want to talk about what happened. You think for a minute and then shake your head no.

“That’s okay,” he reassures you. “No pressure. Just wanted to ask in case you… I dunno why. In case you needed m–needed someone to talk to.”

You hold back a smile at his near slip. In case you needed me. And, you do very much need him.

He takes your empty plate and glass without asking, double checking that you’ve had enough before taking it to the kitchen and then settling back onto the couch with you. Without the task of eating and the personal space required to do so, the distance between you both felt infinitely larger than before he left. Your hunger is sated with the food he’d made, but something still stirs in your gut.

The memory of tonight still clings to you. Logan’s mask slipping to reveal the devil beneath. Kenzie deciding that you weren’t worth the risk of jeopardizing her future career, even if it was with men who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.

You can still feel the ghost of Logan gripping your flesh and turning up your clothing, the stench of his alcohol laden breath clouding your nostrils and making you want to choke. You want to erase it. You want your body to forget the sensation and experience of it. Maybe you can replace it with a different sensation, a new experience. Something to take the place of Logan’s shadow lingering on you.

“Joel?”

He turns to look at you, mouth all pouty and parted with concern. You want to lick into it so badly. “Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something weird? A weird favor?”

“Of course ya can,” he urges. He angles his body to give you more of his attention. “I’m sure it ain’t weird. What is it, sweetheart?”

“I’m–Can I just—” You falter as you try to figure out how you can ask him to act as a prop in your recreation of tonight just so your body can be tricked into believing it never happened. “If I ask you to–to hold me a certain way, could you do that?”

His brow knits together like the hesitant phrasing of your question betrays its innocuous veneer. “I can do whatever ya need me to do, sweetheart, but it might help if I knew what exactly—”

“Please?” you ask so quiet you’re surprised he caught it.

His lips purse, and his body relaxes in defeat. “Of course.”

You wordlessly crawl along the couch until you’re almost on top of him and swing a leg between his. You ignore the way your crotch feels hot and needy against his warm thigh. You gently guide his hands to your hips and backside, urging his fingers to splay wide enough to engulf the globe of your ass and meat of your hip. He tenses like he’s going to ask if you’re okay or if you’re sure about what you’re doing or if this is a good idea, but you don’t let him get to it.

“Please,” you breathe – beg.

He relaxes again.

You slump your body against his and nestle your forehead against the crook of his neck. He feels so impossibly large beneath you, all warmth and brawn and safety. Under different circumstances you’d probably be dripping with arousal by now, but instead your body starts to succumb to the enveloping cradle of his hold. Your breathing evens out, and you think somehow this might actually be working. You can pluck the rotting seed of tonight straight out of your body’s scorecard and plant something that won’t devastate the soil and overtake the sparse sprouts that already exist.

The loud snap! and boom! of fireworks jolt you awake. Joel snorts an inhale and opens his eyes comically wide before blinking quickly. His hands are still on you. Your body is still on him. You’re still safe.

“Nodded off,” he mutters almost to himself, voice thick with sleep. He glances lazily out the window as neighboring houses send off fireworks that probably aren’t street legal. “Damn things are loud.” His head lolls back to face you, and he’s sporting a tired, goofy grin. “Happy New Year’s, I guess, huh?”

You fist the collar of his shirt and crash your mouths together. You’ve been awake for less than 30 seconds, and all your brain can churn out is to take take take.

You meant to take it slow, or maybe you didn’t. You aren’t even sure as you rock your body against his until he comes alive beneath you, hands flying up from your hips to brace against your back and pull you closer against him. His tongue is warm and wet against yours, taking his time to explore you and taste you. He swallows down your hitched moan, groaning in response with a hand coming to cradle the back of your head.

It’s over just as soon as it began when a particularly loud boom breaks the magnetic spell that took over you both. You slowly pull back and release the hold on his shirt. He’s staring like a deer in headlights, and you’re sure you aren’t much different.

What the fuck just happened? Why did you do that? What compelled you to do it like that?

“Um, well. Um. Happy New Year’s. And, um, I guess I’ll – I’m shou–I should be getting to bed, I guess. So–” You awkwardly extricate yourself from the couch and give an awkward wave. Joel just stares back at you dumbfounded.

You wave again like an idiot. “Okay. Um. Happy New Year’s. Um. Goodnight.” You force yourself to walk normally up the stairs and not slam the door to the guest bedroom. You can still taste him on your lips, all echoes of Logan faded into nothingness.

Thank y'all for waiting on this one. The first draft was much shorter, but I just felt like I wanted to flesh it out significantly more than what I had originally written. It feels right now, and I hope you have the same feeling after reading it.

tagging:

@survivingandenduring @bizarrelove-triangle @cumberpegg @verybigvag @koshkaj-blog @pastelpinkflowerlife @toomanystoriessolittletime @walw1017 @tuquoquebrute @confusedpuffin @reneerocks3617 @ellenmunn @electriclasso @pastelnap @zooty-and-fruity @drunk-and-capable @copperhalfcent

#fic rec

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toomanystoriessolittletime · 4 days

Text

loved this!

Also I read so much about ranch sauce i have to look if we have something simliar over here, I wanna know what the fuss is about lmao

Caller Number Nine | Pairing Javier Peña x Fem!Reader

Summary: You're a radio host of a popular late-night segment on relationships, advice and more. After a particularly bad night of calls, your final call of the night takes you by surprise.

Warnings: Javier is a flirt. Alcohol/marijuana. Humor/Banter. Flirting. References to infidelity and a man's negative view on his wife's postpartum body (the reader puts them both in their place). Both reader and Javier are lonely. New York. Slightly dom Javier. Biting. Javier gives reader a hickey. Murphy the Cat (this cat is DEA). Bodegas and a wholesome shop owner named Carlos. Some Spanish. TUWOMT call back to Paddington 2 but in a Javier AU. Javier calls the reader a slut once (she likes it). Praise kink. Thigh riding. Use of pet names. Just a hot fuck. Creampie. Unprotected sex. Fingering. Pizza on ranch. Dave Portnoy gets mentioned (iykyk). No use of Y/N, no use of daddy. For immersability, the reader has no major physical descriptions.

W/C: ~6K

A/N: Let's just say this story was inspired by the slutty mustache that has made a triumphant return. I’m also just really into pizza with ranch right now, too, idk. If you need me I’ll be internally freaking out about the fact that there are almost 1,400 of you interested in my silly little stories. Thank you. 🥹🖤

Masterlist | Notifications | Read on AO3

People suck at listening. You used to, too. But over time, call after call, you have become intimately acquainted with the quiet moments—the pauses between heartbeats, the breaths taken before confessions spill forth, the silence that stretches like a canvas waiting for emotions to color it.

These moments, often overlooked in the noise of daily life, are where you find the truth that guides you through the tangled web of love and relationships you navigate every night on your show.

For you, the quiet is not emptiness but a space brimming with potential. It's in these pauses that you listen most intently, not just to the spoken words but to the ones that tremble on the edge of silence, too shy or too scared to make themselves heard. You have learned that what is not said can be just as important as what is, and you can hear those unspoken fears, dreams, and desires.

Each night, as the clock winds down and the world outside your studio window holds its breath, you lean into the quiet, inviting it into your show. You encourage your callers to do the same—to listen to the quiet within themselves, to the truths they've buried under layers of fear, doubt, or societal expectation. "In the silence," you often say, "you'll find the answers you've been too busy to hear."

Most of the time the callers are open to your feedback, their hearts open and kind.

Most of the time.

Tonight isn’t one of those times.

++++

“Have you ever had Brussels sprouts made for you at midnight by a gorgeous woman in no pants following multiple orgasms? I have, and they’re fucking delicious,” one caller said. It was obvious after minutes of talking to him that he was failing to heed your advice that if he didn’t stop sleeping with women who weren’t his wife, she would likely find out one day and leave him. God, you hope she does.

“I love her, you know? I just don’t find myself that physically attracted to her after she had the baby, it’s not my fault…” another said. Ugh, fuck off, dude. You were quick to shut that one down, to tell him that he was being a boy, to go to the store and buy his wife some goddamn flowers and apologize for being such an asshole.

Like a broken record stuck on repeat, this is how the night continues. One bad call after another, each seeming to echo or outdo the last in its what the fuck factor.

In the dimly lit recording studio, a soft hum of equipment fills the air, punctuated only by the occasional flicker of LED lights on the soundboard. You think briefly about letting out a scream before your last call, surely the foam walls would absorb the sound.

The glow of the computer screen casts a soft light on your face, accentuating the furrow of your brow and the downturn of your lips. You're a picture of frustration, a stark contrast to the empathetic persona that your listeners know and rely on. Each bad call tonight has chipped away at you. You drop your head into your hands and rub your temples for a brief moment before looking up at the clock, its hands inching their way to your liberation.

Just one more call.

The phone lines blink red. Your hand, a little steadier than you feel, reaches out and cues up the next caller, your voice finding strength as it always does when you speak into the void.

“Hi there, caller number nine. You’re on the air with Midnight Confessions. What’s on your heart tonight?”

“Ah shit – oh, uh probably shouldn’t say that on air huh – mm, wasn’t expecting to get through,” the man admits, his tone telling you he’s nervous, and probably a little drunk.

“Guess it’s your lucky night then. And it’s a late-night show, you can curse all you want to. What’s your name?” you ask, trying to ease him into the conversation.

There’s a pause, the kind that tells you the caller is weighing his options on whether he should give you his real name or not. Finally, he exhales softly, his mouth close to the receiver, enough for the exhale to cut through the static.

“I’m Javier. And you are?”

“You can call me the voice of the night,” you reply, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, the first genuine one in hours.

“Didn’t realize I called the crime fighters hotline.”

The joke catches you by surprise and you let out a little laugh.

“Can’t say I’ve gotten that one before,” you respond before eventually giving him your real name. “So tell me, Javier, what would you like to talk about tonight?”

There’s another pause, longer this time, before Javier’s voice returns softer, and you can tell the tone is about to shift.

“This is stupid, I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry for wasting your time tonight ma’am,” he says, and you can tell he’s seconds away from hanging up.

“Javier, wait –” you say, but he doesn’t respond. The line hasn’t disconnected, so you know he’s still there.

“Listen, I don’t know you – and you don’t have to tell me anything – but I can tell from the tone of your voice that it sounds like you’re carrying quite a bit on your shoulders. It’s brave of you to want to open up about it. Sometimes, talking to a stranger is easier than talking to someone you know,” you say, letting the dead air hang heavy for a second, “let me try to help.” You try not to make a habit out of convincing callers to spill their guts, but something about this call, this man, compels you to.

Javier sighs a sound that carries a world of worry. “I don’t even know where to start. My whole life, I’ve defined myself by my job, and without that, I –” his voice starts to crack, and he stops. You hear the clank of an ice cube against glass, and he continues again, “I realize how alone I am, how I don’t have anyone or anything. I feel like the only company I have these days are the ghosts of a past life.”

You don’t have the full context of his confession, but it hits you deeper than expected, echoing a sentiment that's all too familiar. You think about how most of the time, when you’re not working, you’re either turning to dust on the couch or in the company of fictional men you read about in books.

"Javier," you start, your voice softer, threading through the silence with care, "I understand more than you might think. You're not alone. It might feel that way right now, but I promise you’re not,” you say sweetly.

When he doesn’t say anything, you continue, “Losing a part of our identity, especially one that's been a cornerstone of who we are, is like losing our direction. But it's also an opportunity, a chance to rediscover yourself, to find new aspects of your life that give you meaning and joy."

You pause, giving Javier space, letting your words hopefully seep in to provide some comfort.

“What does that mean – that you understand more than I might think?” he asks, not acknowledging the rest of your statement, a curiosity in his voice.

“It means –” you start. Oh god, here we go. You’re not often like this with your callers, but this feels different. The studio, with its blinking lights and the gentle hum of the machinery, suddenly feels more intimate, as if it's just you and Javier at this moment, connecting through the airwaves.

“When I was little, my mother always knew my things, quirks, you know? Things like the fact that I’m scared of heights, that I get cranky if I don’t eat breakfast, and that I only like ranch dressing on pizza and never salad. It’s all trivial, small little details, but from this, I think I learned that being known is to be loved.

You take a deep breath, and let the silence swallow you whole for a moment before continuing.

“When I say I understand more than you might think, I mean that I’m still one of those people who’s waiting for someone to tell me how much I mean to them, still hoping for someone who will know those things about me, too,” you pause.

“Someone who will hold my hand tightly when I’m on a rooftop so I don’t somehow tumble over the edge, someone who will make sure I eat breakfast, even if it’s just a shitty granola bar, someone who will buy the fancy ranch, even if it only gets used on greasy pizza.”

You hear Javier chuckle through the line.

“Something funny?” you ask, a little confused, slightly embarrassed that this call has somehow reversed the roles and you’re the one spilling your confessions over like a broken yolk into his hand.

“No, no – it’s just ranch on pizza, that’s uh, that’s…disgusting,” he admits, a playful tone to his words, the sadness before seems to be gone, but you know his humor is likely just a mask.

“Excuse me, I’ll have you know ranch on pizza is a classic, and quite delicious. Thousands – no millions – of people like ranch on their pizza, it’s not that weird,” you quip.

“Right,” he rasps, “I’ll take your word for it, sweetheart.” You bite your lower lip and try to ignore the heat that’s risen to your cheeks, the little thrill you feel in your stomach from your banter. You’re quickly brought back to reality when you look at the clock and realize your call time is nearing an end.

“Well, Javier, you're my last call of the night and I’m afraid it’s time to wrap the show up. Is there anything else I can help you with before I let you go?”

“No,” he says, his voice a low rasp, thick like honey, “thanks for saying all of that.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” you say, the smile still on your lips like sugar from cotton candy. You slump back into your chair and the line disconnects.

++++

As the clock ticks past one, the studio lights fall to darkness, leaving only a solitary desk lamp to cast long shadows across the room. You loop the familiar weight of your backpack over your shoulder and put on your headphones.

You lock the studio door, and step into the brisk night air — it’s March, technically Spring, but the remnants of Winter are still holding tight. The city's pulse is tangible, even at this late hour, as you navigate your way to the subway. With only the Eagles in your ear to keep you company, you watch as the Graffiti-streaked walls blur past.

Once off the subway, you think about heading straight home to promptly melt into your mattress, but the rumble in your stomach reminds you that you haven’t eaten since lunch.

Might as well go see Murphy. He’s always happy to see you.

You round around the corner and the bodega lights come into view. The ground beneath you is damp and you’re careful not to step into any puddles as you make your way to the shop. You push open the shop door and the familiar chime of a bell alerts Murphy to your presence.

“Hi Murphy,” you coo, crouching closer to the ground so he can rub up against you. “How’s my favorite boy?” You say, scratching his favorite spot under his chin, feeling the comfort of his soft fur and rhythmic purr. If Murphy had it his way, you’d live at the Bodega, ceasing only to exist to give him love.

Your stomach growls again and you rise, “Gonna get some dinner now, okay Murph?” You walk through the tight aisles, grab a can of tuna as you pass by the canned goods, making your way to the frozen section in the back.

Chicken nuggets it is, you silently tell yourself before grabbing the frozen bag and making your way to the register.

"Hola, Carlos. ¿Cómo va tu noche?" (Hi, Carlos. How’s your night going?)

"Oh, hola.” As much as you’d love to practice your Spanish with Carlos, he needs to practice his English more and you’re more than happy to oblige.

"Good to see you. Listened to your show tonight, what a piece of work some of those people were,” he responds, using his index finger to punch numbers on the cash register.

"Tell me about it. How much do I owe you?"

"$7.50. Murphy says thank you for the donation,” he smiles, holding up the canned Tuna, and like clockwork, Murphy jumps up on the counter and starts assaulting the can with his cheek.

“Like he gave me any choice,” you respond, handing over $10. Carlos gives you your change and you give Murphy a few final loving pats on the head.

“¡Hasta mañana!"

"Buenas noches."

Back in the quiet of your apartment, the microwave fights you, its door refusing to stay closed until you jam it shut with a wooden spoon. With dinner finally spinning inside, you sink onto the couch, the night’s weight lifting off your shoulders. You feel yourself nodding off before the sound of the microwave beeping and the rumble of your stomach wake you up.

Dinner done, you smoke a joint, the smoke curling lazily in the lamplight. Your mind goes fuzzy and you stare up at the ceiling, trying to make shapes out of the popcorn on the ceiling. Your mind drifts to the thought of your last caller and you let your mind wander as you imagine what he might be up to tonight. Is he asleep? Or is he staring up at his ceiling, lost in thoughts as you are?

The only thing you know for certain is that you’re both alone tonight. At least there’s some comfort in knowing you’re not the only one.

The city outside continues its restless murmuring, but your mind goes silent as you fall asleep.

++++

You're grateful to have the next night off. Not like you have plans, but at least you don’t have to show face or wash your hair. Even if you did have to go out in public tonight, it wouldn’t matter — that’s the beauty of New York. You could look like a gutter rat and nobody would give a shit. But still, the freedom of an evening without obligations feels like a luxury, a small pocket of time where the demands of the world fade into the background.

Staring at your nearly empty fridge, its emptiness staring back at you, you sigh. Fuck. And then it hits you, unexpected but undeniable, a craving for pizza. Not just any pizza, but a pie from your favorite local spot, where the crust is always perfectly crisp and the cheese melts in a way that feels like a hug for your taste buds.

Stepping out into the evening rain, you make your way to the pizzeria that’s only a block away. The moment you open the door, a warm wave of garlic, tomato, and baked dough envelops you. The line isn’t long, but it gives you enough time to deliberate over your order, though deep down, you know you’ll end up choosing your usual — a Margherita.

You peek up from your phone and notice the man in front of you at the order counter. Broad shoulders strain against the fabric of his shirt, his tight jeans outlining a figure that speaks of strength. Dark hair and tan skin contrast strikingly under the fluorescent lighting. He orders confidently, his voice smooth, almost familiar. As he’s about to cash out, he adds “Can I get a side of ranch too, please?”

“No problem,” the cashier says, a little too happy to oblige his request. She’s flirting, you don’t know her, but you can tell. When the cashier asks for a name for the order, it confirms what you think you already know.

"Javier." The name hangs in the air, a familiar sound that sends a jolt through you.

It couldn’t possibly be.

The words escape your lips before you have a chance to second-guess it.

“I thought ranch on pizza was disgusting.”

He turns to face you and oh. You might have guessed that he was attractive from his voice, but seeing him is something else entirely. He’s strikingly handsome, with a dark mustache trimmed perfectly above his lip, his jaw stark and chiseled. The corners of his lips turn up in a smirk.

“Shit. Caught red-handed by the crime stopper herself,” he says with a wink.

Okay, so he’s handsome and charming. You’re so fucked.

As Javier steps aside, your gaze lingers for a moment longer before you place your own order. You feel his eyes boring into the back of your head as you do.

“No plans tonight?” He asks, and you shake your head.

“Not really, just this. Might swing by to see my boyfriend on my way home,” you say, noticing the way his expression shifts into disappointment, it’s subtle, but it’s there.

“Oh,” Javier says. He thinks for a second that maybe you were lying last night about understanding what it’s like to be alone.

“Yeah, we’ve got a hot date with a can of tuna,” you respond, smiling as you watch his very visibly confused face, the furrow of his brow. You can tell he’s not quite sure how to respond, the words a tangled knot in his brain, or perhaps conjuring up some weird kinky thoughts about what a date with a can of tuna could entail. He’s not sure he wants to know.

“I’m just messing with you,” you laugh. “He’s a bodega cat up the street, I usually swing by every night after work and I’ve developed a soft spot for the little guy. His name’s Murphy.”

“Wait, Murphy? From Carlos’ shop?” Javier asks, and you’re a little surprised.

“You know Carlos?”

“Yeah, yeah — he’s friends with my father. Great guy,” he adds, nodding to the pizzeria worker who hands him his order. You notice the blush on her cheeks when he says thank you.

You watch intently as the other worker packs up yours, placing two to-go containers of ranch on your box.

You grab your pizza and use your free hand to grab one of the containers of ranch and extend it to Javier. “For you,” you smile as you hold it out to him.

“Eat with me?” He asks, grabbing the ranch from your hand, your skin briefly touching.

How could you say no?

You smile and nod, and follow him through the restaurant. He holds the door open for you and places his hand on your lower back as he guides you out. You feel like a schoolgirl with a crush. He’s just being a gentleman, but something about the touch causes something in your core to run hot, a hint of arousal in its warmth.

In typical New York fashion, you find a relatively clean stoop to sit on. With the pizza boxes open on the step in front of you, the steam wafting in the cool night air, you smile at Javier.

“Are you ready to have your world rocked?” You ask, holding the pizza up long enough for the strings of cheese to disconnect from the box. He does the same.

“After you, Cariño.”

Cariño. So he’s a flirt, too.

You dip your slice into the ranch, a perfect amount clinging to the tip, before you bring it to your lips. The anticipation builds with the scent of garlic and herbs wafting up.

You barely pause to savor the moment before you declare, “Some people say the first bite of pizza is the best, but I disagree.” You dunk it back into the ranch and take another, this time bigger than the first, “The second bite is really where it’s at.” Since when did you become Dave Portnoy?

Javier watches with amusement as you delight over your dinner. “Go on now, after you,” you nod, continuing to work on your pizza like a starving dog. You watch as he delicately dunks his pizza into the ranch, and like a baby bird, takes a small bite. You study his expression, a mix of curiosity and amusement, as he carefully chews. His face gives nothing away, a poker face if you ever saw one, until he finally delivers his verdict, “Can’t say it’s my favorite.”

“What?” you gasp, half in disbelief, half in jest. You playfully nudge him, your hand reaching out to liberate the neglected ranch from his box. “Let me save this from your indifference,” you tease, claiming the ranch for your own. The banter feels easy, much like it did when he called in the other night.

“So tell me, Javier,” he stops you “You can call me Javi,” he says.

“Javi,” you smile, picking at a tomato on your second slice. “What made you want to call in the other night?”

He looks at you as you bring the tomato to your mouth, and lets his gaze linger on your lips. You notice.

“That’s a good question. Um,” he says, taking another bite before continuing, his elbows on his thighs, staring out into the street. “Truthfully, I was a little drunk, and a lot alone. I think I just wanted someone to talk to.”

“I get that,” you acknowledge.

“What? You probably talk to dozens of people every day,” he responds, turning to face you this time.

"False. I listen to dozens of people every day, but I don’t really get to talk. At least, not about things that matter, not truly." He gives you a long look, then nods, understanding etched into his features. He doesn’t pry further.

A comfortable silence settles between you as you both work on finishing your pizzas.

"What about you?" you finally break the silence.

"What about me?" he echoes, a hint of curiosity in his tone.

"I spilled my plans for the night, my glamorous date with Murphy. What's on your agenda?" you ask, leaning forward slightly. His tight bicep muscles press up against your arm.

"This," he gestures broadly to the city around you, wrapped in the open night. Then, with a sheepish grin, he adds, "Well, actually, I was planning to go home and watch Paddington 2."

You laugh hard enough to let out a little snort. He looks at you with affectionate eyes, like you’re the cutest thing he’s seen in a while.

“Paddington 2? Like, the bear movie?” you manage between chuckles.

“Yep. I cried through the entire thing the first time I saw it. It made me want to be a better man.”

“I see, well I’ll have to take your word for it, I’ve never seen it.”

"Do you want to come over and watch it?" he proposes, the question hanging in the air. It’s a bold move, especially since you've only just met, but there’s an earnestness in his invitation that makes you pause, considering.

"Only if we can swing by and say hi to Murphy on the way," you quip, bumping your shoulder against his lightly.

“Deal,” he says with a wink.

++++

As the saying goes, you make plans and god laughs.

It's almost as if you could have, perhaps even should have, anticipated this turn of events.

Paddington 2 might as well have been code for want to come over and fuck?

The energy crackling between you two is undeniable, magnetic. His blend of wit, handsomeness, and confident charm weaves an irresistible allure, drawing you in closer with every word, every glance.

It's one of those rare, electric connections that you read about or see in movies, but seldom experience in real life. Yet here it is, unfolding in real-time, a reminder that sometimes the most memorable moments are those you never see coming. You rarely see yourself as the main character, but tonight you feel like one.

In the narrow stairwell, his hips press firmly against yours, your back against the cold wall, arms pinned above your head. His lips find yours with an intensity that leaves no room for hesitation, a crash of desire against desire. You surrender to the moment, tilting your pelvis into his, a plea for more.

The world around you is a blur; it's just the two of you, enveloped in a haze of passion. His hands, desperate and eager, fumble for his keys—a brief interruption in your heated exchange as he struggles to unlock the door without breaking the heat of your gaze, the connection of your lips only momentarily severed. The anticipation builds with each fumbled attempt, heightening the intensity as you eventually enter his apartment and he has you pressed up against the door.

His lips trail from yours down the razor edge of your jaw, the hallow of your throat, over your collarbones, and down the valley of your still-clothed chest. “Javi,” you moan, and he responds with a groan into your chest. He looks up at you through his gorgeous lashes, “Can I take this off, Cariño?”

“Yes, yeah — shit, yes, please.”

He makes quick work of your shirt and assists it over your head, before returning his lips to your soft skin and working to undo your bra at the same time. “God damn” he mumbles under his breath, and you can’t help but feel the warmth rush to your chest and cheeks, “so pretty.”

You can’t even remember the last time you were touched like this, nonetheless kissed. Your skin erupts in goosebumps as he makes his tongue trail over one of your nipples, the other being teased slightly between his fingers. The sensation causes you to tilt your head back in ecstasy and you let out a soft moan. “Oh, yeah? You like it when I do that, baby?” You nod your head in response. “Use your words.”

“Yes, oh god — feels so good.”

“That’s better.”

You bring both of your hands to the waistband of his denim and pull him in closer to you, close enough to feel his hard cock, desperate to be touched. He brings his hands to grip your hair, baring your throat to him. He forces your legs apart with his knee, shoving it against your core. You begin to slowly grind on the denim.

“Want more?”

“Fuck, yes — ” you whimper with another grind against him. He kisses you again, one hand tightly gripping your hip and the other wrapped in your hair. You cling to him, arms wrapped around his middle until you drop them to find his belt buckle. His lips find yours once more, and he sucks the bottom one into his mouth before biting it and letting go.

He steps back, and you work to remove the rest of your clothing and shoes. You shimmy your pants over your thighs, taking your underwear with you. He thought you were beautiful from the moment he turned around and saw you, but seeing you standing in front of him, chest heaving, bare and perfect just for him, is another story. He slides his pants and underwear off in one go, kicking them off the side along with his boots.

He only gives you a moment to admire his form, cock hard and thick, the tip of it red and weeping, before he surges forward and kisses you with new passion. He licks the seam of your lips before forcing it open with his tongue, swallowing every one of your moans like they’re a gift just for him.

When you both can’t breathe, he pulls back and peppers kiss down your neck once more before he sucks a hickey into your neck, eliciting a breathy moan from you. He smirks against your skin and moves to the expanse of your shoulder, finding a new spot to bite and suck.

He forces his thigh between yours again, pushing the expanse of it right up against your bare pussy. You moan and cling to him, once again riding his thigh. “You gonna come on my thigh, baby?” He questions against your skin, feeling your shoulders shudder from his breath ghosting along your neck. He tightens his grip on your waist and rocks you forward, “Use me. Want to feel you soak me,” he hums, kissing your neck. You’re lost in the haze of your arousal, chasing the friction you so desperately need.

“Answer me, Cariño.”

“Y-yes.” You breathe, tightening your grip on him. You grind against him more, faster, harder. “Want it so bad.” And fuck, you do, you need it so bad but you’re not sure you can get there from just this.

“What do you want, beautiful?” He questions with another bite to your skin. “Do you want to come on my thigh like the good little slut I know you are?” You whine at the filth of his words, the warmth of his praise causing your belly to tighten. He tightens his grip on your hips and guides you faster on his leg, his fingers digging into your skin, hard enough you hope you bruise.

“Show me how pretty you are when you come, Cariño — make a mess of me,” Your body seizes up and you throw your head back and let out a guttural moan. The spot where your pussy rests against his thigh gets wetter. When you tilt your head back up, his eyes are what throws you over the edge. He holds your gaze as he watches you come for him, on him, because of him. “Fuck, that was gorgeous,” he moans, holding you steady as you come down from your orgasm.

“Bed. Now,” he demands, guiding you through the hall and to his bedroom.

You fall back onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress with a small oof, your breasts bouncing with the movement. He holds his heavy cock in hand by the base as he gently strokes himself, and watches as you part your legs wide open for him and finger yourself.

He continues to work himself while staring at your tight, slick hole, dripping just for him. His eyes go impossibly dark as he watches your fingers saw in and out, you’re really quite the sight.

“Shit, Cariño. Look at your little pussy,” his voice in between a whine and a whimper, as he steps forward between your legs and begins to position himself at your entrance. One hand on your knee, the other holding himself, he presses the head of his cock into you, making you moan, his tip alone is a stretch you’re unfamiliar with — it’s intense but good.

He’s not trying to taunt you, not really. “Just wanna make sure you’re nice and ready to take this fat cock,” he says, pressing just the mushroom head in and out of you. The slow drag of it is excruciating, enough for you to let out a plea of please fuck me. “Look so good like this, baby. Can feel you sucking me in, she wants it bad, doesn’t she?”

You nod, “More, Javi. Need to feel you inside of me, please,” you plead, holding your thighs behind your knees, spreading yourself wider for him, giving him full access to your cunt.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, thrusting the full length of him into you, and ohhhhmyfuck.

Your pussy walls flutter and tighten around him, and he lets out a wrecked groan. He draws his hips back and slams that back into you with enough thrust that your tits bounce. His thrusts are hard, but slow, giving you time to adjust to his size. He’s quick to pick up the pace, causing you to sob in pleasure, broken moans leaving your lips as he knocks the wind out of you with each snap of his hips.

He draws himself nearly out, his cock glistening with your slick, and he grabs both of your hips to hold you steady as he fucks into you. “Look at the mess we’re making together, Cariño. So fucking beautiful, you’re taking this cock so well.” You’re starting to realize that he’s a smooth talker both in and out of bed.

You wail as he picks up his speed, panting and grunting, groaning as he watches the thin skin of your pussy stretch around his girth. He releases one of his hands from your hips and brings the pad of his thumb to the swollen clit between your folds, and begins to rub tight circles.

“So tight, baby, little cunt’s trying to make me come, isn’t she?” He groans, his pace slowly slightly, his stomach muscles tightening and his jaw clenched shut.

“Want you to, want you to fill this hole up with all of your come. Want to feel you drip out of me, need to feel you.” Your words spur him on more, and he continues working your clit, his cock thrusting in and out of you, “oh god, please, please, please.” You’re not usually one to beg, but something about him has it pouring out of you.

“Yeah? Want me to fill you up, baby? I will if you come with me,” he says, an intensity, an urgency behind his voice. You’re so close, you think you’ll be able to come with him, but before you have the chance to get there, you watch as he squeezes his eyes shut to try and collect himself, but he’s too close, nearly over the edge of his orgasm. His cock starts to swell and his movements get a little sloppy.

“Come in me, Javi. Want to feel you,” you moan, your voice a seductive whisper, and that does it.

His hips stutter, “Fuck, Cariño,” he groans, his voice a wreck, as he buries himself to the hilt inside of you and starts to throb ropes of his warm spend in you. There’s so much that it spills out of you and down your asscheek.

“Oh such a messy, pretty pussy,” he groans, admiring the way your cunt looks stuffed full of him, the glisten of your release and his on his cock, “Milking me so good.”

“Gonna make you come for me again beautiful,” he says, cock still spearing you, throbbing and pulsing as he collects some of his spend on his fingers and brings it to the needy button between your legs. It doesn’t take much to get you there, and within seconds you’re on the brink of your orgasm.

The warmth that pools in your belly grows and radiates through your limbs until your whole body feels tingly and your vision goes white.

“Oh my god, Javi, I’m coming,” you wail, a blubbering mess of pleasure, until you’re drowning in the sea of your orgasm.

“Can feel you squeezing me, sweet girl,” he groans, both out of pleasure and a little bit of over-stimulation on his already spent cock, “So. Fucking. Pretty. Such a good girl,” he says as he works you through the last of your orgasm. After you come down from your high, he gently pulls out of you, and a little trail of his come follows and spills out onto the sheets below.

“Jesus, Javi. That was something else,” you say, blissed out and thoroughly fucked. You nestle up into his chest like it’s easy, it comes naturally, a movement you don’t even question. He wraps his arm around you and plants a soft kiss on the top of your head in response.

“Can I say something?” He asks, and you look up at him a little worried. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I’d buy the fancy ranch for you.”

END

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END A/N: the line she gives Javier in response to knowing what he means in the first part of the fic is adapted from a poem. I wrote it down, but forgot to name the author. So credit to the author, whoever it is.

#fic rec #q

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