What he did to his hair???!!! đ˛
i think ur oral fixation surprises both you and joaquin when you take his dog tags into ur mouth and suck on them. they're just dangling in your face how could you ever resist
oh my god?? my jaw is on the floor. this is insane. i love it. (18+)
it wasnât like you could stop yourself.
you were already a little out of itâjoaquĂn had been treating you too good all night. from dinner, where he played footsie with you under the table until your heel slid just a little too high, leaving him red-faced, to the way he kissed you against the door before you could even get your keys out. and now, after everything, after heâs had you gasping and writhing beneath him, youâre both wrecked and breathless, tangled together in the sheets, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips roll against yours.
itâs a sweet pace, a little sloppy, his rhythm faltering as his body trembles. heâs close. you can tell by the way his huffs turn into short, needy whines.
joaquĂn loves missionary, loves looking at you, touching you. but right now, his eyes are squeezed shut, brows furrowed tight as his fingers tangle in your hair, cupping your jaw like he canât bear to let go.
every thrust rocks you against the mattress, the old frame creaking beneath you both. the headboard knocks against the wall in time with your moans, the wet, desperate sounds between you filling the room. and over it all, thereâs the soft, steady clinking of his dog tags.
your gaze drops from his face to the chain hanging around his neck. the tags sway with every movement, catching the faint light from the window, gleaming silver against the tan of his chest. itâs distracting, the way they dangle just above your lips, taunting you. you donât thinkâjust actâlifting your head as he drives particularly deep, parting your lips so the tags graze your skin, clinking against your teeth before you take them fully into your mouth.
it takes joaquĂn exactly two seconds to notice.
the slight tug at his neck drags him forward, and his eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused at first until he seesâ
oh.
a shudder wrecks through him, his hips stuttering to a halt as a deep, broken groan spills past his lips. he stares down at you, panting, his dog tags resting on your tongue, your lips wrapped around the cool metal. you stare back, never breaking eye contact as you flatten your tongue against them, tracing over the engraved letters of his name and military rank. captain torres.
the taste is sharp, bitter and metallic, and you moan around it, letting the sound vibrate against the chain. his hand tightens in your hair, fingers flexing.
"quÊ⌠quĂŠ haces?" joaquĂn rasps, voice wrecked, thick with something he doesnât fully understand yet. his brows knit together, but the heat in his gaze betrays him.
you hum around the tags, sucking lightly before letting them drag against your lips as you pull back just enough to murmur, "couldnât help it. they were just⌠there."
joaquĂn lets out a choked noise, somewhere between a curse and a groan, his grip on you tightening. he presses his forehead against yours, exhaling shakily.
"dios mĂoâŚ"
his breath is hot against your skin, his chest heaving, but you donât let up. you close your lips around the tags again, sucking, a little filthier this time, pulling him down with you. his chain tugs against the back of his neck, making him swallow hard. his hips jerk forward on instinct, and you sigh through your nose at the way his cock fills you again, deeper than before.
joaquĂn doesnât even try to hold back his groan this time. his fingers tighten around your hand beside your head, gripping like itâs the only thing grounding him. then your nails scrape against his scalp, urging him on.
that does it.
he snaps his hips forward, rutting into you with a newfound urgency, his rhythm completely wrecked. the bed creaks louder, his moans slip freer, and youâre right there with him.
heâs never going to be able to wear these without thinking about this moment again.
Masterlist | Buy me a coffee
Summary: Bucky has no idea how two people who have known each other for two decades can be so blind to their feelings for one another. At first, it was somewhat comical, the two of you dancing around your obvious attraction for one another, but Bucky has grown tired of pretending that your relationship is strictly platonic.
Pairing: Sam Wilson x Reader
Warnings: FLUFF (some angst if you squint), mutual pining, mentions of Riley (CA:TWS), Bucky meddling in your relationship, mentions of the Blip, alcohol consumption, Reader and Sam being two oblivious idiots in love, no use of y/n
Word Count: 3.8k
Song Inspo: "Platonic" by Ryan Hurd
Authorâs Note: So, I saw Brave New World in February and haven't been able to stop thinking about Sam Wilson since. The x Reader tag for my boy is absolutely lacking so I decided to write something for my cap. Hope you guys enjoy some good ole Sam Wilson fluff. Let me know what you guys think and if you have any Sam Wilson x Reader recs on tumblr. Please, I'm desperate.
âYou know you could just ask him out, right?â
You choke down your beer, nearly spitting it out as Bucky speaks up beside you. The two of you have been quietly sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the shitty, hole-in-the-wall Irish pub that Sam insists on frequenting whenever all three of you are in D.C. at the same time. The little tradition had started as a coping mechanism after the three of you were blipped back into existence. You remember Sam begging you to accompany him to OâMalleyâs the first time. And you remember sitting between your best friend and Bucky Barnes â it looked almost comical, an ex-Hydra assassin, a former Air Force pilot, and the newly named Captain America drinking a beer together. At first, you thought that Sam had asked you to come as a way to get you out of your house after everything that happened, but as the three of you sat in uncomfortable silence together, you realized that Sam brought you as a buffer. In all the years youâve known the charismatic Sam Wilson, you never met someone he couldnât talk to.
And then you met James Buchanan Barnes.Â
Unlike Sam, you quickly fell into a cordial friendship with Bucky once you broke the ice. Heâs both headstrong and cocky but also observant and aloof. People who meet him in passing might comment on how quiet he is, but you know heâs incredibly opinionated â hell, you made the mistake of commenting about baseball during your trioâs second outing together and had to listen to the man complain about the Brooklyn Dodgers moving to LA for a good thirty minutes. But what really bonded you with Bucky was Sam. You know that when Bucky looks at Sam, he sees what Steve saw in him â the man that Captain America decided was worthy of his mantle.Â
He reminds you of Riley in many ways, and thatâs why Sam had a more challenging time getting on board with the three of you hanging out together at first. Because for so long, it was just you, Sam, and Riley. You met Sam at boot camp, and then you met Riley shortly after. The three of you ran pararescue missions together â Sam and Riley clad in Exo-7 flight suits while you manned the C-130, which, thanks to a big government contract with Stark Industries, integrated cloaking systems and environmental blending. Then, on a routine mission, Riley got shot out of the sky, and suddenly it was just you and Sam. Sam became a PTSD veteran counselor, you got a piloting job with SHIELD stationed in D.C. to stay close to him, and then the two of you became regulars at OâMalleyâs due to its proximity to both of your apartments. A part of Sam was afraid that he was replacing Riley by inviting Bucky into the space you share with him, but he had made a promise to Steve before heâd gone back in time with the infinity stones. And slowly but surely, the two became close friends, bonding over shared military stories, their musical tastes, and their deep respect and adoration for you.Â
âWhat the hell are you talking about?â
Bucky scoffs at your question before taking another swig of his beer. He knows youâre playing dumb â the two of you have been participating in this same song and dance for the better part of a year now. Two months into regularly drinking with Sam and Bucky at OâMalleyâs, you drunkenly confessed to Bucky that you harbor feelings for your best friend. He pretended to be shocked, but he knew about your little secret after first meeting with you and Sam. Bucky may be a tad out of touch with new social norms â the man hasnât participated in the dating scene since the 1940s â but the act of pining hasnât changed over the decades that have passed.Â
âWeâre just going to pretend you havenât been brooding all night after Sam got whisked away by those girls?â
You roll your eyes at Buckyâs question. The annoyance weaved into your expression doesnât come from a place of malice but instead draws from your frustration at how well Bucky understands you. Sam will always be your best friend, but Bucky has become something like a brother to you over the past year â an empty role in your life since Riley passed away. And after all, Bucky is an older brother â a protector â at his core. He may have lost his little sister a lifetime ago, but the instincts were still there, buried deep down until you and Sam showed up in his life.
âBrooding is your thing, Buck.â
âExactly. So, can you stop stepping on my shoes?â
A smile tugs at your lips as Bucky playfully nudges you with his elbow. You know heâs trying to lighten the mood, and his humor has made you feel a little lighter; however, thereâs still a gnawing in the pit of your stomach as you watch one of the girls slowly slide their hand down Samâs arm. Bucky follows your gaze and lets out a tired sigh.
âSeriously, kid. Whatâs stopping you from just asking him out?â
âHeâs my best friend, Buck.â
Bucky arches a brow at your reasoning. You say it as if itâs the answer to all of your heartache â as if itâs a valid excuse to hold yourself back from happiness. He has no idea how two people who have known each other for two decades can be so blind to their feelings for one another. At first, it was somewhat comical, the two of you dancing around your obvious attraction for one another, but Bucky has grown tired of pretending that your relationship is strictly platonic. Heâs been trying to intervene, but whenever you think about confessing your feelings to Sam, you immediately talk yourself out of it. And Sam isnât any better. Buckyâs tried to talk some sense into him at least a dozen times, but heâs sure you donât feel the same way about him.
âI could always set you up with one of my friends.â
âIâm fairly certain you only have two friends, and theyâre currently at this bar, Buck.â
Bucky rolls his eyes as he finishes his beer.Â
âBelieve it or not, I do have a life outside of you and Sam.â
He places the empty bottle on the counter along with a five-dollar bill before layering his leather jacket over his long-sleeve t-shirt. Itâs a mild spring day, but you know he doesnât wear the extra layers for warmth. Theyâre worn for the same reason as his leather gloves â security that his shiny, metal arm is covered. Bucky spares Sam one last glance before turning his attention back to you. Youâre nursing the beer in your hand, simply waiting for Sam to notice you again. He gently grabs your shoulder with his good hand, and Buckyâs heart breaks in his chest as you look up at him with sad eyes.
âJust think about it, okay?â
You nod at his question, and Bucky releases his hold before heading home for the night. With a sigh, you finish your lukewarm beer and order another while waiting patiently for your best friend. Sam Wilson has always been the life of the party â the man who shines like a ray of sunlight even on the darkest days. But the Captain America mantle came with a newfound attention that Sam seems to revel in. You, however, find yourself struggling with it â it had been just the two of you for so long, and now you feel like youâre sharing him with all of America.Â
But little do you know that even now, with the entire bar vying for his attention, Sam feels drawn to you like some invisible string is pulling him back. His eyes scan the crowd at OâMalleyâs until they find you. He gives you a bright, genuine smile â the kind that leaves you grinning from ear to ear. You watch as he excuses himself from the lively conversation and approaches you. He slides into the seat beside you, shoulder bumping against yours as he leans into your space to grab the beer in front of you. You shoot him a playful glare as he takes a drink out of your beer bottle, and he winks at you in response. He places the bottle back in front of you before speaking.
âBucky already left?â
âYou know the old man â has to be home before bedtime.â
Sam laughs while throwing an arm back across your chair. You donât even think twice about the action; Samâs done it at least a thousand times at this point.
âAre you ready to get out of here?â
You give him an eager nod, desperate to get some fresh air. Sam laughs at your reaction before paying both of your tabs. Like in the bar, you donât think twice as Sam slings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as you walk down the streets of the nationâs capital. Not even as he walks up the five flights of stairs with you to your apartment, unlocking the door with the key you gave him ages ago. Not even as he moves through your apartment as if it were his, opening your fridge to grab two beers and rifling through your junk drawer to find the bottle opener he knows is in there. Not even as Sam falls asleep on your couch again after a night of talking for hours. You donât think twice because this is how itâs always been between you and Sam â itâs always been comfortable, domestic.Â
But, for some reason, tonight is different. As you sit on your kitchen counter, finishing your beer, Samâs loud snores from your living room are drowned out by Buckyâs words from earlier this evening ringing in your ears. This is what your life has always looked like, but is this all it will be â waiting for your slice of Samâs increasingly divided time? Youâre happy for him. Truly. Sam deserves everything that the mantle of Captain America comes with â the attention, the popularity, the spotlight. Youâre overjoyed that the world is finally seeing what youâve seen in Sam all along, but a small part of you is jealous. And that jealousy is starting to eat you alive.Â
You sigh, downing the last of your beer before sliding your phone out of your pocket. Scrolling through your contacts, you find Buckyâs name. You listen to the phone ring twice before Bucky answers your call. Concern is evident in his voice as he says your name. You rarely call him this late, but you know youâd talk yourself out of this in the morning.Â
âIâll do it, Buck. Set up the date.â
âItâs about time, kid.â
You spend the rest of your agonizingly slow week second-guessing that phone call. Hell, you almost call Bucky at least a dozen times to cancel the date altogether â to simply state that Buckyâs advice is ridiculous and youâre perfectly fine with your current situation. But, ultimately, you decide this is for the best. If your goal is to get over your absurd crush on Sam Wilson, then you actually need to start working on it. So, even though youâve managed to worry yourself sick on Friday, you still manage to get yourself ready that evening and leave your apartment. A small smile pulls at your lips as you stand outside the address Bucky texted you several days prior. Youâre thankful he chose a casual ramen spot for the blind date. It makes the whole experience a little less high stakes â like you could leave at any time with limited consequences.Â
With an exasperated sigh, you finally bite the bullet and pull open the door to the small establishment. The bell above you rings, and youâre greeted by a friendly man behind the counter, telling you to sit wherever you want. You turn towards the quaint dining room and, to your surprise, see a familiar figure sitting at one of the tables. Sam Wilson looks just as surprised as you feel. Your feet move on their own accord as you approach your best friend. He looks nice â clad in a maroon polo and his nicest pair of jeans.Â
âWhat are you doing here, Sam?â
You found it strange that you never received your weekly text from Sam asking you about your Friday night plans. But you concluded that either Bucky told him about your blind date or Sam planned a date for that evening as well. But this was an outcome you never expected.
âBucky set me up on a blind date with one of his friends.â
Your brow furrows at Samâs confession.
âBucky set me up on a blind date with one of his friends.â
Sam looks at you as if youâre speaking a different language, and embarrassment washes over you as you realize that youâre right: Bucky Barnes only has two friends, and theyâre currently looking at each other stupidly in a family-owned Ramen joint. Anger rushes through your veins as the realization sets in, but Sam still looks dumbfounded.
âSo, Bucky set us up on a date.â
âOh.â
You wait for him to continue, but he just sits at his empty table, at a loss for words. Usually, the silence between the two of you is comfortable; however, right now, it's excruciating. You suddenly feel about two inches tall as you stand before Sam. As the room gets twenty degrees warmer and the walls begin closing in, you decide itâs probably best if you get out of here.Â
âThis was a stupid idea.â
You turn away from Sam, but before you can take a step towards the door, he grabs your hand. The contact causes you to look back at your best friend, whose gaze is surprisingly tender. Your body relaxes ever so slightly, and, against your better judgment, your hand tightens around his.Â
âIt doesnât have to be.â
His tone is genuine, but thereâs still that voice in the back of your head gnawing at you. Thereâs no way that your best friend suddenly wants to go on a date with you. That shit doesnât happen in real life. This isnât a movie â he hasnât been waiting almost two decades for this exact moment to express his feelings for you. You keep your expectations low because although Sam is a superhero, this isnât a fairytale. Still, you let him gently tug your body into the seat across from him.Â
âYou donât have to do this, Sam.â
Samâs brow furrows, and a look of genuine confusion washes over his features. He studies you for a moment before speaking.Â
âYou think I donât want to go on a date with you?â
You roll your eyes at his question. This whole conversation is ridiculous, and itâs beginning to feel like Sam and Bucky are pulling a practical joke on you right now. But Sam looks at you expectantly, waiting for your answer, so you play along even though you arenât happy about it.
âCâmon, Sam.â
Sam simply arches a brow at you with a bewildered expression, and for a moment, your resolve falters. What if this is real? What if this isnât some stupid joke between Sam and Bucky? Whatâs the harm in just letting this moment play out? With a sigh, you look up at Sam, who is still studying your features.Â
âSam, Iâm pretty certain that if you were interested in me at any point in the last twenty years, youâd have asked me out by now.â
Sam huffs out a laugh at this, and suddenly, he looks embarrassed. This reaction confuses you. Sam is a confident man â heâs rarely self-conscious about himself or his decisions.Â
âYeah, about thatâŚâ
Your heart lurches in your chest as he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he tries to find the right words. And as he meets your eyes, thereâs an emotion in his gaze that you canât quite place.Â
âWhat is it, Sam?â
Sam sighs before speaking.
âThis isnât just platonic for me.â
Suddenly, your world comes to a screeching halt. This feels like an out-of-body experience â like some sort of dream â and youâre pretty sure if you pinched yourself right now, youâd wake up alone in your apartment. But that doesnât happen. Youâre really here with Sam, having this conversation.
âHow long have you felt like that?â
Sam looks away from you as he thinks for a moment, wanting to give you an accurate answer.
âAfter we helped Steve with Hydra in D.C., seeing you in the hospital put things into perspective.â
You were working as a SHIELD pilot for almost two years when Sam went missing with SHIELDâs two most wanted fugitives: Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff. Because of this, it didnât take much convincing for you to ignore your orders and help Steve stop the launch of the helicarriers. Bucky, acting as the Winter Soldier at the time, had taken out most of SHIELDâs air support; however, you and a group of four other pilots managed to get your birds into the air. Although the stakes were high, a part of you felt like it was old times â watching Sam soar through the air in his Exo-7 flight suit from the cockpit of your F-35 Lightning II. The fight was going well until Bucky nailed your left wing with a large piece of debris, causing you to go into a downward tailspin. You attempted to stabilize your aircraft but ran out of time. So, you decided to pull your parachute, but to your horror, the cord was stuck. Sam, grounded due to his broken wings, watched helplessly as your fighter slammed into the Potomac River. You were found by search and rescue after the helicarriers were destroyed and woke up in a hospital bed three days later. Recovery was agonizingly slow, but Sam never left your side â except to check on Steve every so often in the room next to yours. The memory brings a small, sad smile to your face.
âThat was ten years ago, Sam. What stopped you from telling me?â
âOther than everything that happened after that? Youâre my best friend â I didnât want to risk that.â
You suppose heâs right. There was rarely a moment of downtime after you recovered from your fall into the Potomac River. The two of you immediately threw yourselves into helping Steve track down Bucky, and just two years later, all four of you were wanted fugitives due to the Sokovia Accords. Between the years you spent living on the run and the years you lost to the blip, there was rarely a quiet moment until Thanos was finally defeated â until now.Â
âFor me, it was after Riley.â
Samâs eyebrows shot up at your confession, obviously not expecting for you to have fallen first. But, despite his excitement at this revelation, he stays quiet, letting you continue if you want.
âAfter losing him, I couldnât help imagining it being you who got shot down that day. The idea haunted me in my nightmares, and I realized that if I lost you, it would be a different kind of grief.âÂ
Samâs face softens, and he reaches across the table for your hand. He wraps his hand tightly around yours, grounding you back into this moment before speaking.
âYou never have to worry about losing me.â
You scoff at his words, giving him an incredulous look.
âYouâre Captain America, Sam. Running head first into danger is your job.â
âOkay, fair. But I have a very compelling reason to stay alive.â
You laugh, attempting to cover up how flustered you feel due to Samâs words. It doesnât work. Sam smiles as he notices the effect his words have on you. He could get used to this â flirting with you until youâre bright red and stumbling over your words. Itâs undeniably cute, and he canât believe itâs taken him this long to do it.Â
After your emotionally charged conversation, you both need something to eat. The two of you both order ramen, and Sam doesnât let go of your hand until two bowls are set down on the table. You enjoy your meal while Sam occasionally nudges his knee playfully into yours under the table before offering you a flirtatious smile. The conversation that flows between you doesnât feel forced or uncomfortable â it feels both familiar and somehow brand new. The two of you had been navigating the grey area between romantic and platonic for so long that it feels almost liberating to look at Sam and know his true intentions.Â
After Sam pays the bill, giving the establishment's owner a generous tip, the two of you fall into step with one another as you walk toward your apartment. The walk isnât drastically different from the thousands youâve taken before. Sam still slings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side â except this time, you move your hand up and intertwine your fingers. He still walks up the stairs with you to your apartment, unlocking the door with the key you gave him ages again â except this time, he leads you by the hand up all five flights. And he still moves through your apartment as if it were his, opening your fridge to grab two beers and rifling through your junk drawer to find the bottle opener he knows is in there â except this time, as he places the beers behind you, he doesnât move away. Instead, he keeps his hands on the counter, one on either side of your body, caging you in. His expression is soft, illuminated by the lone fluorescent light in your small kitchen. And thereâs an adoration in his gaze that makes you feel lighter than air.
Steveâs words, from what feels like a lifetime ago, ring in your ears as you look up at Sam Wilson, who stands just a breath away: "As the world's expert on waiting too long, don't."
Tired of waiting, you grab Sam by the front of his polo and pull him into you, locking your lips with his as your chests bump into each other. Itâs not a picture-perfect kiss; itâs a little sloppy and frantic, but itâs the type that makes up for the twenty years you spent dancing around your feelings for one another. Eventually, you break away from each other. Sam rests his forehead against yours, and the brightest smile youâve ever seen graces his face â the man looks like sunshine incarnate as he studies your features.
âI should have done that ten years ago.â
The laugh that escapes you is melodic â a goddamn symphony to Samâs ears. And he canât help but kiss you again. And again. And again. In an attempt to make up for lost time and to prove to you, this was never just platonic.Â
Heyo/
I've been away from my socials and just saw the valentine chalenge... but there is no Sam Wilson T^T
Could I still request a Long Distance Relationship between Sam and a female reader pretty please?
Something like she's currently working on a huge project, like opening her company and she needs to be abroad, in Europe, to get a diploma or something? Maybe she's a pastry chef and she's in Paris.
They've been friends for a long time, maybe not seeing eachother much but they used to talk on the phone or text a lot, but now, with the time difference they keep missing each other, not being able to connect and they both realize on each side of the world that there is more to their relationship than just friendship?
Thank youâď¸
áŻâ Pairing: Sam T. Wilson x fem!reader
áŻâ Genre: romance, some angst but fluff
áŻâ Word count: 7k
áŻâ Summary: you and Sam are close friends, and you try to make your friendship survive even as you move to Paris to follow your dream...Will things between you two be okay?
áŻâ TW(s): nothing
áŻâ I should definitely add more sam to my games...
áŻâ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game
áŻâ My Masterlist
áŻâ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!
áŻâ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)
áŻâ MARVEL Bingo
áŻâ English isnât my first language
You stand at the edge of the airport terminal, your luggage at your side, feeling the weight of the moment settle in your chest. Itâs a strange feeling, this kind of departure, one thatâs both thrilling and heartbreaking. Youâve spent so many years building up to this, a chance to work under one of the best pastry chefs in the world, a chance to hone your craft in Paris, and yet, leaving behind everything youâve built hereâespecially the friendship youâve built with Samâmakes your heart feel heavy.
You glance at your phone, the clock ticking closer to your flight time. Sam is still nowhere to be seen. You try not to let the nervousness eat away at you, but itâs hard when you know that this could be the last time you see him for a while. Youâve tried to pretend that itâs no big deal, that itâs just a job opportunity, but deep down you know the truth: itâs not just about the job. Itâs about leaving the one person whoâs always been there for you, whoâs always had your back, the one person whoâs made you laugh when you thought you couldnât anymore.
A shadow falls over you, and you look up to see him standing there. Sam. His smile is warm, but thereâs something about the way his eyes flicker between your face and the ground that tells you heâs trying to hide his feelings too.
âYou made it,â he says, his voice a little too casual. He rubs the back of his neck, the familiar gesture that lets you know heâs nervous.
You canât help but smile, despite the lump in your throat. âOf course, I made it. Iâm not backing out now.â
Sam chuckles, though itâs not the usual laugh youâre used to. It sounds like heâs trying to cover up something. Youâve always known when Samâs hiding something, and right now, heâs hiding the same thing youâre hidingâthe way this feels.
âIâm really proud of you, you know?â he says, his eyes softening as they meet yours.
You blink, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. You know that Sam has always supported your dreams, but hearing it right now, just before you leave, hits you in a way you didnât expect. âThanks, Sam,â you reply quietly, your voice thick. âThat means a lot.â
A brief silence falls between you two, neither of you quite knowing what to say next. The finality of the moment is settling in, and neither of you seems ready to face it.
âSo, this is really happening,â Sam says after a beat, trying to lighten the mood, but thereâs an edge to his voice now, one you recognize from the past. Itâs the edge that comes when heâs trying to mask his vulnerability with humor.
You nod, trying to sound confident even though your heart is beating so hard you think it might break through your chest. âYeah, Iâm going to Paris. Itâs just for a year, Sam. Iâll be back.â
He looks at you for a long moment, his brows furrowed. âA yearâs a long time,â he murmurs, the quietness of his voice striking you.
You bite your lip, not knowing how to reassure him. You want to tell him that everythingâs going to be fine, that itâs just a temporary thing, but thereâs a voice in the back of your head telling you it might not be. A year could turn into longer. You could fall in love with Paris. You could fall in love with the life youâve dreamed of.
And then thereâs Sam. Your best friend. The one person who has always been there for you through thick and thin. The one person whoâs never judged you, even when youâve made mistakes. The one person who knows you better than anyone else.
âIâll miss you,â you finally say, your voice so soft it almost feels like youâre saying it to yourself.
His gaze sharpens, and he steps a little closer, his presence grounding you in a way only he can. âIâll miss you too,â he replies quietly, his voice almost unreadable.
Itâs the way he says it that gets to you, the way it makes your chest ache, like heâs holding something back. Something more than just friendship.
âI wish you didnât have to go,â Sam continues, his voice low, but thereâs something in it now. A vulnerability you werenât expecting. âBut I know this is your dream. I just⌠I donât want things to change between us.â
You swallow hard. Youâve always known that your relationship with Sam was complicated. There were moments when the lines between friendship and something more blurred, but youâd never dared to cross them. Not with Sam. Not when everything between you two felt so natural, so easy. But now, with him standing here, his words hanging in the air between you like a heavy fog, you canât help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was something more there all along.
âYou know things will change,â you whisper, your voice barely audible over the buzz of the airport. âWe canât pretend like they wonât.â
âI know,â Sam says, his voice tight, âbut I donât want to lose what we have.â
You stare at him for a long moment, your heart racing. Thereâs something in the air now, something thatâs shifted, something that feels almost fragile, like if either of you say the wrong thing, it will all break apart.
You open your mouth to say something, but your flight is called over the PA system before you can speak. You glance at the screen, and then at Sam. Heâs standing there, his eyes wide, his body rigid as if heâs afraid of what will happen if he lets go. Heâs afraid of what comes next.
âI guess this is it,â you say, feeling a lump form in your throat. Your fingers twitch at your sides, desperate to hold onto something, to hold onto him, but you donât know how.
Sam steps forward, then hesitates, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. âI donât want it to be.â
His words catch you off guard, and you find yourself blinking rapidly, trying to fight back the tears that are threatening to spill over. You look away quickly, not wanting him to see how affected you are. Not wanting him to see how much youâre struggling with this too.
âWell, Iâll be back,â you finally say, your voice wavering. âIâll be back, Sam. I promise.â
Sam doesnât say anything at first, but you can feel his gaze on you, like heâs trying to memorize every inch of you before you leave. âYeah,â he finally mutters, his voice thick with emotion. âIâll be waiting for you.â
The words hit you harder than you expect, and you have to swallow hard to keep yourself together. You nod quickly, backing away as your flight time gets closer.
âTake care of yourself, Sam,â you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
He doesnât respond immediately, but when he does, itâs with that same familiar warmth. âYou too.â
You turn to leave, but before you take more than a few steps, you hear him call your name. You glance back over your shoulder, your heart racing.
âYeah?â you ask, your voice unsure.
Samâs face is a mixture of emotions, a little sad, a little unsure, but most of all, he looks like heâs holding onto somethingâsomething heâs afraid to say.
But instead of words, he just reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box. He walks toward you quickly, holding it out between you two. Itâs a simple wooden box, nothing extravagant, but it holds a weight to it that makes your breath catch.
âWhatâs this?â you ask, surprised, reaching for it.
Sam hesitates for a moment, like heâs debating whether to give it to you or not, before he presses it into your hand. âOpen it when you get there. If you need a reminder of home,â he says, his voice thick with meaning. âA reminder that Iâll be here when you come back.â
You open the box slowly, your hands trembling. Inside, nestled in velvet, is a small charm bracelet. Itâs simple but elegant, with a few charms on itâone of a plane, another of a heart, and a third of a small pastry bag. You stare at it for a moment, your mind racing, your chest tight as you realize the meaning behind each charm. The plane for your journey, the heart for the love and friendship you share, and the pastry bag for the dream youâre about to pursue.
You look up at Sam, your eyes filled with gratitude and something elseâsomething youâre not ready to face. âI donât know what to say.â
âYou donât have to say anything,â Sam replies softly, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. âJust promise me youâll wear it, okay? That way, no matter where you are, Iâm with you.â
You nod, unable to speak, feeling the tears welling up in your eyes again. This moment is harder than you ever thought it would be. Sam looks like he wants to say more, but he doesnât. He just stands there, watching you, his expression a mix of pride and sadness.
With one last glance, you turn and make your way to the gate, the charm bracelet warm against your wrist as you leave. Youâre not sure what the future holdsâwhether youâll return the same, whether things between you and Sam will changeâbut one thing is certain: no matter where life takes you, Sam will always be a part of it.
And with that thought, you step forward, into the unknown.
The moment you step out of Charles de Gaulle Airport, the Parisian air greets you with a crispness that feels unfamiliar but exhilarating. The city moves at a different rhythm than what you're used toâfaster, more purposeful, yet somehow effortless. People pass by in elegant coats and scarves, their conversations a mix of rapid French and laughter. The scent of fresh bread lingers in the air, mingling with the faint chill of early morning.
This is it. You're really here.
Your apartment is small but charming, tucked away in a quiet street near your new workplace, a prestigious patisserie that has been on your dream list for years. The first few days are a whirlwindâmeeting your new colleagues, adjusting to the kitchenâs pace, getting lost on the metro more times than you care to admit. You should be exhausted, overwhelmed, but instead, you feel alive. Like you're exactly where you're meant to be.
But no matter how busy the days get, thereâs always a moment when your thoughts drift back to Sam.
Your phone buzzes while youâre unpacking, and you donât even have to check to know who it is.
Sam: Landed yet? Sam: Wait, of course you landed, that was hours ago. Are you alive? Have the French kidnapped you? You: Yes, Iâm alive. No kidnappings. Just settling in. Sam: Good. I was about to hop on a plane and rescue you. You: From what exactly? A really good croissant? Sam: Hey, you joke, but Iâve seen some pastries that look too perfect to be trusted. Be careful.
You laugh, shaking your head. Itâs only been a day, and already, he makes the distance feel smaller.
As the week progresses, your routine falls into placeâearly mornings at the patisserie, long hours perfecting techniques, late-night walks along the Seine when the city is quiet and glowing with golden light. But no matter how much Paris tries to pull you in, thereâs always a part of your day reserved for Sam.
At night, when exhaustion weighs down your limbs, you prop your phone against a stack of cookbooks and video call him. The first time you do it, he picks up immediately, his face appearing on the screen with that easy smile that always makes you feel at home.
âHey, look who survived their first week in Paris.â
âBarely,â you say, stretching your arms over your head. âI think my chef wants to kill me. But in an elegant French way.â
Sam chuckles. âWhat does that mean? He insults you with a fancy accent?â
âMore like he stares at me in deep disappointment while saying mon dieu under his breath.â
âSounds terrifying.â
âOh, absolutely.â
These late-night calls become your anchor. No matter how far you are, how much the city around you changes, Sam is always there, steady as ever. Some nights, you talk for hours about nothingâabout the old lady who scolded you for ordering coffee wrong, about how Sam nearly fell off a boat during a mission, about the latest dumb thing Bucky said. Other nights, itâs quieter, just the two of you existing in the same space, even through a screen.
One night, as you sit on your tiny Parisian balcony, overlooking the rooftops, he asks, âDo you ever get lonely over there?â
You hesitate, watching the flickering lights of the city. âSometimes,â you admit. âItâs amazing here, donât get me wrong. But⌠yeah. It gets quiet.â
Samâs voice softens. âWish I could be there.â
Your heart clenches a little, the weight of those words heavier than either of you are ready to acknowledge. âYeah,â you whisper, âme too.â
â
Months pass, and Paris starts feeling less foreign. Your French improvesâat least enough to order coffee without embarrassing yourself. The chef yells at you slightly less. Youâve even made friends with some of your coworkers, sharing late-night meals at tiny bistros after grueling shifts.
But no matter how full your days are, Sam is still your constant.
Your text thread is endlessâupdates, jokes, random photos. You send him pictures of beautifully plated desserts you make, and he replies with exaggerated emojis of awe. He sends you pictures of whatever chaos heâs dealing withâusually involving either a superhero crisis or Bucky doing something dumb.
One night, after a particularly tough day, you text him:
You: Tell me something good.
He replies almost instantly:
Sam: I just saw a guy on the subway wearing a full Spider-Man costume. No context. Just sitting there, scrolling through his phone like itâs normal.
You snort, already feeling lighter.
You: Please tell me you took a picture. Sam: Would I ever let you down?
A photo comes throughâa blurry shot of the Spider-Man impersonator looking very invested in his phone.
You: Youâre my favorite person.
The moment you send it, you realize what youâve just said. Itâs not untrueâSam is your favorite person. Has been for a while. But saying it out loud, even through text, feels dangerously close to something else.
The typing bubble appears. Your stomach knots.
Sam: Yeah?
You hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But before you can think too hard about it, you reply:
You: Yeah.
Thereâs a pause, then another text comes through.
Sam: Good. Youâre mine too.
You stare at the screen, your heart pounding harder than it should. The conversation shifts after that, back to easy jokes, but something lingers beneath it. Something unspoken.
â
It happens during a video call one night. Youâre in bed, wrapped in a blanket, your hair messier than usual after a long shift. Sam is lounging on his couch back home, a game playing on his TV in the background.
âI canât believe itâs been six months,â you say, running a hand through your hair. âFeels like yesterday I was freaking out about moving here.â
âStill freaking out?â
You sigh dramatically. âAlways.â
He chuckles, but then his expression shifts, turning softer. âYouâve done good, though. I knew you would.â
Warmth spreads through you. âThanks, Sam.â
Thereâs a pause, a hesitation in the way he looks at you. Then, quietly, he says, âI think about you a lot.â
Your breath catches. You werenât expecting that. Or maybe you were, but you never let yourself hope. âYeah?â
âYeah,â he admits. âMore than I should.â
Your fingers tighten around the blanket. The line between friendship and something more has always been blurry with Sam, but now, it feels nonexistent.
âI miss you,â you say before you can stop yourself.
Samâs expression shiftsâlike heâs relieved you said it first. âI miss you too,â he says, his voice rougher now. âA lot.â
The silence between you is loaded. There are a hundred things you could say right now, a hundred ways you could push this forward, but before you can figure out how, he sighs.
âWhen are you coming home?â
Your heart aches at the question. âI donât know,â you admit. âMy contract is for a year. Could be longer.â
Sam nods, but thereâs something in his eyes that looks like he wants to ask you to come back sooner. He doesnât, though. He just exhales, running a hand over his face.
âGuess Iâll just have to wait for you, then,â he murmurs.
You swallow hard. âGuess so.â
Neither of you say what youâre both thinking. That maybe, just maybe, waiting isnât enough anymore. That maybe, itâs time to admit whatâs been building between you for longer than either of you realized.
But for now, you let the silence hold it. Because even across an ocean, Sam still feels close. Like home. And youâre not ready to let go of that just yet.
The late-night calls become less frequent.
Itâs not intentional at first. Your shifts at the patisserie get longer, your responsibilities grow, and exhaustion settles into your bones in a way that even Samâs voice canât always shake. Some nights, you fall asleep before you can even send a goodnight text. Other times, you wake up to a missed call from him, the timestamp mocking the time difference that keeps stretching the space between you.
You try. You both do.
Some nights, you fight sleep just to talk to him, propping your phone against a pillow as his voice soothes the ache of missing home. Other nights, heâs the one pushing through his own exhaustion, calling you from some late-night debriefing, his voice quieter than usual, edged with something unspoken.
But then the calls start coming at the wrong times.
Youâll be in the middle of preparing delicate pastries, fingers dusted in flour, when your phone vibrates with Samâs name. Youâll glance at it, stomach twisting, but you canât answer. By the time you get a free moment, the call has ended, and a simple text waits for you instead.
Sam: Guess youâre busy. Call me when you can.
And when you finally do? He doesnât always pick up.
Sometimes heâs off on a mission. Sometimes heâs just tired. Sometimes the timing is just wrong.
One night, after a particularly grueling day, you send a message:
You: I miss you.
You wait. Minutes pass. Then an hour.
Sam: I miss you too.
Thereâs nothing else after that. No joke to lighten the mood. No attempt to keep the conversation going. Just those four words, sitting heavy on your screen.
The distance isnât just physical anymore.
The night you find out your contract has been renewed, you donât call Sam right away.
You should be excited. This is everything you wanted. A year in Paris was the dream, but now they want to keep you longer. Youâre making a name for yourself. Your work is being noticed. This is the kind of opportunity people spend their whole lives chasing.
So why does your stomach twist uncomfortably at the thought of staying?
You stare at your phone, Samâs contact open. You know the time difference is working against you, but you donât care. You press the call button.
It rings. Once. Twice.
Voicemail.
You let out a slow breath, then hang up.
You try again the next day, timing it better, but he doesnât answer.
Itâs late when he finally calls back. Your phone buzzes against your nightstand, jolting you awake. You blink blearily at the screen, then swipe to answer.
âHey,â you mumble, voice thick with sleep.
âHey,â Sam says, but thereâs something off. He sounds tired. Distant. âSorry I missed your call. Things have been⌠hectic.â
You push yourself up, rubbing a hand over your face. âYeah, I figured. Everything okay?â
âYeah. Just the usual. What about you?â
You hesitate. âI, um⌠I got offered an extension on my contract.â
The silence that follows is deafening.
ââŚOh.â
Thatâs all he says. Just oh.
You wait, hoping heâll say more. Hoping heâll tell you what you need to hear. That he wants you to come home. That he misses you too much for you to stay away any longer. That heâ
âThatâs great,â he says, but his voice is forced. âThatâs what you wanted, right?â
You swallow hard. âYeah. I mean⌠yeah, it is.â
Another pause.
âThen Iâm happy for you.â
The words feel hollow.
âSam,â you start, voice softer now, âare we okay?â
He exhales. âI donât know. Are we?â
Your throat tightens. âWe barely talk anymore.â
âI know,â he says, and for the first time in a long time, thereâs frustration in his voice. âYou think I donât notice? You think I donât miss you?â
âThen say that,â you snap, before you can stop yourself.
âI am saying it,â he fires back. âBut what do you want me to do, huh? Fly to Paris every time I miss you? Youâre the one whoâs staying longer, so tell meâwhat are we supposed to do?â
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Because you donât have an answer.
âI donât want to lose you,â you admit quietly.
Samâs voice softens. âMe neither.â
But neither of you say the most important part.
Is this enough?
Because right now, it doesnât feel like it is.
The next few weeks are a blur of long shifts and forced smiles. You bury yourself in work, telling yourself this is what you wanted.
And maybe if you tell yourself enough times, itâll feel true.
But Samâs calls become even less frequent. The texts grow shorter. The conversations feel careful, like youâre both afraid of saying too much or not enough. Like youâre both waiting for the other to make a decision neither of you want to make.
One night, you get a text from him:
Sam: Got called away for a while. Donât know when Iâll be back. Just⌠take care of yourself, okay?
Something in your chest tightens painfully.
You: Be safe.
You donât hear from him for weeks.
And thatâs when you realizeâ
Maybe youâre already losing him.
You canât keep doing this.
The silence, the unanswered texts, the growing space between you and Samâitâs all becoming unbearable. Youâve spent months pretending that your work is enough, that this distance isnât pulling you apart piece by piece. But after weeks without hearing from him, something inside you snaps.
You need to see him. To talk to him. To fix this.
So you do something impulsive. Something reckless.
You take a few days of leave, book a last-minute flight, and before you can overthink it, youâre on a plane heading home.
The entire flight, your mind races. You imagine all the possible ways this could goâhe could be happy to see you, or he could be angry that you showed up unannounced. Maybe heâs moved on, maybe heâs decided this isnât worth it anymore. The fear sits heavy in your chest, but underneath it is something stronger.
Hope.
Because despite everything, you want this. Him. And if thereâs even the slightest chance that Sam feels the same way, you need to fight for it.
You land late at night, exhaustion clinging to you, but you donât waste time. You take a cab straight to his place, hands trembling as you clutch your bag.
And then, youâre standing at his door.
You hesitate only a moment before knocking.
Thereâs shuffling inside. A pause. Then the door swings open, and Sam is standing there, eyes heavy with sleep, hair slightly messy like he just rolled out of bed. Heâs in sweats and a t-shirt, and for a second, he just stares at you, like heâs not sure if heâs dreaming.
ââŚWhat the hell?â His voice is rough with sleep and something elseâsomething unreadable.
âHi,â you say, breathless.
He blinks, then shakes his head, running a hand over his face. âWhatâwhat are you doing here?â
âI needed to see you.â
He exhales sharply, his jaw clenching. âAnd you justâwhat? Flew halfway across the world in the middle of the night?â
âYes,â you say simply.
âJesus, Y/N.â He lets out a humorless laugh, stepping back to let you in. âYouâre insane, you know that?â
âYeah,â you admit, stepping inside. The air between you is thick, heavy with everything unsaid. âBut so are you, so I figured it evens out.â
He shuts the door, turning to you, arms crossed. His eyes search yours, and for the first time in months, thereâs no screen between you. No static. Just him.
âWhy are you really here?â he asks, voice quieter now.
You swallow hard, nerves twisting in your stomach. âBecause we need to talk.â
Sam lets out a slow breath, then gestures toward the couch. âAlright. Talk.â
You sit, trying to collect your thoughts. Sam watches you carefully, his expression unreadable.
âI donât want to lose you,â you start, your voice barely above a whisper.
His jaw tightens. âWeâve been losing each other for months.â
âI know.â The admission stings. âI hate it. I hate how things have been. And I know itâs not just because of the distance. I shouldâveâwe shouldâve tried harder.â
Sam scoffs, shaking his head. âI did try, Y/N. But every time I called, you were busy. And when you called, I was halfway across the world. Itâs not like we didnât care, itâs justââ He stops himself, rubbing a hand over his face. âItâs just hard.â
âI know.â Your throat tightens. âBut I do care, Sam. More than I should, probably.â
His gaze snaps to yours. âWhat do you mean?â
You exhale shakily, your hands gripping your knees. âI mean I miss you. Every day. Every time I see something funny and reach for my phone, only to realize youâre not there. Every time I wake up wishing I could just walk over and see you instead of checking a stupid screen. I think about you constantly, and I hate that I let it get this bad before saying something.â
Sam watches you, something flickering in his eyes. Something dangerous. âYou think I donât feel the same?â His voice is lower now, rougher.
Your breath catches. âDo you?â
His hands clench at his sides. âOf course I do.â He exhales, shaking his head. âDamn it, Y/N, I donât think thereâs been a single day I havenât thought about you. But I didnât know if I was allowed to feel that way. If youââ He stops, his gaze searching yours. âI didnât know if you felt the same.â
Your heart hammers against your ribs. âI do.â
The space between you crackles with something electric.
Samâs jaw clenches like heâs holding himself back. âThen why did you take the contract extension?â
You wince. âBecause I thought I had to. Because itâs everything I worked for. But none of it feels the same without you.â
He exhales sharply, running a hand over his head. âSo what now? You quitting and coming home?â
You bite your lip. âI donât know.â
He lets out a bitter laugh. âThatâs not exactly reassuring.â
âI want to be with you,â you say firmly, leaning forward. âBut I also donât want to ask you to wait for something that might not change anytime soon. Thatâs not fair to you.â
Sam steps closer, shaking his head. âYou donât get to decide that for me.â
Your breath catches. âSamââ
âIâd wait,â he says, his voice steady, sure. âIf it meant being with you, Iâd wait. But we have to actually try this time. No more half-assed calls. No more avoiding things. If weâre doing this, we do it right.â
Your chest tightens. âEven if it means a long-distance relationship?â
He exhales, then nods. âYeah. Even if it means that.â
A beat of silence passes. And then, without thinking, you close the distance between you.
Your hands cup his face, and before either of you can second-guess it, your lips crash together.
The moment his mouth meets yours, everything else disappears. The distance, the doubts, the time spent apartâit all fades into the background. All that matters is this. The way his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. The way his lips move against yours like heâs been waiting for this as long as you have. The way he exhales against your skin, like heâs finally breathing again.
When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, your breath mingling.
âI donât want to let this go,â you whisper.
âThen donât.â His hands tighten around you. âWeâll figure it out. I donât care how long it takes.â
You smile, a real, genuine smile. For the first time in months, you feel light.
Because no matter how far apart you are, you know one thing for sure.
Youâre his. And heâs yours.
And thatâs enough.
The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a golden glow across the room. The sheets are tangled around your bare legs, the warmth of Samâs body pressed against you keeping the chill at bay. His arm is draped over your waist, his fingers splayed against your stomach like heâs afraid to let you go.
For a moment, you let yourself stay there, soaking it inâthe steady rise and fall of his chest, the soft warmth of his breath against your neck, the feeling of his skin against yours. It feels fragile, like something that could disappear if you move too quickly.
You donât want to move.
But reality is waiting.
Your flight leaves in a few hours, and soon, youâll have to pull yourself out of this bed, out of his bed, and get on a plane that will take you thousands of miles away.
Sam shifts behind you, pulling you closer, his lips brushing lazily against your shoulder. His voice is rough with sleep when he murmurs, âWhat time is it?â
You sigh, twisting slightly to glance at the clock. âToo early.â
He groans, burying his face in your neck. âThen letâs go back to sleep.â
âSamâŚâ
His arms tighten around you, his lips pressing softly against your skin. âJust a little longer,â he murmurs.
And God, you want to. You want to stay wrapped up in him, forget about flights and goodbyes and distance. But you canât.
You shift in his hold, turning onto your back so you can see him. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, but thereâs something else there, too. Something that makes your chest ache.
âYou donât have to go,â he says softly, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your stomach.
Your throat tightens. âYou know I do.â
He sighs, resting his forehead against yours. âI hate this.â
âI know,â you whisper. âMe too.â
But the world doesnât stop just because you donât want to leave.
Eventually, you force yourself to get up, the loss of his warmth making you shiver. You gather your clothes, moving around the room in silence as you get dressed, feeling the weight of his gaze on you the entire time.
By the time youâre ready, heâs sitting up in bed, watching you with an expression thatâs impossible to read.
âYou sure about this?â he asks quietly.
You swallow hard. âNo.â
Itâs the truth.
You donât want to leave. But this is your dream, and Sam knows that. He wouldnât ask you to give it upânot really.
But damn, if it isnât tempting.
You step closer, cupping his face in your hands. âWeâre gonna make this work, right?â
His hands settle on your waist, grounding you. âYeah. We are.â
You kiss him, slow and deep, pouring every ounce of feeling into it. Itâs not enough. It never will be. But for now, it has to be.
And then, before you can second-guess it, you grab your bag and head for the door.
Sam follows you to the car, his fingers lacing through yours, holding on tight. He doesnât let go, not even when you reach the airport.
Not even when itâs time to say goodbye.
â
The airport is crowded, the low hum of conversation and the distant crackle of announcements filling the space around you.
Sam stands by your side, your hand still tucked in his, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. Neither of you have said much since arriving, both knowing that anything you say will only make this harder.
You steal a glance at him, taking in the way his jaw is clenched, his expression unreadable. Heâs trying to be strong, but you know him too well.
âI hate goodbyes,â you admit softly.
He exhales sharply. âThen donât say it.â
You offer a weak smile. âNot much of a choice, is there?â
Sam looks down at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, suddenly, his grip on your hand tightens. âCome here.â
Before you can react, heâs pulling you into him, his arms wrapping around you in a way that makes it feel like heâs trying to memorize every inch of you. You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in, trying to do the same.
âLast chance to run away with me,â he murmurs against your hair.
A choked laugh escapes you. âTempting.â
He leans back, his hands coming up to frame your face. His thumbs brush over your cheeks, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
âI love you.â
The words hit you like a shockwave.
Your lips part, your heart slamming against your ribs. âWhat?â
âI love you,â he repeats, his voice steady, sure. âI donât care that this is hard. I donât care that itâs long-distance. I love you, and Iâm gonna do whatever it takes to make this work.â
Tears sting your eyes, your throat tightening as you let the words sink in.
Then, without thinking, you surge forward, crashing your lips against his.
The kiss is desperate, full of everything you want to say but canât. When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, your hands fisting the fabric of his jacket.
âI love you too,â you whisper.
The overhead speaker crackles with your boarding announcement.
You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to stay strong.
Sam presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. âGo,â he murmurs. âBefore I change my mind and steal your passport.â
A watery laugh escapes you. You take a shaky step back, then another, your fingers slipping from his grasp.
And then, with one last look, you turn and walk away.
â
Long distance is hard.
There are days when it feels impossibleâwhen the time zones refuse to line up, when all you want is to feel Samâs arms around you but all you have is a screen and a bad connection.
But you try. You both try.
You make time, even when it seems like there is none. You send voice messages when calls donât work. You plan visits, counting down the days until youâre back in his arms.
Some nights, you fall asleep on the phone together, listening to the sound of each otherâs breathing. Other nights, you video chat for hours, Sam cooking dinner while you sit on your tiny Parisian balcony, both of you pretending the distance doesnât exist.
There are fights, of course. Frustrations. Moments where it feels like too much.
But there are also the little things.
The way Sam texts you good morning, even when itâs the middle of the night for him. The way you send him pictures of every pastry you make, knowing heâll pretend to be impressed even when he has no idea what half of them are. The way he tells you about his day, his voice warm and familiar, grounding you no matter how far apart you are.
One night, months later, as you sit curled up in your apartment, your phone rings.
Itâs Sam.
You answer immediately, smiling as his face fills the screen.
âHey, stranger,â he says, grinning.
âHey yourself,â you tease.
He shifts, his smile turning softer. âGuess what?â
âWhat?â
âI booked a flight.â
Your breath catches. âYouâwait, really?â
âYeah,â he says, watching you carefully. âFigured it was my turn to come to you.â
Tears prick your eyes, a laugh bubbling up in your throat. âSamâŚâ
âI know,â he says, smiling. âI miss you too.â
And in that moment, despite the distance, despite the months apart, you know one thing for sure.
You can do this.
Because love like this?
Itâs worth fighting for.
The moment you spot Sam at the arrivals gate, the months of distance, the countless video calls, and the ache of missing him all fade into the background. Heâs here.
Heâs real.
You barely have time to process it before youâre running toward him, weaving through the crowd without a second thought. His eyes lock onto yours, his lips curling into a grin just before you crash into him, arms wrapping around his neck.
âHey, sweetheart,â he murmurs, his voice warm and familiar.
You bury your face in his chest, inhaling the scent of himâthe scent youâve missed for far too long. âYouâre actually here.â
His arms tighten around you, his lips pressing against your temple. âTold you Iâd come.â
You lean back just enough to look up at him, your hands fisting the fabric of his jacket. âI missed you.â
His thumb brushes over your cheek, his expression soft. âMissed you too.â
And then, because you canât help yourself, you pull him down into a kiss.
The weeks apart melt away as his lips move against yours, his hands steadying you like heâs afraid youâll disappear. You feel the tension in his body, the need, the relief. When you finally pull back, breathless, he presses another quick kiss to the corner of your mouth before murmuring, âSo, are you gonna show me around or what?â
â
Bringing Sam back to your apartment feels surreal. Youâve pictured this moment a hundred times, but nothing compares to the way he actually looks hereâhis duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his eyes flicking around the space with quiet curiosity.
âNice place,â he says, tossing his bag onto the couch.
You grin. âItâs small.â
He shrugs. âItâs you.â
Warmth spreads through your chest. You watch as he moves through the apartment, running his fingers along your bookshelf, pausing to inspect the small collection of photos on the counterâpictures of your family, your friends, one of you and Sam from before you left.
You step beside him, nudging his shoulder. âHungry?â
âI could eat,â he says, smirking. âJet lagâs kicking my ass, though.â
You laugh. âI warned you.â
Before you can pull something together for dinner, your phone buzzes on the counter.
You glance at it, frowning when you see the name on the screen.
Chef Lemoine.
Your stomach twists. Heâs the head of the pâtisserie where you work, one of the most respected pastry chefs in Paris. If heâs calling you after hours, it has to be important.
You exchange a look with Sam, already apologizing with your eyes. âI have to take this.â
Sam waves a hand. âGo ahead.â
You answer, keeping your voice steady. âOui, Chef?â
âI need you to come in,â he says without preamble. âThereâs something we need to discuss.â
You blink. âNow?â
âYes.â Thereâs no room for argument in his tone. âItâs important.â
Your stomach sinks. You glance at Sam, whoâs watching you carefully, clearly reading the shift in your expression.
âIâll be there soon,â you say quickly, then hang up.
Sam raises an eyebrow. âEverything okay?â
âI donât know,â you admit, already grabbing your coat. âI think so?â
He tilts his head. âWant me to come with you?â
You hesitate. As much as you want him by your side, you have no idea what this meeting is about. The last thing you need is for Sam to sit around awkwardly while you talk shop with your boss.
You press a quick kiss to his lips. âStay here. Iâll be back soon.â
Samâs hands settle on your waist, holding you in place for just a moment longer. âDonât keep me waiting too long, sweetheart.â
You grin. âPromise.â
â
By the time you arrive at the pâtisserie, your nerves are running wild. You step into the quiet office, finding Chef Lemoine seated at his desk, scanning through a file.
He gestures for you to sit without looking up. âYouâve done well here, Y/N.â
You blink, caught off guard. âThank you, Chef.â
He finally looks at you, his sharp gaze assessing. âYou have ambition. Talent. And more importantly, you understand the craft.â
Your fingers tighten in your lap. âI appreciate that.â
He exhales, folding his hands together. âI have an offer for you.â
Your breath catches. âAn offer?â
âWe are opening a pâtisserie in New York,â he says simply. âAnd we need someone to run it.â
Your brain stutters to a halt. âYou meanââ
âYouâre from New York, are you not?â
âYes, butââ
âThen it only makes sense. You understand the culture, the clientele. Youâve proven yourself here. I believe you would be the best choice.â
Your heart is pounding.
New York.
Home.
A thousand thoughts race through your head, but one stands out above the rest.
Sam.
You donât even hesitate. âIâll do it.â
Chef Lemoineâs lips twitch in approval. âGood.â
You barely remember thanking him before youâre practically running out the door, your heart hammering against your ribs.
You donât care that itâs late, that youâre breathless by the time you reach your apartment. You donât care about anything except the fact that this changes everything.
Because now, youâre going home.
â
You burst through the door, chest heaving, eyes immediately locking onto Sam. Heâs sitting on the couch, flipping through a book he mustâve found on your shelf, but the moment he sees your expression, he sits up straighter.
âWhat happened?â he asks, setting the book aside.
You rush toward him, barely able to contain yourself. âIâm coming home.â
Sam blinks. âWhat?â
You grab his hands, squeezing them tightly. âTheyâre opening a pâtisserie in New York,â you say breathlessly. âAnd they want me to run it.â
For a second, he just stares at you, like heâs trying to make sure he heard you right. âYouâre serious?â
You nod, grinning so wide it hurts. âDead serious.â
The disbelief slowly melts into something else. Something softer.
âNew York,â he murmurs.
âNew York.â
Sam exhales sharply, then suddenly youâre being pulled into his arms, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that steals your breath.
When he pulls back, his hands frame your face, his eyes searching yours. âSo no more long distance?â
âNo more long distance,â you confirm.
He grins. âI think I can live with that.â
You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck. âGood.â
Sam tugs you closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. âIâm proud of you, sweetheart.â
Your chest tightens. âI love you.â
His arms tighten around you. âLove you too.â
And just like that, the months of distance, the late-night calls, the ache of missing each otherâit all falls away.
Because now?
Now, youâre finally coming home.
Summary : Bucky tells the team he saw his Hydra days in The Void. You are the only one who knows him well enough to know he is lying.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)Â
Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers below the cut!!!!!!! Best friends to lovers. Fluff, bit of angst, reader is mentioned to be an ex-cage fighter. Reader is part of the team. Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. The title is inspired by the song of the same name by Stone Temple Pilots.
Requested by : anon (the ask is very spoiler-y so I have not answer that yet!)
Word count : 4.6k
Note : Please keep the post-thunderbolts* requests going! If youâd like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!
Before the Blip, you were just another number in the system. You were just another fighter in a concrete box, thrown into illegal cage matches as entertainment of the rich and corrupt.Â
You werenât there by choice.Â
Youâd been taken young, trained to fight, to break and survive.Â
You, like many that ended up in the ring, had no family. For as long as you could remember, the only love you knew of was crowds that screamed for blood.
When Thanos snapped his fingers, half your captors turned to dust.
The door was unlocked, and for the first time, no one came to stop you.
You ran.
You later spent the next few years working in the shadows: Bounty hunting, private contracts, smuggling.Â
You had no real allegiances, just a reputation: you always got the job done.Â
Youâve assisted Sharon Carter with her art smuggling, helped Xu Xialing train fighters in her more ethical, opt-in cage fighting endeavours, and ironically, some of the same people you used to fight besides turned to crime when the world lost structure, so you started hunting them for cash.Â
Others had taken to more righteous but extreme causesâlike the Flag Smashers. You tried to keep your distance until Sam Wilson showed up at a bar you get your bounties from and dropped a name you hadnât heard in years. And then Bucky Barnes sat down beside him and said, âWe could use someone like you. Sharon Carter gave you a pretty good reference.â
The mission was to track down an old cage mate of yours who was loyal to Karli Morgenthau.
So you took the job. Then the next. And the next.
Working with Sam was easyâhe had a leaderâs clarity. Getting to know Bucky, however, was a bit of a slow burn. He was distrusting at first, he had little words to say for strangers.
You didnât push, but the more you went on these missions, the more you started noticing the way he always kept you in his eyeline, the way he started covering your flank, and the way he actually laughed at one of your dry jokes on a mission in Beirut.
Over time, it stopped being just a job. You started grabbing takeout with Sam and Bucky. You stuck around their shitty motel rooms talking about music and how weird the world felt now. Joaquin started joining in, too, and somewhere along the way, you became friends.Â
By the sixth joint mission with Joaquin, you and Bucky had inside jokes. By the tenth, he was texting you first when he was lonelyâ not Sam.Â
It wasnât that he intended to spend less time with the new Cap and more with youâ but when Joaquin became his de facto second-in-command, it made sense for Bucky to seek companionship in you.Â
Then came the day he told you he was thinking about running for Congress. You blinked and laughed. He shrugged, saying something about âmaking amends on a bigger scale.â And when you stopped laughing long enough to realise he was serious, you listened. You offered advice, telling him heâd need to hire a security team to keep his campaigns safe. Â
âThatâs why I want you to oversee it,â he said that day.
âAre you kidding me?â you chuckled, sipping on your beer in the bar he had chosen to hang out in, âIâm not a fucking secret service agent.â
âExactly,â he gave you that infuriatingly charming grinâ the one you were sure would win him votes. âI donât trust those people. I trust you.â
So thatâs how you became head of security for his campaign. And it wasnât just work. Those nights often ended in long conversations. Sometimes youâd find him on his balcony after an event, and youâd just sit with him.Â
By the time the campaign was over, you began working private security gigs around D.C., your apartment only ten minutes from his. You both stopped pretending it was coincidence when he started showing up with food or youâd crash on his couch after staying out too late. Somewhere along the line, youâd become his closest friend.
After everything youâd both been through, it just made sense.
â
Post-void New York, 2027.
Bob had just quite literally been dragged out of a personal hell of his own making and nobody at the table came out unscathed. Not really. Not after that.
But at least you all were alive. And starving.
Especially after Val ambushed you with that press conference.Â
The five of you had decided on the dingy pizza joint. It was a miracle the place was even open considering what had happened to the city, the old red-neon âPIZZA BY THE SLICEâ sign buzzed overhead like it was short-circuiting from your collective trauma.
Yelena had chosen the booth closest to the back. She claimed it was strategicâ"less visibility from the windows"âbut Alexei knew she just liked to sit with her back to a wall. She had a slice of extra cheese, grease dripping down her fingers as she methodically peeled off the mushrooms.
Alexei was next to her, cutting his slice with a plastic knife and fork like it was a fine steak. âIâm civilized,â he announced when Bucky raised an eyebrow.
Ava was perched on the end of the booth, chewing through two slices stacked on top of each other, sauce smeared across one cheek. Her tactical suit. had one broken buckle that kept slipping open.
John sat across from them with his boots up on the chair next to him, leaning so far back in his seat it creaked like it was about to break. He had a half-empty cup of soda and two untouched slices in front of him.
You were tucked into the booth with Bucky beside you. He hadnât said much. Neither had you. But you kept elbowing each other every few minutes, like some kind of private Morse code. He could tell you were spiraling; you could tell he was deflecting. Classic.
The pizza in front of you was a crime scene of pepperoni and pineapple, but it was food, and no one had eaten in hours. The last time you'd all stopped was... hell, who even knew? Between the vault and New York, you probably havenât eaten in more than half a day.Â
Bob sat at the far end of the table, happily munching through the single marinara in front of him.
You tore off a piece of Buckyâs crust (because he didnât really like the burnt bits) and popped it into your mouth. âOkay,â you said, loud enough to cut through the clatter, âVoid Talk. Letâs go. Everyone cough up your horror visions.â
Everyone around you let out a chorus of groans.
âNope,â said John, around a mouthful of dough. âAbsolutely not.â
You narrowed your eyes and smacked him upside the head â not hard, just enough to remind him who was in charge of emotional vulnerability tonight.
âOw! What the hell!â
âJohnathan,â you said, sliding into your Serious Voice. Bucky turned toward you slightly, recognising the tone immediately. âWe are a family now. Families communicate. Have you learned nothing from all this shared trauma?â
âI learned youâre annoying,â John almost snapped, rubbing his head. âAlso, donât call me that. Youâre not my mom.â
âYou wish I was your mom,â you shot back. âYouâd actually be emotionally stable.â
âAnd get your horrible taste in pizza?â he snapped, but kept earring anyways. âNo thanks.â
âRude,â said Yelena, pointing at the pie with righteous indignation. âThis is quality dollar-slice. Best in New York. Kate Bishop said so.â
âOh, well if Kate Bishop said so,â Ava deadpanned, finally skewering an olive. âLet me just re-evaluate my whole palate.â
âShe has good taste,â Alexei defended, somehow sipping from two sodas at once.
You laughed. For once, you felt warmth in your ribs. You felt Buckyâs elbow nudging yours again, this time a little more gently. He still hadnât really spoken, but when you glanced his way, he gave you that half-smile, the one he reserved just for you.
âCome on, then,â you said, âTrauma-sharing time.â
Bobâs smile faltered, the small in his eyes dimming in his eyes a little. âI have a feeling you all saw me in there,â he said, though he aimed it mostly at Yelena.
She didnât answer immediately. Just reached for another garlic knot and tore it in half with more force than necessary.
Ava smiled, softer than usual, then said, âNo shit.â
Yelena exhaled through her nose, like it took effort just to stay seated. âMine was Red Room,â she said with a shrug. âAll of it. The smells. The punishments. Everything.â
Alexeiâs hand tightened around his soda. The can crinkled slightly.
âI saw the day I sent you and Natasha away,â he said, with a deep breath.Â
Yelena glanced at him, eyes still unreadable, but her mouth curved just a little. Forgiveness, maybe. Or just understanding.
Ava poked at the toppings âPain. Again. Thought I was over it, but apparently my brain missed the memo.â
You looked over, met her eyes. She offered a crooked smile and nudged your ankle under the table.Â
John cleared his throat, rough like gravel. âLemar,â he said, knowing everyone could put two and two with just the name. âAnd⌠my kid. You know the rest.â
You reached over and bumped your shoulder against his. This time, he didnât flinch.Â
Then the attention turned, inevitably, to you.Â
You rolled your shoulders, and looked down at your grease-stained napkin on the table like it was about to reveal the location to the fountain of youth. âCage match. My opponent was new. Couldnât have been more than fifteen.â You picked at the crust in your hand. âI didnât have a choice, it was kill or be killed.â
You heard murmurs of understanding around the tableâ sympathy, but not pity. Even John, who had the emotional bandwidth of a concrete wall most days, sighed.
No one noticed how Buckyâs eyes darted to you. No one noticed how his shoulders went just a bit tighter.Â
Then Bob turned, casual and curious.
âWhat about you?â he asked Bucky. âYou saw something, right?â
For half a second. Bucky looked like he might actually answer.
His eyes met yours briefly.
He looked away too fast for you to read it clearly and stood up from the booth abruptly. âYou know what? This was fun. Iâm gonna go⌠clean up,â he said. âOr get ice cream. Probably both. Anyone want ice cream?â
You leaned back in your seat, arms crossed. âOh, come on, Buck.â
He shot you a look â that subtle one that said not here, not now. The one that always left you guessing.
John snorted. âWe know what you saw anyway.â
Bucky froze. âDo you?â
âHydra, right? Gotta be.â John shrugged, still a little too smug. âItâs your Greatest Hits playlist.â
âYeah,â he said, his pinky finger twitching as he looked away. âSure. Thatâs all it was. Wouldnât want to bore anyone.â
He grabbed his jacket, eyes flicking to you one last time. You watched him go and said nothing, for now.
The team went back to eating, like the moment had passed. Jokes began to be thrown around again. Slices were being grabbed left and right.Â
But you didnât move.
No one noticed how your smile faded into a worried frown.
No one noticed the twitch in Buckyâs human pinky as he stepped out.
But you did. You always did.
â
Later that night.Â
Val spared no expenseâmeaning she booked seven rooms in a hotel that had more broken vending machines than working elevators. Still, after dragging the entirety of New York back from the void, even a spring-poked mattress felt like luxury.
Yelena had already claimed the room with the least stained carpet. Ava was currently phasing her hand through a vending machine to get free Hot Flaminâ Cheetos. John passed out with a half-eaten bag of pistachios in his lap somewhere in the lobby. Alexei was arguing with a front desk clerk about how he clearly deserved the king suite because of his "reputation."
Bob didnât go to his room right away. You caught him sitting in the hallway for a while, back against the wall, head down like he was trying to recover. You passed him a granola bar without a word and walked away.Â
Thatâs what he needed.Â
Not pity.Â
Just a constant reminder he wasnât alone.
You and Bucky had been given rooms side by side. Which was always interesting.Â
â
You unlocked your hotel room door with a dull click, the metal groaning like it hated being disturbed.Â
You kicked off your bootsâone landed upright, the other flopped on its sideâand shrugged your jacket off with a sigh, letting it fall haphazardly over the armchair that shouldâve been retired ten years ago.
The beige ceiling loomed above you as you stared up and nothing. You did your rounds. You showered, changed, and drank a bottle of water.Â
Then you heard it.
The unmistakable thud from the hotel room next door.Â
He was in.
You didnât hesitate.Â
Still wearing your pajamasâ plaid pants and an oversized shirtâyou slipped out into the hallway.Â
You knocked, once, twice.Â
He didnât answer. âBucky,â you called, your voice just above a whisper. âOpen up.â
You heard nothing, but still waited. Then knocked again, harder this time.Â
This time, the door cracked open.
Bucky was in his dark shirt, the fabric clinging to his shoulders, hair damp and curling slightly at the end. He was wearing a hoodie that was zipped only halfway, and his dog tags glinted faintly beneath the fabrics.
âHey,â he greeted, his voice frayed.
You matched it with a small smile. âHey.â
Bucky stepped aside, inviting you in.
The room was dim, washed in the amber glow of a single bedside lamp. You climbed onto his mattress, sitting cross-legged at the foot like youâd done a hundred times before.Â
Bucky stayed by the window, staring out like the skyline might offer him answers to questions he didnât even know how to ask. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his hoodie,
You picked up a pillow and lobbed it at his head.
It hit him squarely in the side of the neck, making him flinch.
He chuckled. âSeriously?â
âYou were brooding too much again,â you said, already reaching for another. âI had to restore balance to the Force.â
He caught the second pillow mid-air, tossing it lightly back at you. âWhat balance?â
âIâm the charming one. Youâre the grumpy one,â you grinned, âIt's the dynamic. We have to maintain the ecosystem.â
He rolled his eyesâ but the corner of his mouth lifted into a small smile that softened all of his sharp edges.
And then, for a second, it slippedâjust a flicker. Something mustâve crossed in his mind, because you caught the furrow of his brows.Â
âYou okay?â you asked, your voice lower now.
He didnât answer, but sank down beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His arm brushed yours, and he didnât pull away.
âJust tired,â he said, though it sounded like something heâd practiced saying.Â
You nudged your shoulder into his. âYou know I didnât buy what you said at the pizza place, right?â
Still, he didnât look at you. But you saw it. That twitch of his pinky fingerâ his right hand.Â
Yeah. You knew.
âWhy not?â he asked, trying to sound casual and failing.Â
âBecause youâre lying,â you said gently, without sounding like an accusation.Â
Bucky didnât bother pretending he didnât know what you meant. He just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them. He stared at the carpet like it might split open and offer an escape route underground.Â
âI told you,â he said, the words slurred by exhaustion, as his finger uncontrollably moved again. âIt was Hydra. Red and black nightmare sequence. All very on-brand.â
You just raised a brow. âPinky twitch.â
âWhat?â
âItâs your tell. Thatâs how I know youâre lying.â You shrugged like it wasnât a big deal.Â
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching on stubble. âYou are so fucking annoying.â
You smirked. âSays the guy who keeps inviting me in.â
âYou showed up to my door in pajamas,â he said, half-laughing as he turned to face you. âAnd you just barged in.â
âI did not,â you insisted, shrugging, âand even if I did, you wouldnât have stopped me.â
He shook his head but didnât deny it.Â
He let the silence fester in place before offering answers. âYou really wanna know what I saw?â
You nodded.
He swallowed hard. You could see the muscles in his neck working. Still, he didnât look at you.
âYou remember that mission in Munich?â he asked.
You nodded slowly. It was a recon mission that went sideways.Â
âYou jumped in front of a bullet for me,â he said, like it still didnât make sense to him. âYou didnât even hesitate.â
âIâŚâ You furrowed your eyebrows. âI didnât know you saw that.â
âI didnât,â he said, shaking his head. âNot at the moment. I was behind you. All I saw was you hitting the ground.â Then he looked at you, his eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, âThatâs what I saw in the Void,â he said, voice shaking like a tightrope. âOver and over. I felt⌠useless. Iâ I⌠for a second. I thought I lost you..â
His hands clenched into fists on his knees and admitted, âIâve never been more scared in my life.â
Your chest tightened. âThat was your worst memory?â you whispered, almost in recognition. âThinking I died?â
He flinched like the words had teeth and had sunk its fangs into his legs. âDonât say it like that.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause it means something,â he said, voice breaking at the edge. âAnd Iâm not supposed toââ He cut himself off with a ragged breath, dragging a hand through his hair like it might help. âGodâ well you know what? Since weâre on this, what about you?â he asked. âYou were lying, too.â
You gasped, only a little. âExcuse me?â
He gave a sad smile. âYou donât think I know your tell?â
You squinted. âI donât have a tell.â
âYou do.â He insisted, shifting a little closer. âYou look down when you lie. You did it earlier.â
You opened your mouth to argue, but all that came out was a strangled noise of offended denial. âThat is notââ
âIt is,â he said, interrupting you. âSo. What did you actually see?â
You looked away, then back at him again.
Because he deserved that much.
Because you didnât want to lie anymore, either.
âDo you remember,â you said carefully, âwhen you got stabbed on that mission in Rabat?â
Bucky nodded. He frowned, confused.
âYeah,â he said slowly. âI remember. Back alley. Guy with the gold tooth. You iced him before I even hit the pavement. Why?â
You took a deep breath, trying to steady your voice.
âThatâs what I saw,â you said, barely above a whisper. âYou, bleeding on the ground.â
He froze.
âThe story I toldâabout the kid in the ring,â you added, your voice more hoarse now, âwas true. All of it. It just⌠wasnât what I saw in the Void.â
The air between you thickened, like the seconds had turned to diamonds and trapped you both inside them.
âI remember thinking I was too late,â you continued, words spilling before you could second-guess them. âI remember thinking I couldnât get you to safety in time.â
Bucky didnât speak. He didnât move.
Because now he knew youâd both seen different sides of the same coin in there.
Your worst memory wasnât the ring.Â
His wasnât the Hydra orders.
Once, it might have been. But not anymore.Â
The worst thingâfor both of youâwas thinking you had lost each other.
Not cages.
Not torture.
It was each other.
You exhaled, the edges of your eyes brimming with tears. He looked back at you like he was seeing you through an entirely different lensâ like something had cracked open and the sunlight was finally getting in after a century of darkness.Â
He studied you for a long time âeyes narrowed slightly, lips parted like he might speak but wasnât sure if he should.Â
Then he said it.Â
Like heâd just thrown a grenade in the room.
âAre you in love with me?â
Your brain short-circuited. âWhat?â
âWhat,â he echoed flatly, like he hadnât even processed the question himself, as if the words had slipped out of his mouth without permission.
You stared at him, wide-eyed, heart hammering in your throat like it wanted to escape. Heat warmed up your neck, your ears, your face. âBuckyââ
He leaned back slightly, like your flustered cheeks had just confirmed everything. âYou are,â he said, eyebrows lifting in disbelief. âYou are, arenât you?â
âI am not,â you snapped to quickly. Without meaning toâyou looked down.Â
Fuck.Â
âOh my god,â Bucky breathed. âYour eyesââ
You scowled, half in horror, half in deflection. âYouâre one to talk! Why was your worst memory thinking I died, huh?â
âYours is too, dumbass! So what? â he shot back, arms flaring in exasperation. âYou want me to say it?â
âI donât know!â you fired back, your voice rising. âDo you want to say it?â
Silence settled again. But this time, it wasnât brittleâ
âFine,â he finally said, a lot quieter now. âIâve been in love with you since that stupid night in Prague when you made me carry your three-foot-tall duffel bag full of grenades and gummy worms and said, âTrust me, itâs all essential.ââ
Your voice came out barely audible, cracked around the edges. âOh.â
But he wasnât finished.
âAnd ever since then,â Bucky went on, âIâve been more scared of the future than the past.â
Your breath hitched. âWhat does that even mean?â
He leaned in slightly, his eyes locked on yours,Â
âIt means,â he said, like it cost him something to admit it, âthat my nightmares are less about Hydra and more about losing you.â
It hurt. God, it hurt, in the way truth always does. You could feel it echoing in your chest, splitting you down the middleâ because you were friends, right? And just friends werenât supposed to have these unbearable feelings. What was this going to do to your relationship?
Because everything had changed.
And now there was no going back.
His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, like the confession had physically cost him stamina.Â
And youâ You couldnât breathe.
âYouâŚâ The word barely made it out. âYouâre in love with me?â
He swallowed the lump in his throat. âYeah.â
You didnât answer.
Your body stayed frozen, your mind reeling, spinning, flipping through every moment you couldâve known. Every time heâd looked at you like you were the only thing in a world that had never betrayed him. Every time youâd ignored what was right in front of you because it was safer to pretend it wasnât real.
âBut itâs okay,â Bucky whispered, eyes dipping to the floor once again. âI know I might be wrong about what you feel, so you donât have to say anything. I know Iâmââ
Enough.
Your hands grabbed the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric, clinging on to it and bringing him ever closerÂ
âShut up,â you whispered.
His breath hitched in his throat like youâd just knocked the wind out of him.
âJustâdonât say anything,â you said, your voice trembling. âBecause if you do, Iâm going to say something I canât unsay, and then weâll ruin it, and I canâtâI canât lose you, Bucky.â
His hands rose slowly, palms open. He cupped your face, fingertips brushing along your cheekbones.
âYouâre not gonna lose me,â he promised. âYou canât.â
Your forehead stayed pressed against his. You could feel his breath against your lips.
So close.
âIâm in love with you too,â you breathed out
Buckyâs eyes fluttered closed, just for a second. You felt the tremor in his body ripple through yours.
âSay it again,â he whispered.
Your voice was barely steady. âIâm in love with you, dammit,â you laughed a little. âIâve been in love with you since Sam sent us on that mission to that cramped motel with one bed and no hot water. Since you patched me up in Munich. Since before Munich. Since always.â
Fuck.Â
He didnât wait.
He kissed you.
Not carefully.
But like hellhounds that had been caged too long had finally broken loose.
It was desperate. It was breathless. Mouths crashing, bodies colliding like youâd done this in every dream you hadnât dared speak of. His hands slid into your hair, holding you close like he was terrified youâd vanish. And yours gripped the back of his neck, pulling him in like you were afraid youâd wake up.
By the time you pulled apart, you werenât sure whose heart was beating faster. But you stayed closeâforeheads pressed, noses brushing, sharing oxygen.
For a long moment, you didnât move.
Then Buckyâs hands slid down from your face, fingers tracing along your jaw, your neck, and your shoulders like he needed to relearn you. Like he needed to prove to himself this was real.
âYouâre shivering,â he pointed out, brushing his thumb over the hollow of your throat.Â
âIâm not cold,â you said, breathless.
He chuckled. âNo. Youâre not.â
His lips brushed yours again, slower this time, like a promise instead of a question. And when your mouth opened under his, when your hands slid beneath his hoodie and found bare skin, the heat roared to life like it had just been waiting for permission.
The kiss deepenedâa little reckless, all tangled need and pent-up frustration. His hands found your waist, your hips, pulling you flush against him, and Godâyouâd felt his strength before, on missions, in training, but this was different. This was personal.
This was want.
âYou always smell like gunpowder and cinnamon,â he muttered against your jaw, lips brushing the spot just below your ear.
âI just smell like gunpowder,â You laughedâhalf-dazed. âYou smell like cinnamon.â
âHmmm,â he said, trailing kisses down your neck, âwhatever.â
You sighed, tilting your head to give him more space, your fingers tugging gently at the waistband of his sweatpants.
He groaned as his hands slid under your shirt, palm flat against your lower back. You gasped at the contact and he froze, just for a second.
âYou okay?â he asked. âI donât want to screw this up.â
You looked at himâhis hair was mussed, lips swollen. He had a familiar crease between his brows that said he was afraid of wanting too much.
So you kissed it.
âWeâve survived everything else together," you whispered, "Donât you think we can survive wanting each other, too?â
He backed you toward the headboard slowly, lips never leaving yours, hands exploring like heâd been dying to touch you for two years and finally had the courage. You fell back with a breathless laugh, legs tangling instinctively around his hips.
Bucky settled over you like he belonged thereâwhich he did. Every inch of him was familiar and new all at once.
âStill in pajamas,â he complained, grinning against your collarbone.
âWhat, donât like emâ?â
âNever,â he said, mouth sliding lower, âbut theyâre in my way.â
You gasped as his fingers hooked in the waistband of your pants, his eyes locking on yours. You nodded as he peeled them off.
This wasnât just chemistry. It wasnât just lust.
This was two years of friendship, late-night missions, teasing over meals, arguments that always ended in laughterâthis was trust.
This was love, finally allowed to want.
-end.
ââGeneral Bucky taglist:
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@buckybarneswife125 @wingstoyourdreams
Summary: Joel was a bad man. Perverted, dirty-minded, and old. He couldnât keep you out of his thoughts no matter how hard he tried. You were the new neighbor across the way, though heâd made sure youâd never spoken. He kept his distance, kept to himself. Until Dina nearly dragged you into his dining area, forcing you to sit with him as he averted his gaze. And just like that, she got up and leftâleaving you to whatever quiet little plan she'd already set in motion. || smut MDNI 18+, peepaw!joel, oldman!joel, big ol' girthy age gap (not specified but LEGAL), soft!joel, the man's obsessed, perv!joel, daddy kink, pinv, f!receiving oral, masturbation, << joel watches you, joel mentions reader's body is 'little' but only because he's a big boy, big dick joel miller, idk what else to put here, this fic lives in a world where creampies â pregnancy, this takes place *before Ellie & Dina get together || a/n: couldn't stop thinking about this all damn night. Ok heâs actually an angel but THINKS heâs a bad man
Just focus on the wires, Miller. The wires.
But the zap bit into his fingers the second he looked, eyes drifting up just for a moment, out the window and onto you.
You were kneeling in the garden bed along the edge of the street by your house, wrist-deep in dark soil, the late-spring sunlight gilding your skin like something out of a goddamn dream. Your shirt had ridden up your back as you reached forward, and he caught the bare curve of your spine, the subtle arch of it with every shift of your hips.
He hissed quietly at the sting in his palm, jerking his hand back from the breaker.
He was supposed to be working. Minding his own business. In his own house. At his own dining table. Just tinkering. That was all.
Wasnât his fault the window faced the street. Wasnât his fault you were outside in cutoff shorts and a t-shirt, sleeves shoved up as you planted an unruly bramble of something in the dirt.
God bless late spring, he thought. Then immediately cursed himself for it, trying in vain to look away. But you stretched your arms over your head, back arching. Your shirt lifted with the motion, a sliver of skin flashing above your waistband before falling back down.
He blinked, hard, and dropped his head.
The wires. Focus on the wires.
The breaker sat in his palm, cold and sharp-edged. He adjusted his glasses, pushing them up his nose, trying to reorient himself with the tangled mass of copper and springs he was meant to be working on. His pliers hovered over the rusted coil, but his mind had already betrayed him.
The air inside felt too still. Dust floated through shafts of sunlight that slanted across the kitchen floorboards. A breeze fluttered the thin curtain over the sink. Somewhere outside, a bird chirped. A dog barked. Life, irritatingly, continued.
Then he heard voices. Loud enough to pull him from his head. He looked up.
Dina was out there now, talking to you, animated as ever. You frowned at something she said, then shook your head. He didnât know why that made his chest ache, but it did.Â
He wanted to know what sheâd asked. Wanted to know what you needed. If you asked, heâd do it. Build it, fix it, find it. Heâd do it with no hesitation.
But asking meant talking. Talking meant being near. And Joel didnât allow himself that kind of luxury with you.
Because if you saw himâ really saw himâyouâd see right through the practiced nods and gravel-toned grunts. Youâd see the way his eyes trailed a second too long, the way his jaw clenched when you laughed at someone elseâs joke. Youâd catch the heat of it. The filth of it.
And youâd run.
He wouldnât blame you.
But God, he wasnât sure he could take it if you did.
And yet⌠if you hated him, at least youâd be thinking about him.
As he stared out the window, Dina suddenly gestured toward his house, thumb hooked over her shoulder. Then your eyes followed. You looked right at his place. And shrugged.
Shrugged.
He had to sit back for a second, stunned. What the hell did that mean? Were you talking about him? Dina was, clearly. But youâŚwere you indifferent? Unbothered? That hollow thud behind his ribs wasnât from a breaker.
He told himself he didnât care. He tried. But then she was dragging you to your feet.
No.
You resisted at first. Body language stiff, reluctant. But DinaâŚDina was not the kind of girl to take no for an answer. Joel knew it well, she was Ellieâs closest friend, after all. And now she was dragging you up his walkway.
âJoel?â Dina called out, knocking.
He scrambled to look busy, heart pounding, thoughts buzzing like flies.
âYeah,â he called, low and even. âCome in.â
The front door creaked open in the corner of his eye, the sound of footsteps soft and careful as they moved closer. And then your legs came into view. Long, bare, sun-warmed. He had to force himself not to look higher, not to follow the shape of you all the way up to that sweet little body wrapped in tiny shorts and a thin tee, practically begging to be devoured.
The wires, Miller.
âHey,â Dina said cheerfully.
âHowdy,â Joel replied, short and clipped.
âWhatâre you working on?â she asked, plopping into the chair beside him.
He kept his tone casual. âOld breaker. They were gonna toss it, but itâs just a spring issue.â
She leaned over the table, inspecting it. âTeach me?â
He grunted in what he hoped passed as agreement. Felt the chair next to her shift. Felt your hesitation fill every inch of the room.
There was a beat, some hushed whispers of Dina urging you again, but Joel still kept his eyes down.
Then the chair across from him scraped, and you sat. Tension spiked in his chest.
âJoel,â Dina said sweetly, âhave you met my new best friend?â
Joel lifted his head just enough to look at her. âThought Ellie was your best friend.â
âSheâs in the Hall of Fame. But this oneââ she beamed at you ââmakes the best apple pie in Jackson.â
âI know.â
Ah, shit. He hadnât meant to say that out loud.Â
You gasped. A soft little breath that made his stomach twist. He still didnât look at you, but now he could picture it perfectly. The way your lips parted. The way your eyebrows probably lifted.
He wasnât supposed to know.
Youâd left it for him on a rainy afternoon. Knocked once, maybe twice, then stood there for a minute like you were trying to decide if you should wait. But when he didnât answerâcouldnât answerâyou turned and walked away, your footsteps soft against the damp porch.
Heâd seen you enough around town, neighbors fawning over your story, your smile, your damn cooking. He didnât want any part of it. Didnât want to be another man pulled into your orbit just because you were sweet and sunny and made people feel something.
He told himself he wouldnât touch it. But later, when the sky had gone pink and the house was quiet, he peeled back the foil, took one bite, and almost dropped to his knees.
It was perfect.
The kind of taste that sent him spiraling back through decades. Holidays at his grandmotherâs house. His little hands and floured countertops and the sound of laughter he hadnât heard in years.
He tried to hate it. Hate you for making it.
But Joel Miller was a lot of things. Stubborn, angry, mean when he had to be.
He was not strong enough to hate you.
Not even close.
Dina leaned over the table, elbows planted, chin in hand. âSo listen,â she said, flicking a glance toward you before turning back to Joel. âEllie told me youâve been fixing up old stuff again. Thought maybe you could take a look at my space heaterâitâs making this really weird buzzing sound, and Iâm ninety percent sure itâs not supposed to smell like burnt popcorn.â
âWhat you need that thing for now? Sâwarm out now,â he grumbled over to her.
Dinaâs brow furrowed at him, âMy place is freezing!â
Joel rolled his eyes, grunting, eyes back on the breaker. âProbably just dust. I can swing by later.â
âSweet,â she said, clapping her hands once. âI told Ellie youâd say yes.â
You shifted in your seat, fingers fidgeting in your lap. Joel could see it in the corner of his eye, the way you didnât quite know where to look. Your gaze darted from the breaker to the worn tabletop to the window. You didnât want to be here.
Dina, ever the social architect, didnât miss a beat. âAnyway,â she said, standing suddenly and brushing her hands down her jeans, âIâm gonna run back and check on Ellie. Sheâs making me a cassette tape in the garage.
You looked up, surprised. âWait, I thought we were gonnaââ
She cut you off with a little wave of her fingers. âYouâre fine. Stay. Learn how to fix shit. Or donât. Flirt awkwardly. Whatever works.â
Joel finally looked up at that, shooting her a warning glare, but she just grinned and backed toward the door.
âThanks, Joel. Youâre the best,â she said sweetly. Then, turning her back to him, shot you a wink.
And just like that, she was gone.
The front door clicked shut behind her, and silence fell over the house again.
Thick as syrup.
You cleared your throat softly, the sound barely audible over the ticking wall clock and the quiet hum of the fan. Outside, the breeze rustled through the garden beds, and you could still hear the soft creak of Dinaâs boots fading down the porch.
Joel didnât move right away. Just let the silence stretch, long and taut, like a wire about to snap.
Then he finally exhaled, âShe can be a bitâŚâ
Your eyes lifted to his face, and he had to remind himself to hold your gaze. Donât be impolite. Donât be a scrooge. So he looked up a you.
âYeah,â you exhaled, lips quirking at the sides.
âDidnât have to stay,â he said, voice low as he looked back at his hands and quickly busying them, placing in a spring to the small breaker.
âI knowâŚâ you said, hesitating, and then, sitting straighter, you added, âActually, I was gonna ask youâŚthink somethinâs wrong with my water heater.â
His gaze snapped up.Â
Anything you needed.
Heâd do it.Â
Fix it, build it, find it.Â
God, he was so screwed.
âBeen a few days now,â you continued, rushing the words under his stare. âWaterâs cominâ out freezinâ, and the pressureâs been real weak. Can you come look at it for me?â
Joel paused, the breaker in his hand feeling like a hundred pounds.Â
Donât, Miller. He told himself. But his mind, his imagination, the unhelpful bastard that it was, already lept at the thought.
You, naked under a stream of frigid water. Shivering. Nipples tight from the cold. Your fingers rubbing at your arms, slick and bare and goose-pimpled. Hair heavy, dripping, clinging to your collarbones. That soft little sound you might make when the water hit.
He swallowed hard, fighting the flush rising under his collar. He couldnât have you suffering like that. No man in his right mind would leave you to freeze in your own house.
âYeah,â he said, voice catching. He cleared his throat, shifted in his seat. âYeah. Sure.â
âHowâs tomorrow?â
Joel nodded, quick and clipped. Like it wasnât a big deal. Like he wasnât already planning it out down to the damn hour. Heâd come by early. First thing. Get it done and gone before he did something stupid like linger.
But early meant sleepwear. Meant you might answer the door in those tiny shorts he pretended not to notice through his window.
Afternoon, then.
Thatâd be safer.
âJust, uh,â he said awkwardly, fingers twitching around the pliers. âMaybe donât be there when I show up.â
You blinked. âHuh?â
His eyes flicked up to yours, brief and sharp, âIn the shower.â
âOh,â you said quickly, âRight. Noâof course. Definitely not.â
But his ears burned. And no matter how hard he tried, the image came back anyway.
You. Cold. Naked. Wet.
He was so fucked.
Joel felt sick to his stomach just crossing the street.
Would you know?
Could you tell heâd spent the whole damn night lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, your tight little body haunting every inch of his imagination as he tugged at his fist beneath the covers?
He felt filthy. Perverted.
Bad.
He was a bad man, and worse, he knew it.
He probably didnât need that second cup of coffee that morningâhis limbs jittery, his hand aching as he lifted the old metal toolbox from the shed beside Ellieâs garage. His knees popped as he straightened, the ache behind his eyes a dull throb. He was too old for this.
Too old to be thinking about you like this til all hours of the night. Like some teenage, horned-up fool.
Still, he made his way over, the weight of the box not half as heavy as the tension in his chest. At his feet, the little garden bed was already bloomingâblackberry bushes nestled in the soil and climbing your freshly painted fence. They suited the house. Suited you. Sweet, wild, a little thorny. He wondered what you planned to do with them. Jam, maybe. Pie, if he was lucky. If he was ever lucky again.
He doubted heâd get the chance, not after today.
Not with the thoughts scrambling around in his head, sharp and dirty and desperate to spill out.
He knocked once with his knuckles, quiet, almost hoping you wouldnât hear.
Maybe you were outâoff at the community garden, like heâd seen you some mornings with a basket slung over your arm. Or off sweet-talking the horses, sneaking carrots to your favorites. Maybe you forgot.
But no such luck. The door opened.
âJoel,â you breathed, eyes widening like you hadnât expected him to actually show. The sound of your voiceâsaying his name for the first timeâripped something open in his chest.
Say it again, he wanted to beg. Please. Just once more, so I can keep it locked away. So I can die with it in my memory.Â
You smiled, a little sheepish.
He didnât smile back. Just kept his brow furrowed, his expression hard. He couldnât afford to let you get close. Couldnât let you mistake him for someone safe.
âHi,â he nodded, voice low.
You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. âUh, my showerâs just⌠in hereââ
âNeed to take a look at the water heater first,â he cut in.
âOh,â you blinked, hands still gripping the door and its frame. âRightâŚâ
âCan I come in?â he added, one brow raised. A flicker of something like amusement in his voice. Maybe you were just as nervous as he was.
âCourse,â you said quickly, stepping aside. âPlease.â
He stepped inside.
Into your world.
It smelled like cinnamon. Like apples and woodsmoke and something fresh bakedâthough he saw no tray of anything waiting on the counter. Just your scent, clinging to the walls. Like you lived here completely. Like youâd settled in, made it your own.
Of course you had.
Fresh flowers sat in a mason jar on the table. Little framed paintings dotted the wallsâones he recognized from the barter-and-trade shop, and a few of horses that made his chest ache. One in particular, just a lone cowboy on a mountainside, was his personal favorite.
âThe uh⌠water heaterâs down in the basement,â you said, already walking toward the narrow door at the back of the kitchen.
Joel followed, but when you stayed behind, hovering uncertainly near the top of the stairs, he didnât protest. It was better that way. He needed to get himself under control.
He ducked into the dark, found the breaker box, and the old water heater behind it. It didnât take long to spot the issue.
The main switch was off.
Just⌠flipped off. No blown fuse. No leak. No damage.
He stared at it, confused. Then narrowed his eyes.
No.
No, no, no. That wasnât right.
Had someone messed with it? Played a prank? Messed with you?
But heâd never seen anyone else go in or out of this house. You lived alone. He was sure of it. Which left only one possibility.
His pulse thumped in his ears.
He flipped the switch. Waited for the hum. Then made his way back upstairs, each step landing heavy beneath his boots.
âYou should be all good now,â he said as he reemerged.
âYeah?â you asked, arms crossed loosely over your chest. âThat easy, huh?â
âThat easy,â he nodded.
Easy. To get him here. To get him to look. To fix it.
Fix it, build it, find it. He was your man. He wanted to be your man.
âWell,â you said, fidgeting, âyou sure you donât need to check it upstairs?â
Joel moved to the sink instead, turned the handle all the way to hot, and waited. Within seconds, steam curled up from the basin. He held his hand under it, felt the sharp bite of heat.
âGood to go,â he said, glancing at you. He wondered if he wouldâve noticed it before, but this time he was certain. You turned a little pink under his gaze, pulled your bottom lip between your teeth.
âOh,â you murmured. âGood.â
He nodded. âYup.â
But he didnât move. Didnât turn to leave.
He didnât want to.
Not now that he knew, by some cataclysmic star crossed miracle, youâd brought him here on purpose. That youâd wanted him here. But he wasnât sure what that meant. What he was supposed to do with it.
Still, you let him make his way to the door. Sweet as anything, practically shoving cookies into his hands as thanks.
He refused, hands up in surrender as he backed toward the entryway.
âReally,â he said, voice lighter now, accent thicker as he let his shoulders relax, âIâm fine, darlinâ, please. Justââ his hand found the doorknob, âJust let me know if thereâs anythinâ else you need. You just holler, alright?â
You smiled, soft and a little playful. âAlright. Well⌠thank you.â
But, somehow, your water heater broke again only a few days later.
Then the lights went out in your second bedroom.Â
And thenâ his last and final strikeâthe curtain rod came crashing down from your bedroom window on a Saturday morning.
Joel stood on a small foot ladder beside your bed, boots braced on the tread, hand wrapped around the curtain rod bracket as he tightened the last screw into the wall. The hardware clinked softly against the metal as he adjusted the fit. You sat on the edge of the bed behind him, legs swinging, talking about somethingâweather, or the community garden, or a dog youâd seen with a lopsided face. He wasnât really listening.
Not in a rude way. He just liked the sound of your voice more than whatever it was you were actually saying.
He hummed now and then, nodding at the right moments, letting you fill the space. It helped. Gave him something to focus on besides the fact that he was in your bedroom, that even your curtains smelled like you. That your nightstand had a little dish with jewelry in it and a book with a pressed flower between the pages. That your closet door was cracked just enough to show a glimpse of your laundry basket, and his brain, the traitorous thing, kept wondering what might be folded inside.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and gave the bracket one last twist.
âYou sure mustâve worked real hard to get this damn thing off the wall,â he said, voice low.
Your words stopped mid-sentence.
He turned his head, just enough to catch the look on your face.
Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Silent.
Caught.
The silence stretched between you like something taut and dangerous.
Joel straightened up slowly, the curtain rod still in his hand, his eyes never leaving yours.
âYou gonna tell me what that was about?â he asked, voice gentler than it shouldâve been. âOr should I just assume you wanted me back over here so bad, you started pullinâ things off your walls?â
âIââ you choked, voice barely above a whisper, the color draining from your face as the words stuck in your throat.
Joel caught the way your fingers curled against the bedsheet, how your knees shifted slightly, like you might bolt. And God, part of him wanted you to. Part of him needed you to.
But the other part, the selfish part, couldnât bear the thought.
âSâalright, darlinâ,â he said softly. âI like your company too.â
Your eyes lifted to his, wide and searching.
âYou⌠you do?â you asked, like you didnât believe it. Like no part of you had expected it to be true.
Joel nodded, slow. âYeah.â The word came out tight. It took effort, like he had to shove it past all the reasons why he shouldnât say it.
You stared at him, stunned and unmoving. He stood still for a long beat, then finally stepped down from his stool. The floor creaked under his weight as he crossed to your bed, each step slower than the last. He moved slower than he really needed to, but it kept him steady, until he finally sat beside you.Â
Not too close, not touching you, but he could feel the heat of you anyway. He caught the faint trace of your perfume, something soft and warm and inviting, and it nearly knocked him out. He wanted to breathe it in until it lived in his lungs. He wanted it to cling to his shirt, to the collar of his flannel, so he could press his face into it laterâalone in the darkâlike that might be enough.
Or better, that filthy corner of his brain, the beast that lived inside him wanted you to smell like him. Wanted it clinging to your sheets, your wrists, the hollow of your throat. Wanted people to catch it in passing and wonder why youâd let a man like him get that close.Â
But he wouldnât. He was trying to be good, to have restraint.
His hands stayed on his knees, tense, knuckles pale where they pulled against the denim. This was your room, so soft and warm and clean. The kind of place he could get lost in if he wasnât careful.Â
âAinât a good idea, what youâre doinâ,â he murmured, âIâm an old man, honey.â
Your eyes tracked over his face as he looked at you, âI like that youâre older, Joel.â
He shut his eyes for a moment, jaw flexing. Christ. You didnât know what you were saying.Â
âIâm old enough to be your daddy, baby,â he whispered. The words came out rougher than he intended.
He heard the way your breath caught. Saw the way your body stilled. Like something inside you had jolted awake.
He shouldâve looked away.
Instead, his gaze found yours as he swallowed dryly. When he finally got control of his heavy tongue again, he asked, âThat do somethinâ to you, sweetheart?â
You didnât speak. But the answer was all over your face.
Joel exhaled slowly, leaning back just enough to get a better look at you. Still not touching, but close enough to see the flush rise in your cheeks.
âGonna answer me?â he asked.
Your voice trembled. âY-yes.â
His brow lifted slightly.
âYes, I like⌠thinking of you that way.â
His stomach turned over. âYou think about me, huh?â
You hesitated, lips parting, and for a second he thought maybe youâd lie.
Then your voice hit him square in the chest.
âAll the time.â
Joel went still. Your words rang in his head, loud and clear. Like a bell tolling inside his ribs.
Now he knew. You wanted him. You thought about him the same way he thought about you. And if he so much as reached for you, he wasnât sure heâd be able to stop.
So instead, he just looked at you. He let his eyes rake over your face, your body, looking at how your thighs had pressed together. How your breathing had changed. How your fingers twisted in the fabric of your shirt like you didnât know what to do with your hands now that the words were out.
And then, his voice came low and steady, like it was coming from somewhere deeper than his own body, âShow me.â
Your brows drew together in confusion, your mouth falling open. âWhat?â
His eyes locked with yours, and he knew you could see it. The way his pupils had all but swallowed the color from his irises, how tightly he was clinging to the last scrap of control he had left. He could feel the sweat at the back of his neck, the pulse in his throat, the ache in his hands from how hard he was trying not to reach for you. Not to ruin you.
He couldnât let himself slip. Couldnât let it crack wide open.
âWhen you think of me,â he said, quieter now, words coming like gravel dragged behind his teeth, âwhat do you do?â
You looked away for a second, your gaze dropping to the bed beneath you, cheeks heated and mouth parting like you didnât know how to answer. But then your eyes found his againâwide and shining, nervous and breathless.
âYou want me to⌠to show you?â
He didnât speak. Just nodded slowly.
That was all he needed. Just to watch. That was the line. That was what he could live with. He wouldnât touch you. Wouldnât lay a single hand on your sweet, perfect, young body. Heâd sit still like a good man, like a gentleman, and let it wreck him quietly. Heâd carry the memory of it back across the street like a loaded gun and bury it deep where no one would ever find it.
You hesitated, breath shivering, legs pressing together as you sat there, body unsure while your eyes held his like they were searching for somethingâpermission, safety, the truth of how far this would go.
âSâalright,â he said again, his voice soft like velvet, âJust lay back.â
He saw your throat bob, and then, slowly, you leaned back onto your elbows, shifting further onto the bed. The mattress dipped with your weight, the sound of your shorts brushing the sheets too loud in the stillness. He swallowed hard as you arched your back just enough to hook your thumbs in the waistband of those tiny, soft little shorts, sliding them down your hips, exposing the smooth skin beneath inch by inch.
âSlowââ he said, voice rough and wrecked. You paused, and nodded, eyes never leaving his face as you gently brought them down your legs. Your hand quickly and gently let them fall to the floor.Â
And there you were.Â
Laid down on your own bed, your legs bending slightly, thighs pressed together, hiding yourself from his fiery gaze. Joelâs knuckles popped with restraint to keep himself from spreading them for himself.
He tried to keep his eyes on your face, so sweet and flushed and burning with heat. You let out a breath, seemingly collecting your courage as you let your thighs fall to the sides. He couldnât do it anymore, his eyes dropped almost immediately, giving in. Your precious puffy lips were outlined in the panties, light colored enough that he could see the stain of wetness forming in the cotton.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Your fingers slid slowly down your stomach, over your panties, pressing lightly between your thighs.
Joelâs lungs locked. His jaw ticked. Every muscle in his body coiled tight as wire.
This is all I get, he told himself. This is enough.
He could feel his pulse hammering behind his eyes. His jeans were too tight, his hands were trembling, and he hadnât even touched you.
You moved your fingers again, slower this time, dragging them up and over the damp fabric, letting out the softest soundâbarely audible, but to Joel it was deafening. It struck him in the chest like a damn hammer.
He was going to die here. He was going to die right here in your bedroom with his boots on the floor and you moaning into your own palm, and he was going to deserve every second of torture.
You didnât rush.
Joel thought maybe that would save him. That youâd move fast, try to get it over with. But you didnât. You took your time. You let your fingers glide softly over the front of your underwear, lazy strokes that did more to him than anything explicit could have. Your thighs shifted, knees bending up and falling open a little wider, and Joel could see the heat of you blooming beneath the thin cotton, darkening it, making it cling.
He had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, just to breathe. Just to stay sitting where he was and not reach for you, not grab your hips and tear those panties clean off your body. When he opened them again, you were watching him. Watching the way he breathed through his nose, the way his fists stayed locked tight on his legs, the way his gaze kept dropping down no matter how hard he tried to fight it.
You circled yourself again, slower now, the fabric catching slightly, and your breath caught in your throat. Joelâs heart was pounding so hard he thought you must hear it from where you lay.
His voice came out low, nearly wrecked. âTake âem off.â
You paused, fingers freezing for a moment, your expression flickering with nerves and something elseâexcitement, anticipation, the realization that this wasnât just about putting on a show. This was about him needing it. Needing you.
You slid your thumbs under the waistband and raised your hips off the mattress. He watched, helpless, as you peeled them down your legsâslow, hesitant, like maybe you were savoring the tension just as much as he wasâand let them join your shorts on the floor.
Laid bare in front of him, thighs parted, glistening, flushed, and so fucking soft-looking it almost hurt to look directly at you, you looked like a god damn angel. Joel swore under his breath and dragged a hand over his mouth again, like it might erase the things he was thinking. It didnât.
His voice cracked when he spoke. âTouch yourself.â
You nodded, barely, and your hand slipped down again. But this time, there was no fabric in the way. Joel watched your fingers move over your folds, the way your hips tilted up to meet them. He could see everything now, every flicker of pleasure across your face, every little tremble in your legs. When you let out that first real moanâlow and quiet, almost like you were trying to stifle itâJoelâs body jolted like heâd been shot.
âJesus, baby,â he whispered, his voice nearly breaking.
You rubbed slow, steady, getting yourself wet, and his eyes dropped to where your hand moved, slick and glistening, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.
But it wasnât enough. Not for him. Not for what he wanted to see.
âPut a finger inside,â he said, and it came out lower than he meant it toârough, almost angry with need.
You looked at him, lips parted, lashes heavy. âJoelâŚâ
âDo it,â he rasped. âJust one, baby. Thatâs all.â
You hesitated, breath shaking. Then you did it. You brought your fingers lower, traced the slickness, and pushed one insideâslow, stretching, burying it to the knuckleâand Joelâs hands finally left his knees, flying up to rake through his hair as he groaned quietly.
He couldnât fucking take it.
And neither could you.
Your back arched, mouth falling open with a quiet gaspâdaddyâas you moved your finger in and out, your palm pressing down against your clit for more friction. Joel couldnât even pretend to look away now. He was locked in, watching the way your body responded, the way you started to tremble.
And then he heard your voice again. Small, breathy. Needy.
âPlease.â
Joelâs heart stuttered.
âPlease, Joel,â you said again, whimpering now, your eyes shining, mouth wet, hips starting to lose their rhythm. âI donât⌠I canât⌠I need you.â
He clenched his jaw so tight it ached, his whole body bowstring-tense as he leaned forward just slightly, elbows on his thighs, fists clenched again, because if he moved even a little further he knew he wouldnât be able to stop.
âDonât do this,â he whispered. âDonât beg me, baby. I canâtââ
But you did. You begged anyway.
âPlease touch me,â you said, breathless, desperate, your hand moving faster now, legs trembling under the pressure building in your body. âI want you, Joel. I think about you all the time, and IâfuckâI want it to be you.â
He shook his head again, slower this time, like he was trying to convince himself more than you. But then your leg movedâbare and tremblingâand your ankle brushed against the back of his hand where it still rested uselessly on the bed.
And that was it.
That one small touch, like permission and invitation all wrapped into one. He didnât think. Couldnât. His fingers wrapped gently around your ankle, warm and steady, and for a second he just held it. The first time heâd touched you. The first contact after all this time spent trying to keep himself in check.
You whimpered under the weight of his touch, a soft, aching sound that nearly unraveled him. His thumb traced a slow, reverent circle against your skin, and his heart beat so hard it was nearly dizzying.
So soft. So warm. So alive.
He bent forward without a word, still clutching your ankle, and pressed a kiss to the inside of it. The smallest kiss. Barely even a breath. But it was everything.
His lips moved againâjust a little higher.
Then higher still.
Trailing up your calf, slow and worshipful, his hand shifting to the back of your leg, guiding it gently as your thigh began to tremble. You were still breathing hard, hand stalled now, frozen against your center as you watched him.
He pressed another kiss to the inside of your knee. Then just above it. Each one a little firmer than the last, like he was testing the shape of you with his mouth.Â
And then, eyes locked on your hand still buried between your legs, he grasped your wrist gently, his touch reverent but sure. He pulled your finger from yourself and brought your hand to his mouth and looked at you like he was asking permission, even now, even on the edge of ruin.
You didnât stop him.
So he parted his lips and took your finger into his mouth.
His tongue circled it first, slow and wet, curling around the soaked digit, savoring the taste of you, dragging it over the pad with aching, deliberate pressure. He sucked it in deeper, lips wrapping tight as his tongue moved along the underside. You watched, frozen in intense rapture, mouth parted and chest heaving. His eyes never left your face, even as he groaned low in his throat, eyes fluttering half shut.
You whimpered his name againâbreathless, high, barely held together.
He let your finger go with a wet sound, still panting, his voice hoarse and ruined when he finally spoke.
âSo fuckinâ sweet, baby.â
You whimpered his name again, breath catching as he released your hand and kissed higher on your leg, faster now, the heat of his mouth so close to where you wanted him. He nudged your thighs further apart with gentle pressure, his hands firm but trembling slightly as they moved up the backs of your legs, his thumbs dragging over the delicate curve of your inner thighs.
He paused just before reaching you. Breathing heavy. Hovering.
âThis is what you wanted?â he asked, barely a whisper. âYou want me here?â
âYes,â you breathed, already breathless, already gone. âPlease, Joel.â
That was all he needed.
He dipped his head and finallyâfinallyâdragged his mouth over you, slow and sure, tasting you like heâd been starving for it. His tongue parted you, flat and warm, collecting everything youâd made for him. He moaned low against you, the sound vibrating through your whole body, and his hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open like you were something sacred.
And God, you were.
Joel wasnât delicate with it. But he was steady, focused. Slow only because he wanted to draw it out. He licked a purposeful stripe up your center, then did it again, dragging his tongue in slow circles over your clit until your back arched off the mattress.
You gasped, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting into the graying strands.
Daddy daddy daddy fell from your lips like a prayer, and he groaned into you, tongue pressing deeper, tracing the way you opened for him. He noticed you said it the most when you were falling apart. When your brain was lagging and hazy.Â
And couldnât stop thinkingâthis is what you taste like when you think of me.
He wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, just once, firm and slow, and your legs clenched around his shoulders as a broken sound tore from your throat.
He pulled back slightly, his breath ragged, beard soaked with you.
âYouâre killinâ me, baby,â he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh again, slower now, lips softer. âYou donât even know what youâre doinâ to me.â
You begged againâdonât stop, please donât stopâand he didnât. He buried his mouth back between your legs and gave you everything. He wanted you to come on his tongue. Wanted to feel it. The way your body would tighten, the way your thighs would tremble, the way your breath would stutter in that pretty chest of yours before falling apart completely.
He was going to carry the sound of it for the rest of his life.
And stillâhe didnât touch himself. Didnât grind against the bed or reach for relief. This was for you. All of it.
If he could only have this, this taste, this sound, this moment, heâd take it.
And heâd burn for it later.
Joelâs tongue moved with steady, reverent purpose, his mouth open and hungry against you, like this was the only way he knew how to live anymore, by giving you this. His hands stayed firm, keeping your legs open, thumbs brushing softly against your trembling thighs, grounding you even as he pulled you closer and closer to the edge.
You were panting now, moaning freely, head thrown back against the pillow, your fingers tangled in his hair, his name falling from your mouth like it was the only one youâd ever known. He could feel the way your body was coiling, tightening, the way your hips were starting to stutter beneath him, like you were trying to chase that last bit of pressure before it ripped through you.
He sucked gently around your clit again, tongue flicking against it just right, and that was all it took.
You broke.
Your whole body arched, legs tightening around his shoulders, a sharp cry punching from your chest as you came hard against his mouth, your fingers fisting in his hair, holding him there while you rode it out. Joel groaned low in his throat, the sound dark and satisfied, almost possessive as he kept licking through it, gentle now, working you down slowly, coaxing every last tremble from you with his mouth still warm and wet against your skin.
He felt it, all of it. The way your muscles fluttered and clenched, the way your hands shook where they gripped him, the way your breath hitched as you tried to come back to earth.
And still, he didnât stop touching you. Not yet. His lips moved lower, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, the crease where leg met pelvis, like he couldnât stop worshipping you now that heâd started. His beard was damp with you, his mouth swollen, his hands still gentle where they rested at your hips.
But then your hands shifted.
You grabbed the front of his shirt, your fingers curling tight in the collar, and tugged.
âJoel,â you gasped, voice high and breathless, chest heaving as your eyes found his, wild and wanting, âPlease.â
He lifted his head, eyes glazed, lips shining, chest rising and falling with every labored breath. âWhat, baby?â he rasped, even though he already knew. Even though his own body was screaming with the need heâd been trying to bury.
You pulled again, harder this time, dragging him up your body with shaking hands, your mouth still parted, your skin flushed and damp.
âPlease,â you whispered, again and again, like you were unraveling, like the word was all you had left, âplease, Joel⌠please, I need youâŚâ
Your legs parted wider beneath him, your hips rising, searching, the fabric of his jeans rough between your thighs as he braced himself over you.
âI canâtâI canât wait anymore,â you whispered, nails digging into his shoulders as you pulled him closer, your voice shaking. âPleaseâI want you inside me. I want you to fuck me, Joel. Please.â
And who was he to deny you?
Hadnât he said it himself?
Anything you needed. Anything you wanted. Heâd be the man for you.
He'd said the words and meant them. Even if they were only in his head, he meant them down to the marrow in his bones. And now, here you were, laid out beneath him, skin flushed, lips parted, pupils wide and pleading as you begged for him. Begged with your hands, your voice, your whole trembling body. And something inside Joel cracked so deep it felt like it might never close again.
He couldnât stop himself.
He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue slipping past your lips so you could taste yourself on him. It was filthy, intimate, perfect. He shouldâve been ashamed of how much he needed it, how tender it felt even with the heat still thrumming through him.
Heâd always thought that stuff was bullshitâthe way books and movies and every sappy romance insisted sparks flew when two people kissed. That it meant something. That it could change you.
But this⌠this was something else entirely.
This was fire and gravity and truth all wrapped into one aching, perfect moment.
And for a moment, Joel believed every goddamn word.
His hands fumbled with his waistband as his tongue explored your mouth, your sweet cooing noises filling his ears, your breath soft and sweet as honey as you gasped against him. The sound of his belt unbuckling and zipper lowering filled the room, sharp and electric. Finally, he wrapped his hand around himself, freeing his cock as it sprang free, tender, aching, and flushed dark and thick with need. He swore under his breath as the air hit him, the head already leaking for you.Â
The idea of being a good man was long gone now. Left back on the floor with his restraint, his better judgment, his self-control. All that was left was you. Your scent, your skin, the desperate way you reached for him like you couldnât bear another second of distance. Your gasp hit his mouth like a spark to gasoline. You moaned into him, hips lifting, thighs spreading wider around his waist as he rocked forward, lining himself up, his cock dragging through your slick folds.
He groaned deep in his chest, the weight of your heat soaking him instantly, the wet glide of your cunt against the underside of him making his whole body jolt.
And then you whimpered.
Joel pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips.
âI know, honey,â he cooed, his voice low and sweet, like a lullaby wrapped in filth. âI know itâs a lot, but you can take it. You can, baby. I know you can.â
He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your throat, his hands cradling your face like you were something precious even as his cock pressed closer, sliding lower with each slow grind.
âSuch a good girl for me,â he whispered, barely able to breathe it out. âKnew youâd be so good, so sweet. Just let me in, honey.â
You whimpered, needy and breaking, and he slid forward again, this time pushing the head of his cock inside, slow and careful, watching every flicker of sensation cross your face. You were so warm. So tight. Your walls clenched around him instantly and his head dropped to your shoulder with a strangled groan.
âJesus Christ,â he choked, his voice barely holding. âYou feel so fuckinâ good, angel.â
You clung to him, arms around his shoulders, legs wrapping around his hips as he sank deeper, inch by inch, until you were gasping, trembling, completely filled.
Daddy. It was like a sirenâs call from your lips.
Joel didnât move right away. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut as he fought the urge to lose himself too fast.
âFuck,â he murmured against your skin. âYou take me so good. So perfect for me.â
And then, finally, he moved.
Slow at first. Measured. Deep, rolling thrusts that pulled back just far enough to make you whimper before he pushed forward again, thick and steady, dragging every inch through your soaked, desperate cunt. He kissed your shoulder as he rocked into you, his voice hot in your ear.
âThatâs it, baby. Just like that. Youâre doinâ so good.â
You were breathless beneath him, hips lifting to meet every stroke, your nails digging into his back, your mouth pressed against his neck as you moaned and gasped and whispered his name like a prayer.
Joel was unraveling with every sound you made, every pulse of your body around his cock. He held your face, kissed your lips, your cheek, your temple, the top of your head. He told you how beautiful you were. How tight. How fucking sweet you felt around him. Told you you were his good girl. His angel. His.
Joel moved inside you like he was trying to memorize every inchâslow, deliberate, reverent. His hands mapped your body like heâd never get the chance again. One gripped the underside of your thigh, keeping your legs spread wide for him, the other braced beside your head, grounding him, holding him back from fucking into you the way his body screamed for.
But he didnât want to rush this. God, he couldnât. Not when you felt like this.
So tight, so warm, so wet and fluttering around him with every slow thrust of his hips. Each roll of his body drew a breathy moan from your lips, and he drank them down like they were keeping him alive.
âThatâs it,â he murmured against your cheek, his voice rasped and heavy with worship. âJust like that, sweetheart. Grippinâ my cock so good, angel girl.â
Your fingers were tangled in his hair, your body arching into his with each stroke, and every time your hips rocked up to meet his, he felt itâthat trembling pulse in your cunt that told him how close you were.
âYouâre so pretty like this,â he whispered, kissing your jaw, then lower. âSo goddamn sweet. Feels like you were made for me.â
Your hands slid down his back, clinging, like you couldnât get close enough.
âJoel,â you whispered, voice soft and shaking, âYou feel so goodâI donât want this to end.â
His heart almost broke right there.
âBaby,â he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours, hips rocking slow and deep, âdonât say that.â
âI mean it,â you whimpered. âIâJoel, I think Iâve wanted this since the first time I saw you. I used to dream about this. About you.â
Joel groaned, low and guttural as he kissed you. Not hard or frantic, just deep and warm, letting you feel every bit of how much that meant to him. How much he wanted to give it back.
He rolled his hips slower, deeper, angling just right until he felt your legs tense around his waist again, your body tightening, that little gasp he was starting to crave spilling from your lips as you tipped your head back against the pillow.
âThere she is,â he whispered, voice rough and desperate. âYouâre gonna come again, ainât you? Gonna let me feel her squeeze my cock, huh?â
You nodded, mouth open, breath catching on each thrust. âSo closeâoh my God, daddy, daddyââ
âCome for me, angel,â he said, his voice shaking now. âCâmon, baby girl. Be my good girl and come.â
You cried out as it hit you, body seizing under his, thighs trembling, your walls fluttering around him in tight, wet pulses. You clung to him, your fingers locked in his hair, your mouth gasping out his name again and again.Â
He kept moving, kept fucking you through it, slow and steady, letting you ride it out, watching the way you shattered so beautifully for him. He held you through every wave, every twitch, every soft sob of pleasure.
And then he couldnât hold it anymore.
Your cunt still fluttering around him, soaked and tight and perfectâJoelâs control finally snapped.
His hips stuttered, breath coming in short, punched-out gasps, and he buried his face in your neck.
âFuckâoh baby, Iâm gonna comeâChrist, you feel so goodâI canâtâI canâtââ
He gripped your thigh tighter, pulled you flush against him, and thrust deep one final time as his release hit him hard, spilling into you with a broken groan. His whole body shook, teeth gritted, face buried in your skin as he came in long, slow, pulsing waves that left him shaking above you.
He didnât move right away.
Just stayed there. Still inside you, just breathing with you. His hand smoothing softly over your ribs, then your belly, then your cheek.
âYou okay?â he whispered finally, voice barely there.
You nodded, turning your head just enough to kiss his jaw. âYeah. More than okay.â
Joel pulled back just enough to look at you, really look. Your skin was warm and glowing, your eyes heavy, dreamy, dazed in the way he hoped heâd be seeing again and again. You looked happy. Content.
Heâd wait âtil tomorrow to let the guilt creep in.
PEEEEEEE PAAWWWWWWWWWW
WILL POULTER, KIT CONNOR & CHARLES MELTON Los Angeles Premiere Of A24's "Warfare" March 27, 2025
'Landed too hard'
outbreak!joel miller x f!reader
Summary: You save Joel's life from raiders but instead of thanking you, he gets mad at you.
or
You get hurt and you are forced to be vulnerable with each other.
wc: 7k
warnings: age gap, established relationship, angst, fluff, miscommunication, insecurities, mentions of blood, and fluff
a/n: i'm slowly coming back to this with this baby here that was on my drafts. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated đ
The forest was too quiet for your liking. No birds, no windâJust the soft crunch of the snowy ground beneath your feet as you followed Joel who was ahead of you and Ellie. There was something in the air this day, eerie silence pressing on your chest, tension, and Joel had been on edge all day, his broad shoulder seemed tense under his jacker, his grip on the rifle tighter than usual.
It felt like the premonition of something bad coming on your way. So, you kept your knife close and your gun pressed under your hand.
âWeâll set up camp soon,â Joel muttered, his voice low without looking behind to you and Ellie.
Ellie groaned. âFinally. My feet feel like theyâre gonna fall soon.â
You gave her a tired smile at her remark, but your eyes stayed on Joel. His jaw was tight, the scar above his brow crinkling deeper. You knew him well enough to read the signsâhe was worried. More than usual.
Thatâs why you didnât even hear them coming.
One second, you were walking behind Joel, and the next, chaos broke out. Shouts echoed through the trees. Five, maybe six men, all armed came out from nowhere. Joel shoved you and Ellie behind an overturned log.
âStay down,â he growled, pressing his rifle into your hands. âIf anyone gets close, you shoot. Donât move unless I say so.â
âJoelââ
âStay.â
You swallowed your fear and nodded, grabbing Ellie and pulling her down. Joel stepped out, drawing their attention, firing a shot that took one of the men down, then another and so on.
But the rest came fast. Through the cracks in the log, you watched Joel fight. He moved like a man whoâd done this too many times, but even then, it was too much. One of the raiders tackled him, and suddenly, Joel was on the ground, with one of those menâs hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing hard.
the manâs hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing hard.
âShit,â you whispered, your heart pounding so hard you could barely hear Ellieâs panicked breathing next to you.
Joel clawed at the manâs wrists, his face turning red, veins bulging in his neck. He wasnât going to get out of it and you couldnât just sit there watching the man you loved die in front of you.
âStay here,â you told Ellie, voice shaking from rage.
âWaitâŚwhat are you doing?!â she whispered.
Your body moved before your mind could argue. You were already running before Ellie could have the chance to stop you.
You tackled the man strangling Joel, knocking him off balance, but before you could finish him, another set of hands grabbed you from behind. You struggled, kicking and clawing, managing to land a sharp elbow into the manâs ribs before twisting free. The first man lunged again, but you dodged, feeling the burn of a knife slicing across your cheek. The pain barely registered as you drove your own blade into the manâs neck, then turned and plunged it into the second attackerâs chest before he could recover. Warm blood splattered your hands as the man crumpled, gasping his last breath.
You stood there, panting, adrenaline rushing through your veins.
Joel coughed violently, rolling onto his side, his face pale and drenched in sweat. You dropped to your knees beside him, your hands hovering uselessly. âJoel? Heyâhey, are you okay?â
He didnât answer right away, still gasping for air. When he finally sat up, his brown eyes locked onto yoursânot with gratitude, but with pure, burning rage.
âThe fuck were you thinking?â he rasped, voice raw.
You blinked, the adrenaline still rushing through you. âIâI had to. He was going toââ
âYou didnât listen to me!â Joel slammed his fist into the dirt, his whole-body trembling with anger. âI told you to stay hidden! What if heâd killed you?!â
âWell, he didnâtâ you stated, âI saved your life!â
âAnd you risked yours doing it!â
His voice echoed through the trees, sharp and unforgiving. You felt your chest tighten, heat rising in your throat.
âIâm not some helpless girl you can just shove behind a log, Joel! I did what I had to!â
Joel stood up, wiping the blood from his hands. His jaw clenched, but he didnât say anything else. The space between you felt impossibly wide.
He ran a hand over his face, stepping back like he couldnât even look at you. "You put yourself in danger. You couldâve been killed. Do you even get that?"
"I get that I just saved your ass!" You shot back, the weight of the moment crashing over you. "And all you can do is yell at me?"
He exhaled sharply, his hands curling into fists before he turned away. "I ain't doin' this."
"Fine," you bit out.
The air between you felt thick, suffocating. You glanced at Ellie, who stood off to the side, arms crossed, her expression tense.
You lifted a hand to your cheek, your fingers coming away sticky with blood. The cut burned now that the adrenaline was wearing off, and you sucked in a sharp breath. Ellieâs eyes flicked to the wound, concern flashing across her face, but she didnât say anything. Joel still wasnât looking at you, his back rigid as he adjusted his pack.
"We should get moving," he muttered, voice low and strained.
You nodded, swallowing down the ache in your throat. Without another word, the three of you fell into step, the silence stretching between you like an open wound
That night, you found a small clearing tucked between dense trees, far enough from the road to feel safe. The cold had settled deep, and you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself as you sat near the weak glow of the fire. Joel had barely spoken a word since the fight, his focus set on keeping watch, his back to you.
You werenât hurt by his words or the outburst he had, but by the idea of him willingly die and feeling at peace with it. How easy would be for him to left you behind and in your own.
You dismissed your thoughts as you dug through your pack for a rag, pressing it against the wound on your cheek. The sting made you wince, and you cursed under your breath.
A quiet shuffling caught your attention, and you looked up to see Ellie kneeling beside you, her brows furrowed.
"Here," she said, pulling a small bottle of alcohol from her pocket. "Let me help."
You hesitated for a moment, then gave her a small nod. She dampened the cloth with the antiseptic and reached for your face. The touch was gentle, but the sting made you hiss.
"Sorry," Ellie murmured, concentrating as she cleaned the cut. "Youâre lucky itâs not deeper."
You let out a small chuckle, though there wasnât much humor in it. "Lucky isnât exactly how Iâd describe this day.â
Ellie huffed, finishing up before pulling a bandage from her pack. "Well, youâre not dead, so that counts for something."
You smiled faintly, glancing toward Joel. He still hadnât turned around. You sighed, looking back at Ellie. "Thanks, kid."
She just shrugged, but there was warmth in her eyes. "Anytime."
As the fire crackled softly between you, you finally felt a small sense of comfortâat least, from Ellie. Joel, on the other hand, was still a storm brewing on the other side of camp.
Joel sat a few feet away, his gaze drifting to you as he kept watch. He noticed the way you shivered, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, but still, you slept. He hesitated, jaw tightening as he debated with himself. Then, with a quiet sigh, he shrugged off his jacket and carefully draped it over you.
You stirred slightly at the added warmth, a small, unconscious sigh escaping your lips, but you didnât wake. Joel lingered for a moment, watching you, before settling back down next to you as if he needed to remind himself you were still here.
The fire in your camp had burned down to glowing embers, the scent of smoke mixing with the cool morning air. Joel sat near it, his hands wrapped around his termo, sipping coffee our from it, his eyes occasionally flicking over to where you slept.
Your back was to him, your body curled slightly, the jacket pulled high over your shoulder. The cut ran along your cheekbone from the fight the day beforeâa fight that left you and Joel in a tense, suffocating silence. Reminding him how you always put yourself in danger for him.
He hated himself for it. How he had came to the point where he felt useless.
Now, in the morning light, you looked peaceful despite the frown that creased your forehead. Joel knew that look. He knew you too well.
Ellie stirred next to him, stretching before getting to her feet. She glanced at you, then back at Joel. âShould I wake her up?â she asked, rubbing her tired eyes.
Joel shook his head. âNot yet.â
Ellie raised a brow. âWhy?â
Joel sighed, glancing at you again before taking another sip of coffee. âSheâs got a frown.â
Ellie blinked. âYeah, âcause sheâs mad at you. Even in her sleep.â
Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, but there wasnât much fight in it. âNo. Itâs different. She gets that when she gets a migraine.â He ran a hand over his beard, glancing at you again. âLet her sleep a little longer.â
Ellieâs teasing smirk faded slightly, replaced by something softer. âYou really pay attention, huh?â
Joel didnât answer right away. Instead, he took another slow sip of coffee, staring into the fire. âYeah,â he admitted quietly. âWhen it comes to her of course I do.â
Ellie sighed, dropping back down onto the log next to him. âSo⌠you gonna fix this or what?â
Joel tensed, setting his cup down beside him. âShe doesnât wanna talk to me.â
âYeah, because you yelled at her.â She reminded him.
Joel rubbed a hand down his face. âShe shouldnât have done what she did.â
âShe saved your ass, Joel.â
Joelâs jaw clenched. âThat ainât the point.â
Ellie scoffed, shaking her head. âYeah, it kinda is. She did what you wouldâve done for her.â
Joel was silent, his gaze dropping to the ground.
âDo you think she would be fine if you were dead?â she pressed on, sighing.
Instead of answer, Joel reached for his bag, unbuckling the strap. He knew exactly where to look, tucked inside one of the side pockets were the pills he always carried for you, just in case.
Ellie, who had been watching with quiet curiosity, tilted her head. âWait⌠you carry her pills?â
Joel didnât look up as he pulled out the small bottle, checking how many were left. âYeah.â His voice was gruff, like he didnât think it was something worth mentioning.
Ellie crossed her arms. âHuh.â
Joel finally glanced at her. âWhat?â
Ellie smirked. âNothinâ. Justâyou act all tough, but youâre, like, secretly the softest person ever for her.â
Joel rolled his eyes, muttering, âKeep it to yourself, kid,â as he moved toward you.
You stirred slightly as he knelt beside you, brushing your hair back from your face with a careful hand. The sight of the cut on your cheek made his stomach twist again, but he pushed the feeling down. He had already failed to keep you from getting hurt once, he wouldnât fail you now.
Gently, he set the bottle of pills down next to you, along with a canteen of water. He knew you still werenât talking to him, but that didnât mean he was going to stop taking care of you.
As he sat back, Ellie watched him with something unreadable in her expression. âStill mad, huh?â
Joel sighed, rubbing his thumb over the strap of your bag.
Ellie nodded. âWell⌠youâre doinâ the right thing, at least.â
Joel wasnât sure about that. But as he sat there, keeping watch while you slept, he figured it was all he could do for now.
The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the dull ache in your head. The second was the soft sound of the fire crackling nearby. You blinked against the morning light, your body still heavy with exhaustion.
And then you saw the canteen and the small bottle of pills sitting beside you. You didnât have to ask who put them there.
Your gaze flickered to Joel, who sat a few feet away, his back turned slightly toward you. He was sharpening his knife, the rhythmic scrape of metal against stone filling the quiet space. Ellie sat across from him, kicking at the dirt with her boot, sneaking glances at you like she was waiting to see what youâd do.
You swallowed, your throat dry. Carefully, you pushed yourself up, wincing as your muscles protested. Your fingers brushed against the bottle of pills, and you hesitated before finally picking it up.
Joelâs voice came before you could say anything. âDrink some water with that.â
It was quiet. Gruff. Like he wasnât sure where the two of you stood after yesterday.
You pressed your lips together, debating whether to respond, but you didnât have the energy to fight again. Instead, you obeyed, twisting the cap off and dry-swallowing the pill before chasing it with a sip of water.
Joel didnât look at you, but you saw his shoulders drop just a little.
Ellie, of course, didnât stay quiet for long. âSooo⌠does this mean you guys are done being mad at each other?
You shot her a look. âEllie.â
âWhat? Iâm just sayingâââ
Joel cut in; his voice flat. âEat your breakfast.â
Ellie huffed but dropped it, tearing off a piece of jerky with her teeth.
You sighed, rubbing your temples before stealing a glance at Joel. His eyes were still fixed on his knife, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers gripped the handle a little too tightly.
He was waiting. For you to say something. For you to forgive him.
You sighed, pressing your fingers against your temples in a weak attempt to ease the pressure in your skull. It wasnât working. Nothing ever really worked, except for him.
Joel had a way of grounding you when the pain got bad. He didnât always have the right words, but he never needed them. He had his own way of taking care of you, of letting you know he was there. And right now, all you wanted was for him to kiss your temples the way he used to.
The way he always did when you were hurting.
But things werenât the same. You had fought, you had pulled away, and he had let you. And now, even though he was right there, he felt miles away.
You swallowed hard and shut your eyes, trying to push down the disappointment twisting in your chest. It was stupid to want that from him right now. After everything, you shouldnât need him like that.
Except you did.
Joel shifted, and you felt him move closer, his presence clear even before he spoke. âDid you take the pills?â
You nodded. âYeah.â
There was a long silence, and then, so softly you almost missed itâ âStill hurts?â
You hesitated. Your pride screamed at you to say no. To brush him off and keep that last little bit of distance between you. But you were tired.
âYeah,â you admitted.
Joel exhaled slowly. And then, finally, finally, you felt his fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your head just enough so he could lean in.
His lips pressed against your temple, warm and steady, lingering for just a second longer than they needed to.
You closed your eyes, breathing him in.
âGet ready, we have to go nowâ he spoke, still closer to your face.
You nodded, your throat tightening at the sudden shift back to reality. The moment was brief, fleeting, just like every soft thing between you and Joel seemed to be.
He pulled away first, his hand dropping from your face like he hadnât just touched you like you meant something to him. Like he hadnât just kissed you the way he always used to when you were hurting.
You cleared your throat, pushing yourself up slightly, ignoring the dull ache in your chest "Yeah, okay," you muttered, rubbing at your face as if you could wipe away the lingering warmth of his touch.
Joel stood up, already shifting back into that closed-off version of himself, the one that had been there ever since your fight. The one that didnât know how to bridge the gap now.
Ellie walked in just as you were attempting to stand, her eyes flicking between the two of you. "You guys look weird," she said, frowning. "Like... extra weird."
Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Not now, Ellie."
She just smirked, clearly entertained by whatever tension was hanging in the air. "Whatever you say, lovebirds."
You rolled your eyes, reaching for your bag to distract yourself. Your fingers trembled slightly as you adjusted the straps, but you pretended not to notice. Joel pretended too, but you could feel his gaze lingering on you, watching you too closely like he always did.
The road stretched ahead, cracked and broken, nature reclaiming what once belonged to people. You walked in silence, the weight of the morning still pressing against your chest. Your head ached, but you bit down on the pain, refusing to let it slow you down.
Joel was beside you, his steps steady, his presence solid as ever. But something about him felt distant. He was looking at you, you could feel his gaze flickering toward you every few moments, but it wasnât the same. Not like before.
Before, his eyes had been filled with something warm, something certain. But now? Now, it felt like he was watching you from behind a wall, like he was making sure you were still there but refusing to let himself feel anything about it.
Ellie, for once, was quiet, kicking a stray rock as she walked ahead, letting the tension settle between the two of you.
Joelâs outburst had been raw, desperate, his voice breaking, his hands gripping yours like he could tether you to him. But now, you saw it for what it was. Fear. Not just of losing you. But of what it meant if he didnât.
Because Joel didnât think he deserved to have you. He thought he wasnât enough, that he never had been. And maybe⌠maybe he never would be.
You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. "You donât have to keep looking at me like that," you muttered, not even turning your head.
Joel tensed beside you. "Like what?"
"Like you're waiting for me to cry to let you in and forgive you shout at me.â
His jaw ticked, and for a moment, you thought he wouldnât say anything at all. But thenâ
"I am not," he said, voice rough. A lie.
You stopped walking. Finally, you turned to face him. "Then what is it?" you asked, your voice softer than you meant for it to be. "Because you had been like this for week, something's been different and yesterday you just broke."
Joel exhaled slowly, looking away, his hands on his hips, his fingers flexing. "Nothingâs different."
You huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "Bullshit."
Ellie stopped a few steps ahead, glancing between the two of you like she wanted to intervene but thought better of it.
Joel shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders stiff, his mouth openingâthen closing again. He had no answer. No real one, anyway.
Because the truth was, it had never been about you. It had always been about him. About the way he would rather push you away than let himself believe, even for a second, that he was allowed to keep you. That you would want to stay.
That you would choose him. But you were tired of being the only one fighting for this.
So, you just nodded, setting your jaw. "Alright," you murmured, turning back toward the road, ignoring the way your chest ached. "If nothingâs different, then letâs just keep moving."
He Heard the way your voice broke at the end and he just watched as you joined Ellie.
Joel stood there, hands tightening into fists at his sides as he watched you walk away. Heâd done thisâagain.
He had Hurt you.
He told himself it was for the best, that it was the only way to keep you safe. But that excuse was starting to sound as hollow as he felt.
Ellie shot him a glance, her expression unreadable before she turned her attention back to you. She said something low under her breath, nudging your shoulder. You didnât look back.
And Joel? Joel just stood there, rooted in place, watching the one thing he was most afraid of slip through his fingers.
Because, deep down, he knew. It wasnât the world that would take you from him. It was him. It was a matter of time.
A few hours later, when cold still found its way deep down your bones. You followed Joel and Ellie into the old market, the air inside thick with dust and the remnants of a world long gone. The faded signs above the shop windows once advertised fruits and vegetables, but now they were nothing more than silent witnesses to the decay around them.
Joel stepped into the shadows first, scanning the area with ease. His hand never strayed far from the rifle slung across his back. He wasnât just looking for suppliesâhe was looking for danger, as always, he was ready to find it. You watched him move with that quiet confidence that made him seem invincible, even though you knew better. The way he held himself, as if the weight of the world was constantly on his shoulders.
He disappeared behind a corner, moving into the heart of the market.
Ellie, always ready for adventure, shifted impatiently next to you. âThink itâs safe?â she whispered, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the market.
You didnât answer right away, your eyes fixed on the place where Joel had vanished. You could feel the tension coiling between the two of you, that invisible thread that had been growing tighter over the last few hours. But now wasnât the time to dwell on it.
âHeâll let us know when itâs safe,â you said quietly, not taking your eyes away from him.
Ellie raised an eyebrow, clearly not fully convinced. âYeah, but what if-â
You cut her off with a shake of your head. âHeâs careful. Heâll check everything first.â
She didnât seem entirely satisfied with the answer, but she stayed quiet. You both waited in silence, the only sounds the distant hum of the wind and the occasional creak of the building settling.
Then, Joelâs voice echoed from ahead. âClear,â he called out as he reappeared from behind a row of shelves, his gaze briefly flicking over you before he turned to lead the way deeper into the market. His expression was unreadable, but you could sense the wariness beneath it.
His fingers found their way to your shoulders, his touch was brief, just the slightest brush of his fingers against your jacket. A silent reassurance. Or maybe a habit he couldn't break.
You didnât react, didnât turn to look at him. Instead, you focused on scanning the shelves, looking for anything useful. Cans, medical supplies.
Ellie was already rummaging through a shelf, muttering under her breath about how people really liked canned beans before the world went to hell. Joel moved ahead, his rifle held tight as he checked the corners, ever cautious.
You bent down, shifting through a pile of toppled boxes, when Joelâs voice came from behind you. âYou good?â
It was automatic, the way he asked. Like even when he was keeping his distance, he still couldnât help but care.
You hesitated, keeping your back to him. âYeah.â
Another pause. Then a quiet, âAlright.â
But it wasnât alright.
Not the way his voice sounded. Not the way your chest ached every time he was close but not close enough. And definitely not the way his fingers had lingered just a second too long on your shoulder, as if he didnât want to let go.
Joel was already moving toward another section of the market, scanning the rows of empty shelves, searching for anything of value. Ellie had drifted further ahead, already rummaging through a crate she found. You stayed close to the wall, the buildingâs dilapidated structure making you nervous, but you tried not to let the unease show. You knew Joel was doing his best to keep everyone safe, but the weight of everythingâof what you had lost, of what you were still fighting forâwas starting to catch up with you.
You took a few more steps, carefully picking your way over the cracked floor, when suddenly, the ground beneath you gave way with a sharp, unsettling creak. Before you could react, your foot twisted, the bone snapping like a twig under the weight of the fall.
A sharp, searing pain shot through your ankle as you cried out, unable to stop yourself. The world spun for a moment as you collapsed, hands pressing to the ground to catch yourself, but the pain in your ankle was unbearable. You let out a sharp gasp, fighting the urge to cry out again as you felt something shift beneath the skin, your foot didnât feel right.
"Shit," you muttered, trying to stay calm, but panic crept in with each breath. Your heart raced as you instinctively tried to pull yourself up, but your foot wouldnât hold any weight. You couldnât put it down.
Ellieâs voice broke through the fog of pain, distant but growing closer. âWhat happened?â
âSweetheart?â Joelâs voice followed almost immediately. You could hear the panic lacing his tone, the urgency in his steps as he turned back toward you. You felt the weight of his presence before you saw him, his figure coming into view, moving fast.
He saw you on the ground, your face twisted in pain, and his heart dropped. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, kneeling down beside you with a speed that surprised you. His hands were gentle, but you could hear the frustration in his voice as he assessed the damage. "What the hell happened?"
âIâI fell,â you stammered, gritting your teeth as you tried to hold back more of the pain. You couldnât focus on anything other than your ankle, the way it throbbed, the way your body seemed to give way under the weight of it.
Joelâs face hardened, his jaw clenching as he reached down to carefully touch your injured ankle. âIâm gonna need you to stay still, alright?â His voice was calm, but there was a warning edge to it. He was trying to hold himself together, trying not to let his worry show, but you could see it in his eyes. His hands worked quickly, checking for anything more serious, his brow furrowed with concentration.
âEllie, get over here,â Joel called out, his voice low and strained.
Ellie rushed back toward you, eyes wide with concern as she knelt beside you. âShit, are you alright?â
âIâll be fine,â you said through clenched teeth, trying to sound stronger than you felt. âItâs just my ankle.â
Joelâs gaze flicked between you and Ellie, his mind clearly racing. âWe need to get you out of here, now.â His hand gripped your shoulder for a moment, his fingers digging into the fabric of your jacket as if grounding himself in that brief contact.
Ellie was already standing, her expression determined as she took a deep breath. âIâll go grab what we need.â
Joel nodded, but his focus never left you. He reached down, his hands carefully lifting you as he positioned himself behind you. "I'm gonna carry you. It's gonna hurt a little, but I need you to hang on."
You bit back a hiss of pain as he adjusted his hold on you, making sure not to jostle your foot too much, but you couldnât suppress the way your body tensed at the movement. The pain was still sharp, but there was something comforting in the way Joelâs arms secured around you.
âJoelâŚâ you whispered, too exhausted to speak louder.
âI got you,â he muttered back, his voice almost a promise. "Just hang in there."
As he started to move, carrying you carefully toward a safer corner, you could feel your heart rate begin to slow, your pulse steadying slightly in the rhythm of his steps. But the ache in your ankle still lingered, a constant reminder of how fragile everything really was.
You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to block out the pain, trying to find some semblance of peace in the way Joel had his arms around you. Because no matter how mad you were, no matter how much you werenât talking to him, Joel Miller was always going to take care of you.
Joel helped you settle into a quiet corner of the abandoned store, easing you down onto an old crate. He crouched in front of you, his hands steady as he pulled your boot off, careful not to jostle your ankle too much.
Ellie hovered for a second, glancing between the two of you, then rolled her eyes. âAlright, Iâm gonna go check the other side of the store. Try not to kill each other while Iâm gone.â
You didnât respond. Joel didnât either.
Once Ellie disappeared, Joel focused back on your ankle, pulling out a roll of bandages from his pack. He was quiet as he started wrapping, his fingers gentle but firm, pressing just enough to support your injury.
You watched him for a moment, then let out a quiet scoff. âYou donât have to pretend you care about this.â
Joelâs hands stilled. His jaw ticked. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours.
âYou think Iâm pretending?â His voice was low, rough. Almost offended by the way your voice sounded saying those words.
You looked away, focusing on the peeling paint on the walls. âI donât know what youâre doing, Joel. One second, youâre mad at me. The next, youâre acting likeâlike this.â You gestured vaguely at him. âLike it actually matters.â
Joel exhaled through his nose, sitting back on his heels. âIt does matter.â
You let out a bitter laugh. âDoes it? Because you sure as hell didnât act like it when you were yelling at me.â
His hands curled into fists at his sides. âI was mad because you almost got yourself killed.â
âI was saving you.â You protested.
âI donât need savingâ He replied, rough as always.
Your eyes snapped back to his, anger flashing in them. âAnd I donât need you acting like I donât have a say in whether or not I protect you. You canât just decide for me, Joel.â
Joel sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He looked exhausted, like he was carrying too much weight on his shoulders. âYou donât get it,â he muttered. âI canâtââ He stopped himself, shaking his head.
You frowned, your voice softer now. âCanât what?â
His gaze met yours again, something raw behind it. âI canât lose you.â
The words hit you harder than you expected. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the faint wind outside, the rustling of leaves.
You swallowed, your throat tight. âYou think I want to lose you?â
Joelâs expression softened just a fraction. He sighed, reaching forward, his hand hesitating before resting gently on your knee.
Your breath caught. The fight, the tension, it was still there, but underneath it was something deeper. Something neither of you had the words for just yet.
âYou are always so willing to die,â you sobbed, your voice breaking. âLike youâre just waiting for the exact moment. Like none of this matters to you. Like I donât matter.â
Joelâs breath hitched. His grip on you tightened, grounding you, but he didnât say anything.
You sniffed, shaking your head. âDo you even know what that does to me? How it makes me feel?â
He swallowed hard, his throat working around the words he wasnât saying.
âYou walk into danger like youâve already made peace with dying,â you continued, your voice raw. âAnd maybe you have. Maybe you donât care what happens to you, but I do, Joel. I care. And you make me watch you throw yourself into danger like it doesnât matter if you make it out. Like you donât care if I have to watch youââ
Your voice cut off as a sob wracked through you.
Joel let out a slow breath. Then, finally, he spoke. âI do care,â he said quietly. âMore than you know.â
You let out a bitter laugh, swiping at your tears. âYou sure donât act like it.â
Joelâs jaw clenched. His gaze dropped for a moment before he forced himself to look at you. âIâm not waiting to die.â
You scoffed, looking away.
âIâm notâ he insisted. His voice was rough, firm. âI justâŚI donât know how to do this. How toââ He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before gripping the back of his neck. âI spent twenty years not giving a damn about whether I made it out of alive. And then youââ He stopped, shaking his head like he didnât have the words.
You stared at him, waiting. His gaze met yours again, and for the first time in a long time, he looked vulnerable.
"Do you think I would survive without you?" You asked him.
"You're strong." he stated. Â
"That doesn't matter if the person I love and I protect throws himself to death" you said, tired of the cycle.
âIâm not trying to--â he started, but you cut him off.
âYes, you are,â you snapped, your voice trembling. âYou act like you donât care what happens to you, but I do, Joel. I do. And I donât know whatâs worseâwatching you run into danger without thinking or knowing that if you died, youâd probably think Iâd just move on.â
His brows furrowed. âThat ainâtââ
You swallowed, your fingers tightening around Joelâs wrist. âDo you love me, Joel?â
He didnât answer right away. His jaw tensed, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. For a moment, you thought he wouldnât say itâthat maybe, after everything, heâd still hold back.
But then, his hand moved, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing over the cut on your cheek. His touch was careful, reverent, like he was memorizing you.
âI do,â he murmured, voice rough with emotion. âMore than I know how to say.â
Your breath stilled.
Joel exhaled, shaking his head slightly. âMore than I ever meant to. More than I know what to do with.â
Your heart ached at the honesty in his voice.
âThen stop trying to leave me behind,â you whispered, pleading to him.
He looked at you with such intensity, as if he was trying to see past the pain and fear, trying to understand something that had always eluded him.
âHow do you even love someone like me?â Joelâs voice cracked slightly, the question laced with vulnerability, a side of him you rarely sawâsomething raw and unprotected.
Your heart hurt at the sound of it. You wanted to reach out and erase the doubt from his mind, to tell him that he didnât have to question it. But instead, you just looked at him, letting the silence linger for a moment, trying to gather the right words to answer him.
âJoel,â you whispered, your voice soft but firm, âI love you because youâre you. Because through all the broken pieces, all the walls youâve built around yourself, I still see the man whoâs been there for me. Youâre not perfect, none of us are. But youâre the one I want. Youâre the one I need.â
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if taking in your words, processing them, before meeting your gaze again. His expression softened, the tightness in his jaw easing, but there was still that guarded look in his eyes. He was trying to fight something inside himself, something he had carried for so long.
âI donât deserve you,â he said, almost to himself, but you heard it loud and clear. The doubt in his voice, something he couldnât shake.
You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you, forcing him to see the truth in your eyes. âStop saying that,â you said, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. âYou deserve me. You deserve everything good thatâs coming your way. Iâve seen who you are, Joel. Youâre not what you think you are.â
âWhy do you think I keep pushing you away?â he asked, his voice barely above a whisper now, like he was afraid of the answer himself.
You leaned in a little closer, your forehead nearly touching his, and your breath mingled in the quiet space between you. âBecause youâre scared of letting yourself love me the way you do,â you said softly. âYouâre scared of losing me. But pushing me away wonât make it any easier. Itâll just leave you with a regret you canât undo.â
He inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling as if your words had struck a chord in him, but it wasnât enough to break him completely, not yet.
âI donât want to lose you,â he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. âBut Iâm afraid if I let myself love you fully... if I let myself need you the way I do⌠I wonât be able to protect you. I canât live with that.â
A single tear slipped down your cheek as you reached up to wipe it away, the tenderness in his voice catching you off guard. You could feel the pain in his words, the depth of his fear, and it only made you love him more.
Joelâs hand gently moved to your ankle, and despite everything that had just been said, the tenderness in his touch wasnât lost on you. His rough fingers brushed against your skin as he carefully positioned your leg. You winced slightly at the discomfort, but it wasnât the pain from your ankle that caught your attentionâit was the way his eyes never left you, the quiet care he was showing in that moment.
âHold still,â he murmured, his voice low, trying to keep his own emotions in check. You could tell he was trying to be calm for you, even though you knew he was anything but calm inside.
Joelâs fingers moved gently over your ankle, wrapping the bandage with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times. His touch was steady, and for once, it was soft, more like the careful tenderness of someone who didnât want to hurt you, rather than the harshness that often came with survival.
You winced slightly when the bandage tightened, but he immediately eased his grip, looking at you with concern.
âSorry,â he muttered. âDidnât mean to hurt you.â
âItâs fine,â you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You werenât sure why, but his care made you feel vulnerable in a way you werenât used to.
Once your ankle was properly secured, Joel leaned back, looking at you for a moment, his eyes dark with something you couldnât quite place in them. He didnât speak for a while, just stared at you like he was trying to decide something in his mind.
Joelâs gaze went to your ankle for a moment, then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward, his lips brushing the soft skin of your bandaged ankle. It was a gesture so tender, so unexpected, that you couldnât help but laugh softly.
âDonât laugh,â he murmured, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his voice remained quiet, almost apologetic. âIâm just trying to make it better.â
You shook your head, still chuckling lightly, the sound feeling strange after everything that had happened. âI wasnât laughing at you, Joel,â you said, meeting his eyes with a smile. âItâs just... never thought youâd be kissing my ankle better.â
Joelâs smirk softened into something more tender, and for a moment, there was nothing between you but the quiet understanding. His eyes dropped back to your ankle for a brief second before lifting to meet yours once more, his expression serious. Without another word, he moved closer, his hand reaching to cup your face gently, his thumb brushing over your skin with the same tenderness he had shown when tending to your injury. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, his lips just a breath away.
And then, without hesitation, he kissed you, soft, lingering, as if it was a promise, as if it was everything, he hadnât been able to say before. You leaned into it, letting the kiss speak for you both, the tension between you finally easing, at least for this moment.
âOh, come on! Seriously?â Ellieâs voice cut through the moment like a knife.
You and Joel broke apart instantly, your breath still tangled in his, as you turned to see Ellie standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, a smirk pulling at her lips.
Joel cleared his throat and sat back slightly, rubbing a hand over his beard like that would somehow erase what sheâd just walked in on.
Ellie rolled her eyes. âI leave you two alone for five minutes, and youâre already making out. Unbelievable.â
Your face burned, but you couldnât help but laugh at her dramatic tone. âEllieââ
âNo, no,â she interrupted, waving a hand. âI mean, itâs kinda sweet, but gross.â
Joel shot her a look, his voice flat. âEllie.â
âWhat?â She shrugged, grinning. âJust saying. But, uhâmaybe save the romance for later, lovebirds? We kinda got shit to do.â
Joel exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but when he glanced at you again, you caught the ghost of a smile on his lips.
âCâmon,â he muttered, standing up and offering you a hand. âWe should get movinâ.â
You took his hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go. As you stood, Ellie shot you both a smug look before turning on her heel.
As she walked away, you heard her mutter under her breath, âGod, I hope I never have to see that again.â
As soon as you put weight on your injured ankle, a sharp pain shot up your leg, making you wince. You bit down on a curse, trying to tough it out, but Joel noticed immediately.
âJoel, itâs fine, I can walk,â you protested, but you could see the look in his eyes, the one that said, no argument.
âNot gonna argue with me on this one. Up you go.â Before you could protest, he crouched slightly in front of you. âGet on.â He waited for you to settle onto his back, and you reluctantly complied, knowing it would be easier than walking on your own.
You blinked at him. âJoel, I canââ
He shot you a look over his shoulder. âI'm not asking...â
Ellie snorted. âJust get on, lovebird.â
You sighed, but there was no real fight left in you. Carefully, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders as he hooked his arms under your legs and lifted you effortlessly.
âEasy, old man,â you teased, resting your chin on his shoulder.
Joel huffed, adjusting his grip. âCall me that again, and Iâm dropping you.â
You laughed softly, âThanks,â you muttered after a moment, your face buried in his jacket, still feeling the warmth of his body. The way he carried you felt like a sense of safety you hadnât realized you needed until now.
You sighed against him, letting yourself relax just a little as Joel carried you forward with steady steps. Without thinking, you pressed a soft kiss to the side of his neck, just above the collar of his jacket.
Joel stiffened for half a second, his grip on your legs tightening before he exhaled slowly. âYou trying to distract me?â His voice was lower now, rougher.
A smirk played on your lips. âIs it working?â
He huffed, shaking his head. âMaybe.â
You laughed, placing another kiss on the same spot, âI love you, Joel.â
His steps faltered for just a moment, barely noticeable, but you felt it. His grip on you tightened, his fingers pressing into your legs like he needed to ground himself.
He didnât answer right away, just kept walking, his jaw tight. For a second, you thought maybe he wouldnât say anything at all.
But then, in that quiet, gruff voice of his, he murmured, âI love you too, darling. Alwaysâ.