PEDROTOBER DAY TWENTY-FOUR EZRA

PEDROTOBER DAY TWENTY-FOUR ↣ EZRA

someday I will get over my posting phobia and share these wips that live in my docs.

someday!!!!!

He’s got the biggest chokehold on me, istg.

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"'All well.' That seems like another lifetime, does it not, Francis? Can you remember a time when any of us could write such a thing with an easy conscience?"

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Short Days, Long Nights: 18

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: extremely soft

A/N: An epilogue to end our story, I'll reblog later with all of my thank yous. For now, this final chapter is dedicated to @mrsmando ❤ and her big giant heart, for whom this story wouldn't exist without.

Series Masterlist

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FIVE YEARS LATER 

“Honey?”

Placing his keys on the table in the entryway, Joel tilts his head to the side and listens. Silence greets him instead, but it’s a warm one. Peaceful.  

Sunlight streams through the open windows in the living room, and he walks through the beams of soft light towards the back of the house, passing through a scene of domestic disarray: a blanket tossed over the couch, toys scattered on the living room floor, small shoes that he bartered for last week kicked off and tossed on the stairs. Bending down to scoop them up with a sigh, he carries them into the kitchen. Placing them on the table, he looks around for any sight of you. 

The backdoor ajar, he heads into the backyard. 

“Honey?”

“Yea?”

Calling to him from the middle of the garden, he spots you with a smile – right as a small body crashes through the bushes with a shriek. Running straight for him, Joel automatically holds his hands out to catch June, but she looks behind her and screams, dodging his reach instead. Another child comes through and then another; a game of tag that’s crossed borders between the houses. 

“Hey! Stop runnin’ through! Just go around em’!”

You stand from your place in the garden, picking your way carefully through the sprouting plants. Your face and shoulders come into view first, and then your stomach – the soft swell only just beginning to show. At the sight of it, he visibly softens and comes over to help you, lending you his hand. 

“You sound just like a cranky old man,” you tease, brushing the dirt from your knees. Looking up at him with a squint against the sun, you grin and mime shaking a fist. “Stay off my lawn!”

“Well I am an old man,” he says wryly, defending himself. “Besides, all I need is for a kid to get hurt bustin’ through those bushes like that.”

He looks over his shoulder and surveys the damage for a moment; the squall of children slightly muted from the front yard. Bringing his eyes back to you, he steps closer and reaches for your bump, splaying his touch over it. 

“How we feelin’ today?”

“Oh god,” you answer with a sigh. “Tired.” 

Letting your head drop forward, you rest it on his shoulder. His hands glide smoothly from your stomach to your hips, encouraging you to lean into him and you do, pressing your cheek against his chest. Warmth radiates through the material of his shirt, and you close your eyes and breathe him in. Sunshine, sweat, the faint smell of the stables and the horse he rode today while on patrol lingers in the fabric, and your body relaxes against his. 

“How was your day?” you murmur. 

“Good. Tommy n’ Maria wanna know if we can come over for dinner this week. Guess she’s been askin’ for that dessert you made last time, wants to know if you can bring it over again. What was it called?”

“Brown sugar pie.” You burrow even closer against him, and his arms slip around your back in an embrace. 

“That’s the one.”

“I think I have everything I need for it. I can do that.”

“I told him I would let em’ know tomorrow. Got patrol with him again at dawn.”

You look up at him with a pout. “So early again?”

He says nothing, bending to press his mouth to your forehead. 

“I miss you in bed when you leave so early in the morning.”

His kiss drops lower, catching your nose.  

“You know I like curling up next to you. You’re like a human furnace.”

The edge of his mouth lifts. “I know, I like it too. But duty calls and all that.”

Presenting your lips for a kiss, he grants a lingering, full press of his mouth to yours and then pulls back. 

“You need me to carry anything into the house?”

“I don’t need that kind of help just yet,” you reply. 

He puts his hands up in defense with a smirk, taking a step back. “Just askin’”.

You wave him away, turning back towards the garden and he turns to head into the house, calling over his shoulder. 

“I’m gonna take a shower. Is he sleepin’ inside?”

“Yes,” you call back. “Try to be quiet when you go in. He kept me up most of the night, so I know he’s tired too.”

Nodding, he catches the screen door before it smacks the frame behind him and quietly heads upstairs.  

The bedroom is scattered with the same lived-in mess that downstairs is: the quilt thrown back over rumpled sheets, his sweats on the floor, a scatter of items on the dresser. Reaching over his head, he tugs his shirt off in a smooth motion, and tosses it on the bed before sitting down with a soft groan, bending forward to unlace his boots. 

His bare back is littered with long ago healed scars, one of them pulling tight across his flank. Sitting up with a stretch, he rubs at it with his hand, the muscle underneath sore from so much time spent in the saddle. Heading into the bathroom, he tosses the rest of his clothes into the laundry basket and steps into the shower, letting the water beat down on his lower back.

Four years in, and he still lets out a sigh of appreciation every time. 

Done and dressed in fresh clothes, he pads around the bedroom in bare feet gathering the rest of the laundry. A mix of his and yours, a threadbare blankie that needs washing, a sleeper on the dresser. Tossing it all into the basket, he goes into June’s room to do the same. 

Picking up the small guitar she plays with while he practices on his own, he places it carefully against the corner of the wall and gathers the laundry she’s left at the foot of the bed. The room reflects the girl herself: purple walls, drawings taped up on every surface, a butterfly suncatcher that hangs in her window scattering rainbows over the floor. 

Hearing muted babbles from the next room over, Joel grabs a shirt off the floor before heading over to the closed door. Opening it, he’s greeted with a grin. 

“Hey big guy," he says lowly, setting the basket on the floor, peering over the side of the crib. Built by Joel shortly after you arrived in Jackson, he thumbs at the mending it needs on the corner, thinking about how it’ll need to be moved into the bedroom in about five months. 

Still puffy with sleep, the boy’s face resembles yours so much that Joel’s eyes crinkle with affection. “You ready to get up?”

One hand holding the basket and the other one dangling to let his son grasp it, they slowly navigate the stairs together, entering the kitchen just as June comes through the back door with you right behind her. 

“Someone woke up, I see,” you coo, scooping the toddler into your arms. 

“You done playin’ tag, June Bug?” Joel asks, squeezing her shoulder. 

“Yea. The other kids had to go home for lunch. Can you make me something to eat, Daddy?”

Routine takes over, the afternoon sliding into the evening, twilight descending around the house. The picture window in the front is a beacon of light; figures moving around inside. Dinner, playtime, bathtime. A freshly bathed June and Henry – Hank, for Hank Williams – in Joel’s lap on the couch while he reads them a book, the gentle clink of dishes being washed sounding from the kitchen.

After the kids are tucked in for the night, you find him on the porch. Pulling his flannel tight around your torso, you take a seat next to him and he wordlessly drapes his arm across your shoulders, tucking you close. Handing him a well worn mug with an owl on it, he hums with approval when he discovers the whiskey inside. 

“I saw the midwife today,” you say, spreading your fingers over your bump. “She said everything looks good so far, and gave me something for the heartburn.”

“Is it still real bad?” he asks, and you nod. 

“She says that it’s a sign it’s gonna be a girl,” you smile at him, shrugging. “I don’t remember having it too bad with June though, so who knows.”

Watching your fingers smooth your shirt over the small bump with a rub, the action moves in time with the slow rocking of the bench. Another sip of whiskey, and Joel thinks about how much has changed between then and now: a fleeting image of your younger face, a picture of a river, a cabin just beyond.

The comfortable silence between the two of you lets his mind continue to roam, the memories coming in flashes: the trek across the country, the simultaneous relief and on-edge anxiety he felt when the walls surrounding Jackson first came into view. A familiar voice calling through the fog, one he thought he’d never hear again. Favoring his left side due to a deep gash still healing from an encounter with raiders, warmth slipped from his eyes as he clutched his brother tight, unwilling to let go. 

The same brother he saw just this morning, and who he’ll see again tomorrow. 

“You’re so different than the guy I left all those years ago,” his brother said later on, and Joel had said nothing, just lacing his fingers with yours. 

He is different. 

The years have softened him around the edges, or maybe the kids have. Or maybe it’s you.  

Relaxing into him, his cheek comes to rest on the top of your head.

“You tired, honey?”

“Yea.” The word slips out, the edges rounded. “But keep rocking me?”

Fireflies spark and dance in the air, the wisps of a song caught on the wind from the neighbor playing their radio next door. Your profile is highlighted with the softened light from inside, your cheeks plump with health and happiness and enough food, the frown lines from ever present anxiety smoothed away years ago. He gently collects the soft hair at your temple with a soothing stroke and your eyes flutter shut. 

His boot pushing off the wooden floorboards of the porch, he rocks and presses a kiss to the crown of your hair, letting the gratefulness pass through him. 

The old life feels like a dream, or maybe this is the dream – with a wife sitting safe and sound beside him, on the porch of a home filled with his children. 

Everything possible because you imagined it possible. Everything here because of you.

“Come on. Let’s go to bed,” he murmurs, and you nod, not moving. 

The edge of his mouth lifting in a smile, he tucks you in closer and rocks.

THE END

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the wildest winter | joel miller x f!reader

a your summer dream one shot

your summer dream masterlist | main masterlist | ao3 | follow @swiftispunkupdates and turn on notifications for updates

In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.

–Albert Camus, Return to Tipasa

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pairing: joel miller x f!reader rating: 18+ word count: 9.3k

series warnings etc: [NO OUTBREAK] we'll call him dad's buddy!joel, fairly soft!joel, age difference (28/50), angst, smut (will specify with each chapter), fluff, alcohol, food, secret relationship until it's not. series summary: after falling head over heels for your dad's buddy on vacation, it's now time to navigate the real world together. or, a year in the life with joel miller.

chapter summary: your plan to tell your parents about your relationship doesn't quite go as planned. chapter warnings: smut, some angst, unprotected p in v sex, brief cockwarming, dirty talk, pet names, fluff and romance, exhibitionism, vaginal fingering, narcissistic mothers, actually reader's mom is just The Worst in general, mentions of babies and discussions of parenthood, the closest han will ever come to breeding kink (but like, hardly), a lot of unresolved drama, a lot of joel playing guitar, reader's dad's birthday is in january, alcohol, food. no use of y/n.

a/n: thanks to everyone who waited for this i hope it's ok and if it's not um please be nice i'm just a baby

You don't think you've ever seen Joel look more handsome.

Of course, it's not really a fair contest; he's handsome all the time. You'd first found him beautiful in patterned shirts under twinkling lights, tanned and glowing in tropical heat. He's still tanned, still glowing, still perfect–only now he's shrouded in the dim light of your childhood bedroom, clad in a white-button down and a simple black blazer. His hair's longer, pushed back out of his face and curling around his ears, flecks of grey poking through in places they hadn't before. His hand rests on the small of your back, taking in the space–taking in you in the space–perhaps wondering, just like you, how in the hell you've ended up here.

"That was my bed," you tell him, nodding to the twin-sized frame pressed flush into a corner on the far side of the room. "It used to be over there."

You point to the patch of wall beneath the window, now occupied by boxes filled with god-knows-what. "I'm never here, so they just use this room to keep all their old shit in now."

"Beats payin' for a storage unit, I guess," Joel shrugs, frowning. 

"The joy of being an empty nester, I guess."

He shakes his head. "I kept Sarah's room just how she left it when she moved out."

"Yeah, well," you roll your eyes, flicking the light off and leading him back out into the upstairs hallway of your parents' house. His hands wind around your waist, pressing into you as he follows you past the walls lined with family photos and mass-produced artwork. "You're the Best Dad Ever, we know this."

Joel laughs, the sound so sweet against your ear as you come to a stop in the hallway, gazing at the photos together.

"I remember when you looked like that," he says.

"Oh god, shut up."

His chin rests on your shoulder and you lean back into him without any fear; in the quiet of the upstairs hallway, there is only you and him.

You and him and the wall of photos, haphazardly hung in mismatched frames against a dark green backdrop. Three coats of green to be exact; you recall that month all too well. When your parents had stripped the walls and laid out canvas sheets across the carpet so the three of you could roll up your sleeves and Do It Yourselves. Your dad had been unwilling to relinquish control to anyone else, let alone hired painters.

Except Joel, of course. Because Joel had been there, on the second weekend for the second coat, something you only remember now that he's here with you again. 

"Yeah, look," he hums, reaching out from behind you to point at a picture of a much younger you on the front steps of this very house, yellow backpack slung over bare shoulders, Velcro sneakers strapped over tiny feet. First day of school. Fourth grade, you think. "Your smile ain't changed a bit."

His voice against your neck tickles, and sure enough, you mirror your past self, teeth poking out from behind your lips in a sheepish little grin. You shake your head and Joel kisses a spot just below your jaw.

"There it is," he murmurs and his scruff drags over your skin in a way that feels like he's smirking.

There's a sudden change in pressure as his hands drift up your sides and find a home above your rib cage. Your tummy flutters, meeting him where he's at.

"Some things have changed," you whisper, guiding his palms higher to daringly rest them over your breasts, pressing down and encouraging him to squeeze.

He does, kneading the soft flesh under the fabric of your dress, a low growl echoing in the hollow of your ear. He presses his frame closer into yours, his semi-hard bulge prodding at your lower back, and for a moment you both let yourselves forget where you are. Forget the clattering of dishes and the distant back and forth of your parents downstairs, forget the whole reason you're here in the first place.

Your head falls back against his shoulder as Joel trails one hand lower, emboldened when you sigh to slip it between your legs under the hem of your dress.

"They sure have, baby," he rasps, cupping your sex in his massive hand, feeling at the wetness staining the cotton of your panties, assessing it. "Fuck, they sure have."

Downstairs, silver clashes with porcelain and a whining timer dings but, as usual, you are lost in Joel. The slow circle of his fingers over your clothed clit makes your mouth fall open and your eyes slip closed and even though you know it's wrong stupid wrong to do this here, now, like this–you don't stop him. You never do.

Not when his teeth nip at your ear and his fingers apply more pressure to your clit, or when you start to think you might actually be able to come like this, breaths already shortening, stomach already fluttering. And Joel just laughs when he feels you loosen, when you lean back into him like you'd crumble without his arms around you.

"Naughty thing," he whispers as his fingers dip below the edge of your panties to touch you properly, his other hand moving to close over your open mouth and catch your gasp. "Yeah? S'at feel good?"

You can only nod, brows knitting together as he increases his pace, expertly swirling over your clit in slick little ministrations. You're barrelling towards climax at alarming speed, something about the risk and the setting and his tangible hunger for you causing heat to pool in your core all too quickly. 

"Shit," Joel grins when he feels you begin to shiver in his grasp. "You gonna come right here, baby? Just like this for me? Gonna come on my fingers with your folks downstairs?"

And as if that's what fucking does it. 

Joel's appreciative sigh soundtracks your silent orgasm as your body tenses then falls. He draws it out long enough to make your knees buckle but it still somehow ends too soon; not nearly as perfect as what you know he's capable of giving you, but blinding all the same. 

When your shudders subside, he pries his palm free from your mouth. You choke out a steadying breath and Joel plants a warm kiss behind your ear as he slowly retracts his fingers from your now-soaked underwear.

"Don't think I've ever seen you come so fast, baby,” he breathes reverently into your skin. "You're so fuckin' sexy."

"And you're–" You turn in his arms to face him, breathless as you lace your fingers behind his neck before pressing one fleeting kiss against his lips. "–a fucking menace."

He chuckles and shrugs, but doesn't deny it.

"You coulda just said the word n' I woulda stopped."

"Yeah, well," you roll your eyes, squish his sweet, scruffy, stupid face between your palms and kiss him again–just because you can. "You already know that'll never happen."

The man fucking giggles and your heart nearly explodes, fingers coiling into his curls like you could just burrow yourself into his scalp forever. 

You feel good, and not just because you're still riding the waves of an orgasm. It's a good night. You can feel it.

It's your dad's birthday dinner and you're telling your parents about Joel. 

You should probably feel scared, or nervous, or any number of things other than giddy but somehow, that's all there is. Excitement, anticipation, a fierce joy at the thought of making this thing with Joel into something real.

"Y'still wanna do this?" Joel asks, thumbs stroking soothingly at your waist. 

"I do," you nod, and his face breaks into a blinding half-smile. 

"No goin' back after this," he says. 

"After this?" you scoff, eyebrows shooting up your forehead. "I've been locked in for a while here, big guy."

"Oh yeah? Since when?"

"Hm," you ponder for a moment. Your bodies gently sway in the quiet of the hallway, and somewhere in the back of your mind it occurs to you that you've been gone for far too long; your parents are probably starting to get suspicious. But your imminent confession makes you bold. They'll know the truth soon enough anyway. "Remember that day by the pool? In Costa Rica?"

Joel laughs, the aquamarine memory dancing behind his eyes as he nods. "Yeah."

"Pretty much since then."

His laughter fades, something more pensive passing over his features. Staring at the floor beneath you, he shakes his head.

"What?" you press him. 

He reaches between your bodies to gently cup your chin, swiftly withdrawing his fingers to settle them over the shell that hangs from your neck. His gaze settles there too, at the place where his fingers are fiddling with the chain. 

"Think it was on the plane for me," he admits. You swallow tightly.

"Like the plane home?" you ask weakly, even though you already know that's not what he'd meant. 

Joel shakes his head. At last, his eyes meet yours from under his lashes, his stare all bashful and warm as he flashes you that familiar crooked smile.

"Nope," he sighs, infusing his tone with a sort of mock-solemnity, diffusing the weightiness of the moment. "'Fraid I've been locked in since day one, kid."

"Gross, don't call me that," you groan, pushing back on the suffocating emotion his words inspire and untangling yourself free from his embrace instead.

With nothing but adoration and trust–and something else you haven't voiced yet–coursing through you, you take his hand and lead him down the stairs. 

-

"What the hell were you two doing up there?" your dad asks when you and Joel walk into the dining room, no longer hand-in-hand, but with a respectable amount of space between your bodies. 

"I was just giving Joel a tour," you shrug, taking your usual seat at the dinner table.

"Joel's been here a thousand times, kiddo," he protests, but amazingly there's no suspicion in his tone. God, he really has no idea. You kind of start to worry you might break his brain tonight. "He comes around more than you. Least he used to."

He smacks a hand against Joel's shoulder, an affectionate gesture if not a little chiding. Because even though they're both smiling, you can sense the genuine hurt there. You've stolen your dad's friend away from him, a fact that haunts you more and more with each passing day. You twiddle your fingers in your lap and force a smile of your own, suddenly consumed by guilt. You work to rein it in; once the truth is out there, Joel won't have to hide anymore, and your dad can have his friend back. The thought keeps you tethered, solidifies your belief that telling them is the right thing, for everyone.

"Just been busy, you know how it goes," Joel says, eyes briefly flashing to you like he can't help himself. Your dad doesn't seem to catch it.

"I think he's got himself a new lady friend," your dad winks at you and your responding awkward laugh sounds so painfully put-on you think he must hear how much you're hiding beneath it. "Too busy with some woman to see your old man."

"Yeah, that sounds like Joel," you tease with a tight smile. Joel stifles a laugh under his breath and your dad looks like he wants to say something else but then your mother is emerging from the kitchen, announcing her presence with a clap of her hands. 

"Food's ready," she chimes in. "Can I get some hands in here?"

You're the first to follow her back into the kitchen, driven perhaps by some strange, childlike need to get on her good side.

-

"Well, here's to this little Costa Rica reunion," your mother toasts, holding up her third glass of wine over your near-empty plates. You all answer the call, your dad with a beer bottle, you with your own glass of wine, and Joel, sitting on your left, with the same crystal glass of bourbon he's been nursing for the past hour.

He's nervous, especially now as dinner is nearing its end and your time to share your news is running short. You'd agreed that it would be best to wait, ease into it, maybe let your parents get a few drinks deep before dropping a potential bomb on them.

The second Joel's done eating, his hand is on your thigh, concealed beneath the tabletop. It anchors him, you think–anchors you too.  

"And here's to you, dear," she adds, turning towards your father. "Happy birthday."

"Happy birthday, dad," you echo, punctuating the sentiment with a clink of your glass against his. Joel mirrors you, offering you an extra little nod of encouragement as he sips his drink beside you.

"Thanks, guys–thanks, honey," your dad smiles appreciatively, pulling at his beer and sitting back into his chair. "I'm just glad we could all get together for once."

Beside you, Joel squeezes your thigh–it's time–and your hand comes down over his. Anchoring. It's time. It's time. 

You take a deep breath and–

"I'm actually really glad you're here," your mother suddenly interjects, pointing at you across the table with the rim of her glass. "I've been wanting to tell you about this nice boy I met through one of the women in my yoga class."

"O-oh," you choke out, whatever words you'd been about to say dying on your tongue in an instant. On your left, Joel visibly stiffens, sucking in a haggard breath through his nose as his gaze drops to his lap. Fuck. You squeeze his fingers, as if to say, I'm sorry, I'm here, don't listen to her. 

"He's about your age, just got his Master's from UT, already has a job lined up and everything."

Fucking hell. 

Every word stings like a knife to the chest, but what hurts more is the way Joel's eyebrows pull together, the way his hand loosens on your thigh, the way he minutely shakes his head as she lists off reminder after reminder of all the things he doesn't have, things you know he wants to offer you but can't, things he thinks you deserve. She breathes life into every one of his anxieties and it makes you fucking livid.

"Mom–"

"And he's very handsome," she cuts you off. "Peggy showed me pictures. And I know every mother thinks the world of their son, but he really is a good-looking guy. I think he'd be your type."

"Mom, I'm really not looking to meet someone new right now."

Scoffing, she waves a hand at you dismissively. 

"It doesn't have to go anywhere!" she insists. Jesus, she's talking so fucking loud; every word rattles your bones and twists a blazing rage in your guts. Joel shrinks like he's been shot beside you and you need her to shut the fuck up, now. "But it wouldn't hurt to think about putting yourself back out there. You're going to be thirty soon and I just think–"

"I'm dating Joel, mom!"

Silence, thick and deafening, befalls the table. A weight you didn't know you'd been carrying disappears from your shoulders with a sigh. It settles in around you instead, tensing the air between you and your parents. You lace your fingers with Joel's and when you turn to offer him a gentle smile, you see that weight is gone from him too, his features relaxing as he meets your gaze, eyes all soft and grateful. 

It's not exactly how you'd planned for it to come out. But fuck, it feels good. 

Then you look up.

Not at your mother, but at your father.

Your father, who stares blankly between the two of you with his brows furrowed in confusion, frozen in place with his head tilted to the side.

"This Joel?" he demands, not like he's angry but like he genuinely doesn't understand.

And before you can even say yes, this Joel, your mother bursts into a fit of biting, mirthless laughter. 

"Of course, this Joel. What other Joel would she be talking about?"

Your father shakes his head, apparently still trying to make it all make sense. 

"I just–since when?"

You're about to answer him, but you're cut off once again.

"Since Costa Rica, obviously," your mother says, followed by another dark laugh that she swallows with a sip of wine. 

Something about her tone makes your blood boil but you can't quite figure out why.

"You knew?" you ask her.

She rolls her eyes and your burning anger only grows. "I had a feeling."

"Okay, well," you sit up a little straighter, refusing to let her attitude dissuade you. "Yes. You were right, okay? Is that what you want to hear?"

She laughs again, and the knife in your chest twists. "Not particularly, but here we are, I suppose."

Through the blinding fog of rage, you're conscious of your father beside her, staring across the table at Joel, his expression still painted with confusion. Joel seems unable to return his gaze, instead keeping his eyes trained on you. 

"Well, we–we're really happy," you continue, not unlike how you'd rehearsed it, though it comes out through gritted teeth in a way you hadn't planned for. "And we wanted to tell you guys–"

"At your father's birthday dinner?" she interrupts. Your heart sinks. "You thought that would be a good time to drop this on us?"

Drop this on us.

It's cruel–cutting–so overtly mean that it makes you want to run from the table, up to your childhood bedroom, so you can bury your face into your sheets and cry. But you are not a teenager anymore, and you are not hers to control. Instead, you channel your sadness into anger, and retaliate. 

"I'm telling you about my relationship," you argue. "I don't see the problem here."

"You don't see the problem?" She looks between the two of you, like the aforementioned problem is right there in the space between your bodies, clear as day to anyone on the outside looking in. And it is, you know it is, you've just become so desensitized to it that it's lost all meaning to you now:

Fifty. Your dad's friend. 

"What about you, Joel?" your mother goes on, speaking directly to him now. You imagine jumping in front of him as though her words were a bullet, as though you could protect him from the wounds you know she's about to inflict. "Do you see the problem?"

He opens his mouth like he wants to respond, but seemingly changes his mind when he locks eyes with your mother, succumbing to her glare and dropping his gaze back to his empty plate. And that kills you; it's one thing to feel the power she has over you, it's another to see it so clearly affecting Joel. 

You can't think of anything to say either, too dumbfounded and hurt and frustrated to form a half-decent response. Through a hefty breath of momentary quiet, you note that Joel has looked up from the table, but he's no longer looking at your mother. He's locked in some kind of silent staring match with your father, soft browns all pleading pleading pleading.

Your mother sips her wine, eventually cracking through the uncomfortable silence with a sigh when it becomes clear neither you or Joel are going to answer her.

"I'm never gonna have grandchildren, am I?" she asks to no one in particular, finally rising from the table with a shake of her head and disappearing towards the back door. 

It punches the air from your lungs, leaves you wide-eyed and cracked apart. Gobsmacked. 

Joel, you think. You need Joel. Need his tethering calm and his soothing drawl, need him to pull you back from the reeling like he has for so long now. 

But Joel is still staring at your father, still engrossed in some wordless, masculine conversation you can't get a handle on. 

Goddamnit. You know what needs to happen now. They need to hash it out. And you can't be here.

"I'm gonna go talk to her," you mutter and at that, Joel finally whips around to look at you, something like panic in his eyes.

"It's okay," you tell him, cupping his cheek in your palm and ignoring the sound your father makes in response. "You guys should talk."

His eyes flash to your mouth and you want so badly to kiss him, like you've grown so used to doing. You decide not to push it, opting instead to quickly squeeze his hand three times before unfurling your fingers from his, watching him steel himself as you stand and back away.

"Dad," you say, forcing him to tear his eyes away from Joel to look at you instead, that same befuddled glint in his stare.

"I'm really happy," you repeat, willing him to hear it. "I'm really happy, okay?"

He nods, mouth a straight line, eyes still searching. It seems like the best you're going to get right now.

So you nod back, offer Joel one last twitch of your lips–almost a smile–and go find your fucking mother. 

-

She's sitting on a lawn chair out on the back deck, legs crossed out in front of her. Somehow having procured another glass of wine, she's sipping on it lazily as she stares into the dark of the backyard. It's warm–always somewhat warm here, even in the dead of January–but her demeanor feels needlessly icy, like she's putting on a show of it.

You sigh, and take the seat beside her.

"I don't get why you’re so mad about this," you begin.

Now it's her turn to sigh, and in spite of her being nearly a bottle of wine deep by now, she seems strikingly sober.

"I'm not mad," she insists. "I'm just…baffled."

"What's so hard to believe?" you demand, leaning towards her with your hands on your knees, as if proximity will help her see your side more clearly. "Joel has been so good to me, mom. He's-he's kind and charming, and handsome–"

"And twenty years older than you," she interjects. "That man knew you when you were a child."

You vehemently shake your head at the suggestion behind her words.

"No. No, it's not some creepy thing, okay? We never even thought of each other like that until Costa Rica–"

"Are you sure about that? Maybe that's true for you, but how do you know it's true for him? What do you think a man his age wants with a girl like you?"

You just shake and shake and shake your head, defiant. 

"Joel is not a bad guy, mom," you say with finality.

She shrugs, sitting back in her chair, sipping her wine. 

She doesn't believe you.

"Why don't you trust me?" you ask, and it comes out like a whisper, some of the hurt you've been coddling finally coating your tone. It seems to affect her. Carefully assessing your pleading face, she frowns, and then finally, concedes.

Well, almost.

"Maybe you're right," she sighs. "Maybe it's better to just let you get it out of your system."

"Get it out of my system?" you repeat, taken aback. 

She hums, appearing contemplative when she sips her wine now, struck by some new train of thought.

"I mean, you never had a rebellious phase or anything like that," she muses, swirling dark red liquid in her glass. "Always did everything by the book. And then you met Chris and–I mean, there was your whole future right there, right? Then that ended and now…"

She nods to herself, clearly very proud of her little psychoanalytical assessment. 

"This is not about Chris," you assert. It burns your tongue to even say his name. 

"Well, no, not entirely, I'm sure," she agrees with an errant shrug. "I think it's also about me."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"What?"

"Sweetie, come on. I know you resent me for wanting you to get back together with Chris. Someone you had something great with. And I know–" she holds up a hand to stop you from interrupting, leaving you to seethe in silence instead as she twists the knife even deeper than before. "–I know he hurt you. I don't think you should take him back. But what you're choosing now? This? Wasting time with a man you absolutely have no future with? Your father's friend, for Christ's sake…I can't help but feel like you're trying to prove some kind of point."

Every word, spoken with such flippant disregard for you or your feelings, has heat erupting in your veins all over again.

"Maybe the point," you spit, rising to stand over her, desperately fighting to feel less small. "–is that I fucking like him. Did you ever consider that?"

"I don't doubt that you do, sweetheart," she says, and the sympathy in her voice only serves to make you more enraged. 

"So that's it?" you huff and the hurt is there again in your voice; the hurt and the shame and the sting of betrayal. "You're just...not gonna approve of this?"

"You're an adult, honey, I'm not gonna stop you." She sounds so patronizing you could scream. "But you can't ask me to pretend to be okay with this."

You can't find the words to retort and she doesn't say anything else. All you can do is scoff, shattered and indignant as you leave her behind and storm back inside.

You can't stay here a second longer.

"Joel," you call as you make your way back into the dining room, stopping dead in your tracks at the scene you find there.

Joel and your father, unraveling from what you can only describe as an affable embrace. 

What the fuck?

They both turn to face you and you blink at them dumbly, your temper momentarily dissolving into confusion before you collect yourself.

"We're leaving," you tell him even though you have about a million and one questions to ask both of them. You don't care right now. You just need to get out of here. 

Joel immediately nods without question, sensing the urgency in your tone.

"Kiddo, wait," your dad protests as you grab Joel's hand and drag him towards the front door.

"Happy birthday, dad," you say to the welcome mat. "Sorry for ruining it."

You can sense he's about to say something, but you're already turning the doorknob and stepping through the threshold, tugging Joel along behind you.

"Do you need a ride to your apartment?" your mother's voice calls from somewhere you can't see.

From the front porch, your responding shriek–

"I fucking live with Joel, mom!"

You hear Joel curse under his breath at that; you weren't planning on telling them that part yet. It's a shitty note to end on but you're past the point of caring.

You slam the door shut behind you, and let Joel take you home.

-

In the shallow depths of sleep, a melody intrudes.

A distantly familiar tune that reminds you of hotel rooms and burgers and missed texts and Joel. You can't put your finger on why, your half-conscious mind still piecing it all together like a puzzle made from memories.

Then, a voice.

"She broke down and let me…shit."

You stir at that sound, that voice that feels like a getaway car and home all at once. 

Again, "She broke down and let me in…made me see where I–goddamnit."

You hear what he hears, a sour note on brassy strings. You also hear annoyance in his aggravated sigh, and then you hear him start again.

"She broke down and let me in…made me see where I've been."

You're awake now, creeping up out of his bed in the same dress you'd been wearing at your parents. Your underwear sticks uncomfortably to your thighs and your cunt, a bitter reminder of this evening's earlier pleasure, before it had all come crumbling down. You slip them off and leave them in a heap on the floor.

Your head feels heavy and hot in that way it often does when you fall asleep crying. Joel had let you stew, let you sob and rage and rant and eventually, sleep. Although apparently not for long; the clock on his nightstand lets you know it's barely past eleven. 

You follow the sound of his voice, pad down his stairs and find him in the living room under the orange glow of a floor lamp. He doesn't see you right away, so you allow yourself the time to stare, drinking him in in his boxers and his soft grey t-shirt, acoustic guitar resting on his bare thigh. He's not singing anymore, focused instead on the complex guitar part you remember he'd once told you he knew how to play. He struggles now, but only slightly. To you, his thick fingers move with astonishing skill over the strings, emotion stinging at your tired eyes as he plucks away at the winding melody until–

"Shit," he curses as he loses it, hands falling away from the strings with another frustrated sigh.

He sees you then, standing in the doorway of his living room, watching him. Always watching.

"Hey, baby," he murmurs, smiling up at you softly.

"Try it again," you tell him.

He laughs and shakes his head, bashful.

"I'm no good," he admits. "Can't remember it anymore."

"You sounded good to me. Try it again."

He huffs a little, shaking his head again as he sits up straighter, fingers retaking their place on the strings. He glances down at them for a moment, and then his eyes flash up to yours. 

"No laughin'."

You can't help it, the seriousness of the request makes you giggle. Joel shoots you an indignant glare. "Sorry, sorry–I won’t laugh."

"You're already laughin'."

You bite your lip to stifle any further giggles, silently gesturing for him to go on.

And he does, after a skeptical glance your way and a sigh. He focuses on the strings, and then he starts to play.

It's the same bright melody that awoke you just moments before, the same notes that had echoed out in the haze of a setting sun over room service and confessions all those months ago now. He doesn't sing, intent on his calloused fingers moving along the neck of the guitar. You're intent on him too, feeling the way a smile spreads across your face as you listen, some soft, golden warmth pooling down your spine and settling in the pit of your tummy. The feeling turns to tears in your eyes, the kind of adoration that aches, bursts from every orifice in a manner almost violent. 

You are so lucky. There never needs to be anything more than this, you think. Or at least it's what you tell yourself.

Joel plays until your chest hurts, and then he fumbles.

"Ah, fuck."

His hands abruptly fall when he loses his way, laughing at himself as he finally looks up at you.

"No good, see?"

The lingering ache between your ribs begs to differ.

"You're so talented," you tell him earnestly.

He seems to hear the emotion in your voice, a tenderness overtaking his stare and his lips melding into a tight, sympathetic smile. 

"I mean it," you insist. "You could've been a singer."

Joel chuckles, setting down his guitar and leaning it against the side of the couch. You take it as an invitation, hesitantly crossing the room to stand between his legs and let him take your hands in his. His thick thumbs stroke the backs of your knuckles, callouses catching on soft skin. 

"Maybe if I'd'a been braver," he shrugs. He's gazing up at you, but you can't seem to look away from his hands. "Kept the band goin'."

He winks, but the reminder only makes you think of your father. You quickly change the subject.

"I bet you sang a lot for Sarah, though."

His responding laugh rumbles in the space between you, low and fond, deep in his chest. 

"Did," he says. "'Fore she got old enough to tell me to stop."

You try to laugh too, but it sounds distant even to your own ears. A grating thought begins to claw at your insides as you conjure up an image of a younger Joel, little baby in his arms, sweet brown eyes all alight with devotion and love and fear. An image so foreign to you, a Joel you'll never know, a feeling you'll never know, one you've never even really wanted. And yet you can't unhear that voice–

I'm never gonna have grandchildren, am I?

"Did you ever…"

You quickly swallow the question back, frowning with your gaze still fixed on your conjoined hands. Joel squeezes your fingers lightly, sensing–always sensing–that you're holding something back. 

"What?" he presses. 

You take a deep breath, and let the words spill from you before you can stop to think them through.

"Did you ever think about having another kid?"

There's a long, excruciating pause, Joel staring at your face, you staring at his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice is level, and if he'd heard any sort of implication in your words, he doesn't let on. 

"Sometimes," he slowly nods. "I love bein' a dad. Think I'd'a had way more kids if I thought I coulda managed that. But Sarah was more'n enough."

You share an almost-laugh, two soft exhales passed through two sets of nostrils. You don't know what to say–because truthfully, you don't know what you're after–so all you give him in return is, 

"You did a great job with her."

Another loaded pause and you still can't bring yourself to meet his eyes. Joel's not having it. His fingers hook under your chin and he gently tilts your face up. Tells you, "Look at me," until you finally do. There's genuine curiosity there, in the deep brown of his gaze, a quiet ferocity that does little to put you at ease. 

"Do you…want kids?" he asks. 

You don't know what to say; you don't know the answer. 

"I…"

"It's okay," he assures you. "You're not gonna scare me away."

"No, it's–" You shake your head, feeling stupid. Your brain feels scrambled, all hazy and exhausted. One too many anxieties had been brought to the forefront of your mind this evening and you feel every one of them consuming you now. "I don't think I do."

"Then what's wrong?" he presses, almost pleads. 

Everything, you think. But mostly–

"I think my mom just…got in my head."

Joel's shoulders rise and fall in a deep sigh, his expression shifting to one of understanding. He resituates himself on the couch a bit, opening up his right side for you to crawl up into. His strong arm loops around your back, a warm palm stroking up and down your spine as you let your head fall tiredly against his chest. 

"I probably never will give her grandkids," you mutter after a quiet moment. "I'm her only daughter–it's like, my one job. And it doesn't matter how much I tell myself that's not true, I just always, always come back to this feeling that I'm letting her down."

He waits until you've fallen completely silent, squeezing you into him a little tighter as you speak. You don't cry; you don't think you have any tears left. You're just seeking, needy for that comfort only Joel can provide, the sense of safety he's offered you since that day on the beach when you'd first bared your heart to him. 

He doesn't disappoint. 

"You know, sweetheart," he sighs gruffly. "There ain't a whole lot in my life that's gone the way it was meant to. Hell, I don't think there's been one goddamn day that's gone by where I haven't asked myself if I'm doin' the right thing or if I coulda maybe done somethin' different."

You peer up at him and his big hand cups your face, thumbpad stroking lightly over your cheekbone. 

"You make the most of what you get, and do it for you and the people you care about," he whispers. "There's no schedule. You ain't got some kinda job–" his soft voice twists bitterly around the word, like he's offended at the very suggestion. "–That's not what you're here for. I'd never expect grandkids outta Sarah and it's…fucked up your mom expects that of you."

You can hear him getting worked up, his obvious frustration only further endearing you to him, as if that were even possible. Suddenly, you don't feel nearly close enough, moving to straddle his lap and wrap your arms around his neck. He welcomes you with open arms, holding you firmly against his chest as you bury your face into his shoulder. 

"Thank you, Joel."

"I got you."

A hint of frustration lingers there in his voice, but mostly you feel it in his embrace, his hold so fierce it's like he's trying to carve it right into your muscles–he's got you, he's got you, he's got you. 

You hold each other like that till your breaths match his and you finally feel safe enough to ask what you'd failed to ask before you'd fallen asleep. 

"Joel?"

"Hm?"

You pull back to see his face, knotting your fingers into the soft curls at the nape of his neck. 

"What did you say to my dad? Why wasn't he mad?"

To your surprise, his brows furrow and his eyes flit to the shell around your neck as he swallows nervously. 

"He was mad," Joel admits softly. His hand cups your face, dull fingernails scratching at the side of your head as he speaks. Anchoring. "S'mad as any father'd be if he found out his buddy was screwin' around with his daughter, I reckon."

As mad as I'd be if the roles were reversed, you think he wants to say. 

You nod slowly, searching his face and waiting for him to go on. Joel frowns at your necklace, seeming to just notice the shell is facing the wrong way against your chest. He takes his time readjusting it, like it's the most important thing in the world–and it kind of is, you guess. Eventually, he sighs, resting his palm above your left breast, fingertips brushing your collarbone. 

"'Cept I…" His voice drops an octave, so low and quiet it's like he's talking to himself. "I told him I wasn't just screwin' around with you."

"Oh."

You're not sure why the confession makes your heart pound hot in your ears and butterflies dance in your stomach; you've always known it was more than that with Joel. But something about hearing it out loud has a brightness stirring in your chest, the words so dangerously close to the ones you've almost said for months now.

His other hand wanders up your spine to curl his thick fingers around the nape of your neck. At last, his eyes find yours, two soft, brown, adoring orbs that burn with an intensity so powerful and fearful that you feel his next words before you even hear them.

"And I…I told him I think I'm in love with you."

"Oh."

The air leaves your lungs in a shuddering breath, as a tingling wet warmth pricks at your eyes.

Oh god, you know this feeling, have known it so long. And now Joel breathes life into it, makes it real. The hand behind your neck pulls you in closer and you go without question, let your forehead collide with his as the tears you thought you'd run dry steadily begin to fall. 

"Yeah," he murmurs. 

"Is that true?"

You feel him frown, his body shifting under yours to clutch you into him tighter, like he's trying to show you. 

"Yes," he admits hoarsely. It's hard to see from this angle, but you can just make out the fact that his eyes are wet too, and his forehead feels hot where it rolls under yours. "God, yes–yes, it's true. I'm sorry."

"Don't you dare," you protest, crushing your mouth against his, kissing away the doubt and the guilt and the apologies from him like sucking venom from a snake bite. Between sniffles and kisses, your own hushed confession–

"I love you, Joel. I love you so much."

You feel the change in him the second he hears it, the abandon with which he begins to kiss you. His tongue slips past the seam of your lips, sitting up beneath you just to get you closer still.

"Fuck, I love you," he groans, kissing feverishly along your jaw until he finds your ear, nipping at the lobe while his fingers tangle in your hair. "I'll be whatever you need, baby, whatever you want. M'not goin' anywhere. S'long as you want me."

Your breathing stutters as he trails his lips down, down, down, over your pulse point, past the shell around your neck to suck at the skin above your sternum. 

"I'll fuckin' show her, sweetheart, I'll show her how good I can be for you."

He keeps his face buried against your chest as he rocks his hips upwards, making you gasp when you feel the hard line of his cock make contact with your bare pussy.

"I'll give you a baby f'you want one," he rambles on gruffly, pulling you down into his lap over and over and over. "I'd give you a hundred kids f’that's what you wanted."

You gasp at that, dizzying arousal clouding your vision, drunk on his devotion and the feeling of his clothed cock grinding against your velvet warmth. You imagine him filling you, really filling you, making you his in every conceivable way and it makes you fucking needy. You match his shallow thrusts upwards, chasing contact as you arch your back and press your chest into his, never feeling close enough. 

"Talk to me," he grits out, breath hot against your bare chest. 

But words evade you, lost in his touch as Joel slips the sleeves of your dress off your shoulders to palm at your breasts. He feasts on you, mind and body, bites down hotly on your jawbone and rolls his hips beneath you.

"Talk to me," he repeats, grunting it into the space behind your ear. He grips the hair at the nape of your neck with one hand and pulls your face up to meet his eyeline. His eyes are nearly black, shining with leftover emotion and blazing with covetous need. 

"Fuck me," you sob.

Joel wastes no time, breath shaky as he reaches between your bodies to free his cock from his boxers. He taps your sides and you lift your hips, locked in his stare as you lower yourself back down onto his length. Joel's grip on your hips encourages you to move slowly, though it makes no difference; your jaw still falls open at the stretch, and you pause when you're fully seated just to appreciate the space your body makes for him. 

"Keep talkin'." Joel growls as you adjust. Slick drools from your cunt as you experimentally roll your hips, but Joel's arms around you hold you perfectly still. The tip of his cock tickles the deepest parts of you, his open mouth hovering over yours. Finally as close as he can get, he holds you there.

There are no words for this feeling.

"Can't–I don't–"

You gasp when he shifts beneath you, his thick cock moving inside you just enough to ease the ache, if only for a fleeting moment. Your pussy pulses around him, sticky-wet and so fucking full.

"Just–say anythin', please," he begs. His forehead falls haplessly into your shoulder, heavy and hot and damp with sweat. You bury your face into his curls while his arms around you loosen and at last you start to move–slow, reverent rocks of your hips against his that have you both moaning softly into each other's skin. "You make me feel so fucking good," you breathe raggedly. "No one–no one's ever made me feel as good as you do."

Joel groans, sliding his hands up your spine as you begin to ride him in earnest, impaling yourself down on him again and again and again. 

"Don't–" Joel protests, grabbing at your hips to slow your movements, encouraging you to grind on him instead. "Wanna feel you come on it."

You whimper, letting Joel guide your movements till he pinpoints that perfect spot inside you, each roll of your hips making his cock prod against it while you wet the coarse hairs at his base. 

"Show me how good I make you feel," he huffs as you chase your release, devouring your lips in a kiss that's more shared breaths than anything else. His lower belly rubs at your clit and you feel it start to build, that deep-seated pressure growing in your core and threatening to swallow you. You moan into his mouth and his hand tightens in your hair, clutching you impossibly closer as you increase your pace, greedy in the way you're using him. Joel's obvious pleasure in watching you fall apart stops you from caring. 

"Show me, pretty girl," he rasps, voice low against your lips. "No one else gets to have you like this, do they?"

"No–fuck, Joel!–only you, only you."

"Yeah, baby–you're fuckin'...all mine, huh?" he groans. "My girl. And I'm all yours. All yours, baby. Lemme hear it. Lemme see."

"I'm yours–please," you cry as your orgasm licks up your spine, building slowslowslow then crashing into you all at once. Your hips stutter and you clench around his cock, a high-pitched wail pouring from your mouth into his and Joel just talks you through it, a quiet refrain of there you go, there you go, there you go as you gush down onto his balls. 

"You're so fucking perfect," Joel growls before it even ends, unable to stop himself anymore from fucking up into you. The hurried drag of his cock moving wetly in and you of your spent hole prolongs the pleasure, shooting aftershocks through your veins until you lie limply against his chest and let him find his own high. 

You whine into his shoulder while you let him ride it out, his arms so tight around your back you wonder if your bodies won't just melt into one. 

"Come in me, Joel," you implore him weakly, clawing listlessly at his scalp. Fresh tears collect in your eyes and spill out onto your cheeks and you can't imagine there is anyone on Earth as full as you are right now. As full of love and warmth and Joel. 

"Oh, fuck," he moans, losing his rhythm slightly as he nears his edge, pounding up into you harder. "I will–m'gonna–"

His rambling chokes off into a laboured grunt, his entire frame shuddering under you as he comes. He pumps his seed into the deepest parts of you until hot cum seeps past your walls and down his length. He doesn't stop moving till he's emptied himself completely, breathless and faded when his lips find yours again, his cock still buried inside you. 

"I don't want any babies," you tell him as you come down, clutching at the sides of his face and kissing every part of him you can reach. "I just want you. Just me and you."

Joel nods, pulling you into a sticky-warm embrace, breathing unevenly into your hair.

"Just me and you, babygirl," he vows, voice barely above a whisper. "Just me and you."

one month later

Winter is so long.

You know on some level that with each passing day, the sun hangs in the sky a little longer than it did the day before, but it never really feels that way, does it? It's just winter, cool and dark and barren, until suddenly, it's spring. The leaves will return and the flowers will bloom and you'll be left wondering when the hell winter even started in the first place.

For now, you remain in the thick of it. Mid-February brings with it a rare weekend of snow, barely enough to coat the earth, a pitiful dusting destined to melt by Monday. Not that you need much of an excuse these days to spend your free time sheltered inside with Joel, but it's nice to have a reason for once. Cross-legged on his living room floor with Henry in your lap, Joel sitting above you on the couch with his guitar across his knees, you'd be content to stay this way forever.

Of course, a grey cloud of irresolution still hovers over you; you don't try to reach your mother, and after about a week of ignoring her texts, she stops trying to reach you. And it's fine. It's fine. You don't need her approval and you don't need her judgment. Beside, the more time that passes since your father's birthday dinner, the more you accept that her response had–probably–been coming from a place of concern. You know she's not an evil person. It's still easier to stay angry with her, though.

Then there's the other cloud, somehow darker and even more ominous, the nimbus that's been following you since before Costa Rica. Heather. Apparently she's changed her number, because she's been texting you non-stop for the past week, pleading for the chance to be forgiven, to meet for coffee, to come over and catch up–anything.

And the worst part is, you're starting to consider it.

It's not lost on you that you've been isolating yourself with Joel since last summer, and while your parents now know you're dating, it's not really like you can talk about it with them. Plus, you'd be lying if you said you didn't miss her–at least, what you had with her before…everything. You're not sure you can ever truly get that back but you're beginning to wonder if maybe some version of it still exists.

"You don't gotta take the high road or nothin'," Joel had said when you'd told him. "But you can always hear her out. Ain't no shame in that. But only f'that's what you want."

Supportive to a fault. For once–just once–you wish he'd just tell you exactly what to do.

Anyway, most days you barely think of Heather, or your mom. Most days are consumed by work and Henry and Joel. You aren't thinking of them right now, for instance.

"Right–sing that high part again," Joel tells you, after accompanying you through the first verse of Fleetwood Mac's "I Don't Want to Know" for the third time in a row now.

You frown. "The…high part?"

Joel rolls his eyes–a little dramatic. "The part you were just singin'."

You sigh exasperatedly–you'd just been messing around, casually jumping in when he'd started strumming the familiar intro. But then he'd gone and looked all proud and smiley and impressed and curious and now it may as well be a goddamn singing lesson with the way he's bossing you around.

You straighten your spine, fill your tummy with air just like Joel had taught you, and nod. "Okay, okay."

He plays you in, and then you sing for him.

I don't want to know the reasons why Love keeps right on walking on down the line I don't want to stand between you and love Honey, I just want you to feel fine

He lets you get through half a verse before he stops you. 

"Good," he says. "Feel where that's sittin'?"

"No," you scoff. You don't even know what that means. "I can't sing, Joel."

"You can," he insists, smirking. "And you're doin' great. Try it again."

You roll your eyes now, taking another deep breath before he leads you into another refrain.

Only this time, when you start singing, he joins in too. A harmony, lower than the part you're singing, the two lines perfectly melding together in the space between your bodies. Your eyes widen at the sound you create, something beautiful crafted from two voices coming together as one. It tickles your ears in the strangest way, and by the time you get through a verse together, you're laughing in wonder, Henry finally jumping out of your lap, clearly betrayed by the unpleasant vibrations of your joy.

"Sounded pretty good, huh?" Joel grins.

Your eyes are still wide with shock and even if you still highly doubt your abilities, you can't deny that it did, in fact, sound pretty fucking good. "That was so cool."

"See?" He cocks his eyebrows, setting the guitar down beside him so it's leaning against the front of the couch. "You can sing."

"Yeah, yeah," you laugh. From the other room, you hear the front door open and close–right on time. "You're just a good teacher."

"Who's that? Joel?" a familiar voice says, your father rounding the corner from the hallway into the living room, shrugging off his jacket as he goes. "Yeah, right."

"Hey, dad," you greet him, as casually as you can muster.

He hesitates in the doorway, still a bit uncertain of his place here, even though it's become fairly standard now for him to pop in on the weekends like this. The three of you had made the decision to work towards normalizing your relationship with Joel even if it feels…less than comfortable sometimes. You try to think of it as a win-win; your dad gets his friend back, and you get to feel like at least one of your parents supports your relationship. 

You smile warmly up at him from your place on the carpet, and at last he eases into the room, stopping to pull you into a one-armed hug on his way to the La-Z-Boy.

He's giving you his own best attempt at a smile as he sits himself down on the chair next to Joel, the two of them greeting each other in that grunted, male way, hands slapped on shoulders with all the casual friendliness of two people who've known each other for years.

It's a work in progress. But you're grateful that he's trying. 

"Can I hear?" your dad asks, nodding towards the guitar perched beside Joel. You cringe at the thought of that, immediately glancing at Joel with barely-concealed horror in your eyes. 

"Oh, I don't–" you begin to protest but your father cuts you off. 

"C'mon, just a little."

Joel's cheeks flush a light shade of pink, his own embarrassment showing through the crooked smirk he's wearing. He tilts his head at you and shrugs, resigned. Might as well. 

"Alright," you reluctantly agree. "Sure, okay."

Joel's lips split in a genuine smile then, as he reaches for his guitar and your father sits back into his chair. You can feel him looking between the two of you, assessing the silent conversation you share with your eyes, the familiarity, the safety, the love. The way Joel nods at you encouragingly and shoots you a little thumbs up, watching you with furrowed brows until you nod back, a quiet indication you're as ready as you'll ever be. 

Then he starts to play.

You keep your eyes on Joel, not just because the even nodding of his head helps keep you in time, but also because it's just too embarrassing to look at your dad. Joel holds your stare, and together, you sing. His voice rings out in that same harmony from before, seamlessly knotting with yours. He lets it go on longer this time, watching your confidence grow as he guides you through the song, all the way through once, then again. Eventually you start to forget your father is there at all, honestly too enraptured by how easy it's starting to feel to hold your harmony alongside Joel's, how satisfying it feels to hear the two melodies intersect and resolve, stronger and stronger with each passing refrain. 

It's kind of magical, how something that once felt so foreign feels so comfortable with Joel. 

You get through two rounds of verses and choruses before Joel finally cuts it off with a chuckle and a final little flourish of his guitar. 

It's quiet for a moment as the remnants of your duet fade into the ether. You're still staring at Joel. 

"You guys sound really good together," your dad eventually says and when you turn to face him, you find his lips are pressed into a tight smile, an earnest sort of warmth swimming in his eyes. "Real good."

---