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Assistant: Title: Fourth of July
        Author: jrrmint jrrmint 
        Chapter: 13/14 
        Summary: You’ve known Joel Miller for years. He’s practically part of the family - always by your dad’s side with that dark, brooding frown.You’ve never really thought much of him. He’s just…Joel. Dad’s best friend, occasional ride home, somewhat-scowly dinner guest.Until you come home one summer, after graduating college, and suddenly -You can’t think about anything anything else.
        Contents: Chapter 13: moonshine
    

    

        
          
          
            joel loves you. you forget the rest.
          
        

      
        
          love you longtime
      
  

  
  
    
    
  You don’t say it back. Not right away. 

  Not because you don’t love him. You do. You f@ck@ng — definitely, definitely, do. But it’s like you’ve been waiting so long, fighting so hard not to say it, that once the way is clear you just…don’t. 

  Not right then and there, at least. Not on that chair, in his lap, looking up at the stars.

  And he doesn’t ask you to, either. He doesn’t push it. But he says it again that night, whispered low against your ear — I love you, — in that moonlit drawl. And again, later, when you’re both back in his bed. Go t’sleep, he mumbles. I love you.

  You sleep through the night, this time. No more midnight trips to stare up at the stars. And you’d sleep straight through the morning, too, if it weren’t for Joel shaking you gently awake. 

  You mumble something incoherent. Crack a single, tired eye. 

  Joel’s face swims above you. He’s propped up on an elbow, sheets sloughed around his waist, peering down at you with a hangdog stare. 

  He’s let his beard go a little longer since you’ve been here. His hair, too. He looks scruffier. More sunlit, when he tilts his head and lets the light frame his jaw. You reach up on instinct and run your thumb along his cheek. 

  “Hey,” you blink. 

  You trace a line down to his mouth. To the corner of his lip. 

  He smiles into your hand. 

  “Thought you mighta died,” he says. 

  You roll your eyes. Then you roll away from him, stretching out onto your side, and he loops a playful arm around your waist. Tugs you back into his chest. 

  “You kept me up late,” you complain. “What’d you expect?” 

  “I kept you up, huh?”

  “Mm.” You nod into the sheets. Yawn. “Mm-hmm.”

  “Ain’t quite how I remember it.”

  “Well. That’s how it happened.”

  You hear him hum into your hair. His arm flexes, pulling you closer, and you relent. You snuggle back against his chest and curl there like a happy cat. 

  “What else ‘m I misrememberin’ ‘bout last night?” he asks, in that lazy, smiling drawl. 

  “Dunno,” you mumble. “You tell me.”

  He thinks for a minute. Or pretends to, at least. His fingers toy with the hem of your shirt, sneaking to the soft skin underneath, and you snuggle closer to his touch. 

  His hand trails up your stomach. Your shirt bunches at his knuckles, dragging higher with his fingers, and you gasp a little when he pauses. His thumb grazes the underside of your breast. 

  “Remember tellin’ you I love you,” he murmurs. 

  He waits a beat. His thumb inches higher. 

  “‘Less you wanna tell me I got that wrong, too.”

  Your stomach swirls. 

  “No,” you breathe. 

  “No,” he agrees. 

  And it’s s@xual, the way he touches you, the way he rolls your nipple between two fingers — but it’s safe, too. It’s soft. He feels warm and he makes you feel warmer. 

  You could tell him now. You should tell him now. You want to. But you’re so content like this, sandwiched between his hand and his heart, molded to his touch like a piece of limbless putty — that you just…don’t. 

  Again. 

  His nose nudges at the side of your throat. He kisses you there: the ridge of your jaw to the dip in your collar, and then back up again. Light kisses. Featherlight. Just tracing the marks he’s already made. 

  “Joel,” you whisper.

  “Mm.”

  He pauses when you’re quiet. Lifts his mouth from your skin. 

  “Did you mean it?” you ask, softly. 

  You can hear the breath he takes. And then he’s untangling himself from you: drawing his hand out of your shirt, dragging his arm back, pulling limbs and lips away until he’s propped above you again. 

  He blinks down at you. His brows are furrowed. 

  “Don’t say anythin’ I don’t mean,” he says. 

  “No, I know, but just — we were tired, and it was late, so—”

  “Wasn’t that late,” he says. “‘N I wasn’t that tired.”

  He shakes his head. 

  “‘Course I meant it,” he says. He laughs a little: bright, light, like he’s pushing out a breath. “F@ck. ‘Course I did.” 

  You look at him, wide-eyed. His gaze softens. 

  “You’re stubborn as hell,” he murmurs. “Probably taken — five years off my life, already. ’N you got a f@ck@n’ — mouth on you, needs fixin’, but—”

  You punch up at his chest. Bury your laugh in the back of your hand. 

  “Better be a good but,” you say. 

  His jaw ticks. His curls drip down his forehead and tickle your nose. 

  “But,” he drawls, “I meant what I said.”

  He swears softly, under his breath. 

  “Sh@t,” he mutters. “‘Course I love ya, baby girl.” 

  It’s not like he hasn’t said it before. But you’d spent the better part of last night — after he’d tucked you back in, and kissed you goodnight — convinced that you’d dreamed those three little words. It had almost seemed too perfect. The moonlight, the stars, the silver rasp of his voice in your ear. 

  But hearing him say it in the daylight — when the sun is staining his face, when you’re tangled up beside him in soft sheets and flannel blankets — it feels real, like this. It feels true. 

  You reach up to touch his face. His jaw, his cheek, the fading, crooked outline of that stupid f@ck@ng bruise. You swipe your thumb across his lower lip and he parts his mouth for you. 

  You push your thumb past his lips. Past the tip of his tongue. He closes gentle teeth around your knuckle and licks a stripe up the pad of your thumb. 

  Your breath hitches. Heat pools between your legs. 

  You drag your thumb back. He looks at you, dark eyes and swollen lips. 

  “Come here,” you mumble. “Just — kiss me.” 

  He grins. That loopy, scrawling smile. 

  “Yes, ma’am,” he drawls, and dips his head to kiss you. 

  He seems content to let you call the shots, for now. He lets you lead, when your tongue tangles with his and you moan into his mouth, soft and sweet and a little bit desperate. And he takes your hint, when you push up off of the pillows and press at his chest. 

  He flops onto his back with a huff and lets you climb into his lap. You straddle the bulge in black boxers and grind your hips down into his. 

  “F@ck,” he growls. 

  He braces both hands on your waist. Drags you along his clothed c@ck in shallow, hungry motions. 

  Your stomach flutters. There’s a damp patch on his boxers where you’re soaking the fabric. 

  He’s still got that Dallas Cowboys shirt on. It looks soft. Heather grey, stretched-out sleeves. You’re sure he won’t mind if you steal it later. 

  For now, though — 

  “Take it off,” you mutter, tugging at his hem. You shove it up to his arms and he yanks it past his head. He b@lls it up and throws it to the foot of the bed. 

  Then he blinks at you. His hair sticks up, curls ruffled. 

  “Take it you ain’t a Cowboys fan.” 

  You laugh. 

  “I like some cowboys,” you say. “The Southern kind. With the drawl. And the flannels.” 

  He shakes his head. But he’s smiling. His eyes glitter, brown-black. 

  “What’s that thing they say?” You shift in his lap, grazing the tip of his c@ck, and his hands tighten on your waist. 

  You ignore him. Your grin widens.

  “Save a horse…” 

  “Jesus,” he groans. “Just—”

  He gives a shallow thrust. Swears. 

  “Just shut up,” he mumbles, “’n f@ck me.” 

  You giggle. He’s so easy to rile up, now that you know just what buttons to press. But you take pity on him, just this once, and bend to catch him in a kiss. 

  He takes the lead, this time. He licks into your mouth and his hands rake up your sides, fisting in the fabric of your shirt. 

  You’re not wearing one of his, for the first time in forever. You’d slipped one of your own shirts on — some old, faded band tee — in your rush to get to bed. 

  He likes to f@ck you in his clothes, in his sheets, in his bed. 

  But when it’s your shirt… 

  “Off,” he mutters, pawing at the hem. “Wanna see you.” 

  You laugh softly, into his mouth. Bat his hands away. 

  “Hands off,” you tease. “I’ll do it myself.” 

  He drops his hands reluctantly. Watches you with dark eyes as you toy with the hem. 

  You pull your shirt up, inch by inch, exposing the band of blue underwear and a sliver of skin.

  He sucks a breath through his teeth. His fingers flex on the sheets. 

  “Don’t be a f@ck@n’ tease,” he says. “Ain’t—f@ck,” 

  You roll your hips into his lap. His c@ck strains against cotton. 

  “—ain’t nice,” he pants. 

  “Didn’t say I was nice.” 

  He mutters something incoherent. His head tips against the pillow. 

  You grin. And you’re about to put him out of his long-suffering misery — really, you are — but then you see something. Right there, on his nightstand, ten inches from your face. Peeking out of the drawer he hasn’t quite closed. 

  “What is that?” 

  It takes a second for him to process. His eyes are heavy, blown to black. He has to blink a few times to register what you’ve said. 

  “Huh?” 

  “What—” you lean over to the nightstand, still straddling his lap, and tug at the drawer, “—is that?” 

  “What’s what?” 

  He’s not even looking at the drawer. He couldn’t care less. Not when you’re on top of him, dripping wet, in a tee shirt he could rip like tissue. 

  You arch a little off his lap to reach the drawer. He grumbles, clearly annoyed you’re doing whatever the hell you’re doing instead of kissing him — but he holds you steady with two broad hands. Keeps you from toppling out of his lap and off of the bed. 

  When you straighten there’s a Polaroid in your hand — retro grey, with the rainbow streak. The viewfinder is lined with dust. 

  You blow it off. Wag the camera in his face. 

  “Don’t tell me this is Tommy’s,” you say. “Cause — I don’t even wanna know what he’s doing with this.” 

  He’s been scowling at your little detour, til now, but that makes him laugh. He shakes his head. Takes the camera from you, gently, and turns it over in his hands. 

  “Got it for Sarah,” he says. “Couple ‘a Christmases ago. But she ain’t been up here in years. Probably left the d@mn thing behind.”

  You lift a brow. 

  “So she won’t mind if we use it, then,” you say, slowly. “I mean. Since it’s been abandoned.”

  He looks at you, a little skeptical. Reads the sly, suggestive smile playing on your lips. And he’s quiet, for a minute, but you can tell he likes the idea. You see the way his eyes run black. 

  “C’mon,” you say. “Give it.”

  He peers through the viewfinder. His grip tightens on the camera. 

  “Uh-uh,” he says. “‘S only got a couple pictures left. You ain’t wastin’ ‘em on me.” 

  You roll your eyes. It’s hardly a waste, you want to tell him, but his jaw is turned up, and his grip is airtight, and he’s got that stubborn, immovable gleam in his eye. You try to sn@tch the camera back and he clutches it closer to his collar. 

  “Fine,” you huff. 

  You settle resignedly back into his lap. His hips twitch underneath you. 

  He picks the camera back up. Holds it loosely by his eye. He has to tilt the lens to catch your face. 

  “Y’got…” he furrows a brow, double-checks the viewfinder, “—three shots.” 

  He grins. You can see the corners of his mouth curve underneath the camera. 

  “Better make ‘em count,” he purrs.  

  You hesitate, half a beat. Just — working up the courage for what you want to do next. It’s not like you’re nervous around him. Not after he’s told you he loved you under the stars and f@ck@d you senseless more times than you can count. It’s just — 

  You kind of are. 

  You can’t help it. He just has that effect. It sounds stupid, when you play it over in your head — it sounds so high school, but — he gives you butterflies. 

  F@ck it. Joel Miller gives you butterflies. 

  So you sit there for a second. You swallow back a tangle in the back of your throat. You focus less on your blush, when he aims the camera up at you, and more on the white-hot pull between your legs. On the way his breath catches when you rock your hips into his. 

  “F@ck,” he mumbles. 

  You pause. His chest stutters.

  “What?” 

  “Nothin’.” He drops the camera, just for a second. Just to look at you. “Y’just—look good. Like that.”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “Don’t need to.”

  F@ck. Your stomach pulls. You roll your hips along his c@ck and draw out a groan. 

  He hasn’t brought the camera back up to his face, yet. He’s too busy staring with those big brown eyes. And he seems momentarily stunned, half-drunk on the drag of your hips, so you seize the opportunity. You put a hand on his cheek and trace a line to his lips. 

  “Open your mouth,” you tell him, softly. 

  He does as he’s told. He’s pretty pliant, when you’re grinding down into his lap. You get the sense he’d do whatever you asked, right now, with a lopsided smile and that scrawling yes, ma’am.

  You push the pads of two fingers into his mouth and he parts his lips for you. Closes them over your knuckles. He swirls his tongue over your fingers, sticky-sweet and velvet-soft, and gives a quiet, obedient groan. 

  His mouth is f@ck@ng — warm, and wet, and you can’t help thinking it would feel a hell of a lot better somewhere else — but you’re in the middle of something. So you pull your sh@t together as best you can and focus.

  “F@ck,” you tell him, rolling your hips into his lap, “yeah. That’s good.”

  He hums around your fingers. You drag them out slowly, soaking his bottom lip, and pull them back to you. 

  He’s panting. His lips are slick, swollen. The Polaroid is perched half-forgotten on his collar. 

  “Pick it up,” you tell him, gently. 

  He picks it up. Puts it back to his face. 

  “Three shots,” you parrot, with a smug little grin. “Better make ‘em count.”

  You slip a hand into the band of your underwear. You hear his breath hitch, but you can’t see his eyes behind the camera. You can see him swallow, though, when you crook the fingers he’s soaked and slide them into yourself. 

  Your head falls back. Your hips roll over his. He makes a strangled noise, somewhere deep in his throat, and his hips thrust up to meet yours. 

  You hear the telltale snap of the shutter. The low, retro whir when the polaroid forms. 

  “F@ck,” he’s panting, “f@ck, baby girl, you look so f@ck@n’—”

  He trails off into something like a groan. You flex your wrist, stretching yourself with two fingers, and the noise you make makes him tremble. His finger shivers on the shutter.

  “That feel good?” he mumbles. “Huh?”

  Your face is flushed. Heat creeps up your neck. 

  “Yeah,” you gasp, “but you feel better.”

  “Yeah?” 

  You nod. You push your shirt up with your free hand and palm at your breast. 

  That drives him crazy. He tenses up, all of him, his chest and his c@ck and his hips, underneath yours. His knuckles are white on the camera. 

  “F@ck, angel,” he whines. “Were y’always this f—f@ck@n’ filthy?”

  You arch your back. Hit that spot deep inside yourself that he hits a hell of a lot easier. You whimper softly and he swears. 

  “I don’t know,” you say, breathless. “Think you bring out the worst in me.”

  He groans in agreement. 

  “Wanna touch you,” he says. “Wanna f—f@ck. Wanna feel you.” 

  “Please,” he breathes, when you don’t stop, “make y’feel so good, angel, please—”

  You feel bad for him, begging this earnestly. So you give him something. 

  You lean forward and grab his free hand. You drag it up to your breast, replacing yours, because he feels better anyway — and he gets it. He rolls his thumb across your nipple. Cups you with a rough hand. Your shirt drips around his knuckles. 

  You almost don’t hear the camera, this time. You’re beyond out of it. His touch is electric, and his c@ck is straining up against you, and when you twist your fingers you pretend that they’re his. 

  You’re vaguely aware that he’s taken another one — one left — and tossed it somewhere on the sheets to develop. But then you’re somewhere else, again. 

  “F@ck,” you gasp, “Joel. Need you to t-touch me.”

  You hear the camera thud somewhere beside you both. And then his hands are on you, both hands, and he’s ripping your shirt off, and you’re dragging your fingers back to make room for his. 

  He shoves your panties to the side. Slides two thick fingers inside you. 

  And you’re ready for him — you’re soaked — but he’s still a stretch. He hits that spot you have to  reach for in two seconds flat. 

  It doesn’t take long for him to make you c@m. You were close before he started touching you, and he knew as much. You figure that’s why he started begging. He likes to watch you, likes to see you feel good, but — he wants to make you c@m. 

  “Yeah,” he coaxes. His accent is thick, the way it only ever is when he’s half-asleep, or punchdrunk on you. “’S right, lemme see you, baby, ’s a good f@ck@n’ girl—”

  “F@ck,” you breathe, “f@ck, J—”

  Your vision bursts. White, then black, and then you’re folding hard across his chest. Your breath stumbles over his heart, fast and thick, and you try to finish his name while you’re pressed to his skin. 

  He rakes an absent hand up your spine. His c@ck is still straining against his boxers, prodding at your thigh, and you think it must be uncomfortable by now, but he doesn’t say a d@mn word. He lets you catch your breath. He lets you take your time. 

  When you’re more or less recovered you lift your head up from his chest. You leave a lazy kiss on his collar and sit back up, bracing yourself on his shoulders. 

  You look at him. He blinks back up at you. 

  “Holy sh@t,” you mumble. 

  He laughs. And you wish you had that f@ck@ng camera in your hand, right now, because the smile on his face makes your heart melt. He looks happy. He looks content. 

  You do have one photo left. You counted, even in your blissed-out state. He only snapped the shutter twice. 

  So you lean over his lap — quickly, so he can’t stop you — and sn@tch the camera up from the sheets. You drag it back up to your chest and aim it at his face. 

  “Do that again,” you say. 

  “Do what again?” 

  “Smile.” 

  His brow furrows. He scowls. 

  “Why?” 

  “Cause that’s what people do. They smile. For the camera.” 

  “Ain’t what you were doin’.” 

  You set your jaw. Stare at him over the lens. 

  “Really?” 

  He shrugs. Then he smiles again, too fast for you to capture. Your finger flickers on the shutter. 

  “You are so f@ck@ng annoying,” you tell him. 

  “Mm,” he hums. He tilts his head against the pillow. “Y’love it.” 

  Yeah, you think. You love it. 

  You love him. 

  And you should f@ck@ng — tell him. You should tell him. 

  So you do. 

  “Joel,” you say. 

  “Y’don’t want a picture ‘a this,” he complains, oblivious to your change in tone. He throws a teasing arm across his eyes. “Y’look better anyway.” 

  “Joel,” you echo. “Look at me.” 

  He hears it in your voice, this time. 

  He drops his arm. Looks up at you. His face softens. 

  “I love you,” you tell him. 

  And then you snap the picture. 

  It’s a good picture. At least, you think it will be. He grabs it out of your hands before it can develop. The picture and the camera — all of it — and shoves them away to the side of the bed. 

  “Hey,” you whine, “I was—”

  He sits up, off of the pillow. Splays his big hands out across your spine and pulls you close. 

  “Say it again,” he says. 

  He’s so close you can taste him. The salt on his skin and your words in his mouth. 

  “I love you,” you say, softly. 

  He pushes out a breath. Your legs tighten around his waist. 

  “Again,” he says. 

  You swallow. 

  “I love you,” you breathe. “Joel. I love you.” 

  “F@ck,” he mumbles. “You…f@ck.” 

  He tips you, gently, with an arm still slung across your back. Your legs loosen around his waist and your head thumps the mattress. You’re turned the wrong way around — your head by the foot of the bed, your feet by the pillows, but — f@ck it. Doesn’t matter. Joel is hanging over you, head bowed, pulling your underwear down and your legs apart with desperate hands. 

  His head sinks lower. His curls tickle the base of your stomach. You reach up, instinctively, and put your hands in his hair. You tug at his roots and he groans. 

  “Don’t stop,” he mumbles. “Don’t f@ck@n’ — stop.” 

  Don’t stop touching him, don’t stop telling him you love him, don’t stop loving him — you’re not sure what he’s asking for. But — 

  “I won’t,” you promise. 

  He nips the inside of your thigh and you bite back a gasp. “I f—I love you,” you chant, again and again, over and over while his mouth skates higher. “I love you, Iloveyou, f@ck, I—”

  “Joel,” you mumble. 

  “Y’love me,” he murmurs, half to himself. — and when he drops his head, finally, and puts his mouth between your legs — he’s smiling. 

  
     
  
  It’s lunch, by the time you make it out of bed. Joel insists you stay put — he’ll make ya somethin’, he promises, when he pulls his pants back on and tugs a shirt over his head. And you don’t have high hopes, but — you let him go. 

  You get dressed, and brush your teeth, and d@ck around on your phone while he makes a sh@t ton of noise in the kitchen. You have no idea what he’s doing in there. But you’re content to let him try his best — until you smell something burning. 

  That seems like your cue to get the f@ck up. You roll out of bed and wander into the kitchen, where he’s standing helpless over two hot dogs, and shove him gently to the side. 

  “Move,” you say, pushing at his waist. “I’ll do this. Just — go stand outside, or something.” 

  He gives up the pan. Steps back, to let you take over. You turn the overhead fan on and set to work salvaging his disaster. 

  “Wasn’t that bad,” he says, sheepishly. 

  “You’re helpless,” you tell him. 

  He grunts. 

  “Go get the buns out,” you say. “If you can manage that.” 

  He mutters something under his breath. You’re pretty sure he’s smiling. 

  You eat outside, nestled in those too-big chairs. It’s hot out today, and humid, and you watch Joel swipe the hair back from his eyes. 

  He puts his plate down when he’s finished. Leans back in his chair and stares out at the trees. 

  “Should think ‘bout gettin’ you home,” he says, after a few minutes. “Not — now, but — when you’re ready.” He smiles. “Can’t stay here forever.” 

  “Ugh.” You thump your head against the chair. But he’s right, and for once your hackles don’t raise at the thought of going home. Of talking to your dad. 

  He gives a sympathetic smile. Scratches at his stubble. 

  “I know,” you say, finally. “Just—not yet. Not today.” 

  “Not today,” he agrees. 

  You lapse into comfortable silence. You put your plate down on the porch, by Joel’s, and nestle back into your chair. 

  “I’m gonna stay, you know,” you say. “In Austin. In the city. I’ve been — looking at jobs. And places.” 

  He’s quiet. He tips his head to look at you. 

  “Yeah?” 

  “Yeah,” you say. “I like it here.” 

  He nods. His face softens. 

  “Good,” he murmurs. “I like ya here.” 

  He does the dishes. It only seems fair, since you rescued his cooking. He walks your plates back to the sink and refuses your help when you sidle to his waist. 

  “Go away,” he gruffs. “Siddown. I got this.” 

  You shrug. But you don’t fight him. Might as well give him a chance to be useful. You leave him to the dishes and wander into the living room: to the fireplace, and the desk littered with wooden carvings, and the bookshelf collecting dust on the far-side wall. 

  You’d been so preoccupied by the discovery of his semi-precious wooden duck, yesterday, that you hadn’t really given the rest of the room more than a cursory glance. You give the bookshelf a once-over now. Worn copies of Gulliver’s Travels, Huckleberry Finn, Robison Crusoe — Joel books, through and through. Linda Ronstadt CDs stacked on top of Billy Joel. Wildlife guides. A birdwatching book splayed out on its side, with a pair of black binoculars perched on the cover. 

  You smile. Run a lazy finger along Huck Finn. 

  And then you see the guitar, leaning haphazard against the edge of the bookshelf, and your lips quirk. You look over your shoulder at Joel. He’s got his back to you, still, hunched over the sink while he rinses a cup. 

  “Hey,” you call. You tilt the guitar towards you. Skim some dust off the neck. 

  He turns. Soap drips from his fingertips. 

  “Tommy’s?” you ask. 

  He shakes his head. 

  “Wow.” You grin. Your little finger skims the strings; hits a strained, discordant note. “Joel Miller, rockstar. Will wonders never cease.” 

  He scoffs. He dries his hands on a dish towel and joins you by the bookshelf. 

  “Gimme that,” he mutters. He swipes his palms on his jeans, shedding excess water, and takes the guitar from your hands. He walks it over to the couch and you follow. 

  You perch beside him on a cushion. Criss-cross your legs. 

  He blows some dust off the neck. You watch him fiddle with the tuning pegs. 

  “You know you have to play something, now,” you say. “Can’t just leave me hanging.” 

  He gives a noncommittal grunt. Strums a quiet chord. It sounds a hell of a lot better than the one you plucked out. 

  “Come on,” you coax. “One song.” 

  “‘M outta practice,” he says, and you could swear he sounds shy. He looks down, at his fingers sprawled out on the frets, and his cheeks flush.  

  “It’s just me,” you say. You nudge his knees with yours. “Swear to god — if you suck, I won’t tell anyone.” 

  He glares at you. You grin. 

  “Come on,” you repeat. “I know you want to.” 

  He hangs his head. Stifles a smile. 

  “Y’know I used t’wanna be a singer,” he says, with a chuckle that makes your heart stir. “When I was a kid. Used t’—put on shows, ’n everythin’. Out ’n the garage. Drove my old man crazy.” 

  You’re met with a blinding image of a very young Joel — same tousled curls, same brown eyes — on a makeshift stage with a tiny guitar. And then, because you can’t quite help it, you picture a little boy who looks a whole lot like him, with a toy guitar slung on his shoulder — same eyes, same hair, but with your smile. 

  You shove that thought back. Way back. Stick it somewhere deep.

  “A singer, huh?” You clear your throat. “How come I’ve never heard you sing?” 

  “‘Cause I ain’t any good.” 

  “B@llsh@t.” You nod to the guitar. “Can’t be a singer if you don’t perform. C’mon. I’m stuck in the woods with you. Literally a captive audience.” 

  He stares at you. His fingers hover on the strings. 

  And then he relents, sighing heavily, and he strums a tentative chord. Then another. You settle back against the sofa with a smile. 

  It’s a simple song he plays. And when he starts to sing his voice is simple, too — safe and raw and rasping, like the rustle of leaves or the wind between trees. He sounds gentle. He sounds warm. 

  
    When the night has come
  

  
    And the land is dark
  

  
    And the moon is the only light we'll see
  

  
    No, I won't be afraid
  

  
    Oh, I won't be afraid
  

  
    Just as long as you stand
  

  
    Stand by me
  

  He looks up at you, over the guitar. Blinks, shyly. When he sings the next verse his voice is low. 

  
    So darlin', darlin', stand by me
  

  
    Oh, stand by me
  

  
    Oh, stand
  

  Stand by me, stand by me.

  There’s more to the song, but he doesn’t sing it. He strums the last chord and sets the guitar down against his knee. 

  “Somethin’ like that,” he says, softly. 

  You swallow. Your throat is tight. 

  “That was—”

  “Rough?” 

  “Good,” you say, shaking your head. “I was gonna say good. Really—f@ck. Really good.” 

  He huffs. 

  “Teach me,” you say, quietly. “Just—a chord, or something. I wanna learn.” 

  He looks up. 

  “Teach you?” he repeats. “Now?” 

  You shrug. “Unless you’ve got something better to do.” 

  He laughs a little. His shoulders drop. He moves the guitar to his side and spreads his legs. 

  “C’mere, then,” he says. 

  He pats his knee and you scoot back, into the cradle of his legs. You settle there, your back to his chest, and he hands you the guitar. His fingers hover on the strings, over yours. 

  “Start nice ’n simple,” he drawls, and his voice is right there, dripping like silk to the shell of your ear. His stubble rakes your skin. “C-chord. Put ‘em like this—”

  He closes his hand over your fingers. Moves them to the proper places. And you’re trying to focus — you are — but his hand on yours, and his breath on your neck, and his c@ck pressed to the small of your back — is making that kind of, sort of difficult. 

  You wriggle in his lap. His c@ck stirs at the seam of his jeans. He hisses soft somewhere behind you, and his fingers stutter over yours. 

  “Quit,” he mutters. His heartbeat catches at your back. 

  “Not doing anything,” you mumble. 

  He moves your hand back into place. Strums the chord with you. It sounds good — not as good as when he plays it, on his own, but — good. 

  He lets your hand go. 

  “On your own, this time,” he says. 

  You swallow. Shift again, against his lap. He groans, long and low at the base of your neck, and you pluck out a feeble chord. Your fingers tangle on the strings. 

  “F@ck,” he growls. “Thought y’wanted t’learn.” 

  “I do,” you say. 

  He hums. Not convinced. You grind your hips back into him — entirely intentional, this time — and play a semi-decent C-chord just to spite him. 

  “See?” You shrug. Look back over your shoulder. “You’re a good teacher.” 

  His face is twisted. He looks pained. When you turn around to look at him he snatches the guitar back, out of your hands, and slides it face-up to the floor. 

  “Don’t break it,” you laugh. 

  “Don’t care,” he mutters. 

  He lets the guitar fall. And then his hands are on you, wrapping low around your waist, dragging you closer in the crook of his thighs. He slides a hand down the front of your shorts and you lift your hips for him. 

  “Easy,” he murmurs. His voice stains your skin. “Relax.” 

  You whimper. You let your head tip back to his collar. 

  He drags his fingers over damp cotton. When he slips his hand under your panties you’re f@ck@ng — soaked, for him — and he whistles low at the base of your neck. 

  “F@ck,” he breathes. “Poor baby.” 

  “Joel, please.” You buck your hips again, into his hand. You need him inside you — his finger, his tongue, his f@ck@ng — whatever. You just need him. “Please.” 

  He slides his middle finger into you. Crooks it just right and nips your ear when you gasp. 

  “Okay,” he murmurs. He pulls his finger back out and you whine. “On your knees, baby girl.” 

  It takes you a second to do what he’s asked. You have to re-focus, and struggle to sit up. And when you do start to get on your knees — on the floor, between his legs — he stops you. That’s not what he means. 

  “No, angel,” he says, gently. “Not like that.” 

  “On the couch,” he nods, when you don’t quite follow. “Back t’me. Face the window.” 

  
    Oh.
     
  

  You get it, now. You face the back of the couch — the wall, the window — and get onto your knees. They dig into the cushions. Leave heavy divots in the leather. 

  Joel stands. He walks behind you, between the couch and coffee table, and you hear the jingle of his belt as he drags it through his jeans. The telltale rustle of denim-on-skin. 

  And then he’s behind you, close to you, and his hand is on your back. He pushes gently, urging you forward until you fold. You brace your forearms on the back of the couch. Your nose nearly nudges the windowpane. You work your knees into the leather, spreading your legs a little wider, and he gives a satisfied purr at your back. 

  “Like that,” he says, softly. “Yeah?” 

  You nod. Your fingers dig into the backrest.

  “Yeah,” you say. 

  “Good,” he says. “Don’t f@ck@n’ move.” 

  You smirk. “Yes, sir.” 

  You’re teasing, mostly, but there’s silence at your back. You resist the urge to look over your shoulder. 

  “G@dd@mn it,” he hisses. He hooks a finger in your waistband. Pulls your shorts and your underwear down, together, and lets them bunch around your knees. “Don’t—f@ck@n’—” 

  “What?” you pant. You can’t see him, but you can make out his reflection, in the haze of the window. His ruffled hair. His frantic jaw. 

  He’s still got his shirt on. His jeans are undone, shoved haphazard down his hips. 

  “Don’t what?” you taunt, when he doesn’t respond. “Call you sir?” 

  He makes a guttural sound. Wraps a hand around your waist and drags your hips back into his. His c@ck notches at your entrance. 

  “I’m sorry,” you gasp. “Do you like Mr Miller better? I can never remem—” 

  He slides into you. No preamble, no nothing. Not that you need it. You’re dripping wet, practically begging him to f@ck you, and he fills you up in a single motion. You cry out and clench around him. 

  You push your hips back, when he doesn’t f@ck@ng move. Your forehead drops to rest on your hands. 

  “Shut up,” he growls. He sounds strained. His c@ck twitches inside you. You know he wants to move. 

  “Yeah,” you say, breathless. “Yes, sir.” 

  His hips flex, involuntarily. Your stomach tightens.

  “Jesus,” he pants. “Just—” 

  He pulls out, halfway. Slams back into you. 

  
    “—f@ck@n’—”
     
  

  It sends you reeling forward, into the back of the couch, and the leather leaves marks on the sprawl of your wrists. 

  “—quit,” he snarls. 

  “Please,” you say, breathless, “you f@ck@ng love it. You f—uck—“ he hits something inside you, something deep, “—ing love me.” 

  He makes a strangled sound. F@cks you harder. A familiar heat coils low in your stomach. 

  “Joel,” you gasp, “f@ck—I’m—”

  “Yeah, baby.” He rolls his hips. Makes you shout. “’S it. Let go f’me.” 

  You c@m hard, choking his c@ck. Your knees tremble on the leather. Sweat beads on your spine and slicks salty down your skin. 

  “F@ck,” you pant. 

  “One more,” he says. “C’mon. One more.” 

  You can’t do one more. You’re spent — from this morning, from right now. From his f@ck@ng voice dripping down your shoulder blades.

  “Joel—”

  “One more,” he repeats. He wraps a hand around your front, circles your cl@t with his finger, and heat springs back to life in your core. 

  “F@ck,” you yelp, “oka—f@ck. Yes.” 

  He drags his fingers away after a minute. Braces it on your waist. Then he picks up the pace, until the slap of skin rings in your ears. 

  His hand comes up to grab your shoulder. Better balance than your waist, you guess. You don’t f@ck@ng care, as long as he doesn’t stop. His fingers dig into you, dragging you back onto his c@ck again and again. 

  “Yeah, f—Joel, f@ck,” you mumble, “don’t s-stop, please, don’t—”

  And — of course — he stops. He pulls out, right as you’re creeping toward the edge. You scrabble at the sofa, nails scratching, and a whine snakes up your throat. 

  “Why?” you whimper. 

  “Quiet,” he breathes. 

  And then you feel his c@ck nudge at your ass, at the tight ring of muscle there, and your breath hitches. You do look over your shoulder, this time. 

  “Yeah,” you tell him, before he can ask. “Yes.”

  He nods. His eyes are black. 

  He takes his hand off your shoulder. Holds it over the small of your back. You watch him spit into his palm, and drag it slow and slick along the length of his c@ck, and it’s f@ck@ng filthy. Your stomach pulls. Heat drips between your legs. 

  “Turn around,” he says, gently. 

  You turn around. Your fingers curl on the back of the couch. 

  The head of his c@ck presses at your ass. He pushes his hips into you — slow, a little tentative — and you gasp. Your back arches. Your nose ghosts the window, the glass, and your eyes glaze. But you don’t tell him to stop. 

  He does stop, though, with just the tip of his c@ck buried inside you. It’s a stretch — a hell of a lot more than his thumb was, last night — and you hiss through your teeth. You’ll leave marks, on the back of the couch. On the inside of your hands, where your thumbs dig into your palms. 

  The sting mellows, after a while. It gets sweeter. That coiled heat in your core starts to burn. You remember how close you were, before he pulled out and robbed you — and you start to get impatient. He’s filling something deep in you, right now, something you didn’t know he could fill — but you need more. You rock your hips, slow, and the friction makes you yelp.

  “Joel,” you beg him. Your thighs tremble. “Please just — f@ck@ng — move.” 

  He gives a shallow thrust. Pushes in an inch deeper. You whine his name and your breath fogs the window. 

  “F@ck,” he mutters. His voice pulls. “Baby, ‘m not—”

  He’s close. You can feel him tense inside you. You push your hips back and he exhales. Hard.

  “Just—f@ck, it’s fine, just please. Joel, please, Iloveyou, f@ck, pl—”

  His hips flex. He digs both hands into your waist and thrusts into you, all of him, all at once, and the pressure makes your head spin. Something snaps at the base of your core: liquid heat, white-hot, and you’re coming apart before he can settle. 

  He feels you squeeze him, hears his name on your lips — and he spills inside you with a broken groan. He folds over your back, shirt pressed to your spine, and he’s too f@ck@ng heavy but you’re too limp to care. 

  You sink down. Off of your knees. You slip off the back of the couch and melt down into the cushions, boneless and light-headed and totally, completely wiped. He stumbles down somewhere beside you, slouched against the sofa with his legs spread and his hands on his knees. His neck is tipped, mouth parted. He’s breathing like he’s run a marathon. 

  “F@ck,” you pant. “Okay. F@ck.”

  He rolls his head to look at you. Pulls a hand off his knee and drapes it soft across your thigh. 

  His thumb strokes your skin. The hem of your shirt. 

  “Good?” he asks. 

  “Yeah,” you say. “Really good.”

  “Really good,” he echoes. Then he laughs.

  And you laugh, too, because you’re both delirious and slick with sweat and the sun is slipping through the window at a slant, warming you both til it’s too hot to think. The air is thick, syrupy. You could curl up right here, in his lap, and let the sun wash you to sleep. 

  “I’ve never — done that,” you say, quietly. 

  He smiles. His hair sticks to his forehead, sweat and static. He rubs an aimless pattern up your thigh. 

  “I know,” he says, gently. 

  “I’m glad it was you,” you say. “I mean — with you.” 

  “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.” 

  “I’d do anythin’ with ya,” he says, softly, after a moment’s silence. “Not just — that. But, I mean —” 

  He struggles, the way he always does with a thought that’s longer than three words. Struggles to piece the words together, in a way that makes you see. 

  “Anythin’,” he says, finally. “Anythin’.” 

  “Yeah,” you say. And this time it’s your turn to tell him — 

  “I know.” 

  He nods. He looks thoughtful. But whatever he’s thinking he keeps to himself, locked up in a small, sloping smile — and you don’t ask. You’re content to let him be content. 

  You sit in silence for a minute. Maybe two. Your skin sticks to the leather. Your eyes start to droop. 

  He nudges you awake. 

  “Should take a shower,” he murmurs. “Cool off. ‘M a mess. ’N you’re — burnin’ up.” 

  He’s right. The leather soaks up heat like a sponge. So between the sex on your skin and the sun — you’re a mess. And so is he. 

  But you have a better idea, in your blissed-out state. Or, at least — you think it’s better. Joel would probably disagree, which is why you don’t ask him. You just untangle your limbs, and peel yourself up off of the couch, and stumble into the kitchen on unsteady legs. 

  You can feel his stare at your back. At the hem of your shirt, where it just — barely — skates over your ass. 

  “Shower’s boring,” you say, without turning to face him. “I got a better way to cool off.”

  “A better way,” he repeats, nonplussed. 

  “Yeah.” You lean over the counter, not unaware of how your shirt rides up — and turn around with Tommy’s dusty glass bottle of god-knows-what clutched in your hand. The liquid sloshes up the side. 

  He sits up straight. 

  “Don’t drink that,” he says, as you start to unscrew the top. “Do not—”

  
    Too late.
     
  

  You bring it up to your lips. Take a sip that’s probably way too big. It goes down like battery acid. With, like, the barest hint of cherry at the end. 

  You shove your hand over your mouth. Cough until your eyes burn. 

  “Oh my god,” you choke. You purse your lips. Stare up at the ceiling, sucking in air. “Holy f@ck. That is poison.” 

  He shakes his head. He looks incredulous. A little concerned. And maybe, slightly, impressed. 

  “Tried t’tell ya,” he grumbles. 

  His mouth ticks. He’s holding back a smile. 

  You let it soften in your stomach. It’s not that bad on the downswing. It’s not good, and it’s not even decent, but there’s a nice little burn that settles south of your throat. 

  “Mm,” you tell him, squinting, “it’s getting better.” 

  “No it ain’t,” he says. 

  “Yeah.” You take another sip, before he can stop you. Hiss it down. 

  “Oh, yeah,” you cough. “Definitely better.” 

  He stands up. Makes a beeline for you. 

  “Gimme that,” he says. 

  “Why?” you laugh, dodging him, “You want some?” 

  His gaze narrows. You grin. He reaches for you and you wriggle under his arm. He’s bigger, but you’re faster, and you beat him to the front door. 

  You crack it open. Slip outside. The bottle hangs between your fingers. 

  You c@ck your head, teasingly. Take a few slow steps backward to the edge of the porch. 

  “You want it?” You smile. “Come get it.” 

  You turn around. Trot down the stairs. You hear him swear somewhere behind you. 

  You turn to him at the base of the steps. He watches you from the threshold, one arm splayed to block out the sun. 

  Your toes sink in sandy soil. It’s soft; cool. 

  A breeze lifts the hem of your shirt and you watch his eyes darken. He looks at the bottle. At you. 

  “Last chance,” he drawls. 

  You grin. 

  “Get your ass inside,” he says. “Don’t make me chase you.” 

  “That’s so much more fun, though,” you say. 

  You take off, streaking down the path, into the pines and towards that pebbled shore — and you don’t wait to see if he’ll follow. You can hear his heavy sigh, behind your back. His low — g@dd@mn it — before his feet thud down the steps. The laugh he tries to stifle when he stumbles after you. 

  “Come on,” you taunt. Your voice carries through the tops of trees. “Keep up.” 

  The trees thin out, a few hundred feet from the shore. The soil underfoot turns to grey, pebbled stone. The ones closest to the water’s edge are soaked black. 

  You pick your way across the stones, toward the water. You pull your shirt off as you go, tugging it over your head and tossing it somewhere behind you. You wade into the water and hiss at the cold. 

  It’s nice, though. After a minute. It’s a hell of a lot more refreshing than a shower. 

  You sink in a little deeper, all the way to your waist. You hoist the bottle up, above the surface, and twist around to face the shore. You take another half-sip and watch Joel clear the trees. 

  He doesn’t see you right away. He blinks out at the lake, standing barefoot on the stones, slick with sweat and vaguely panicked.

  “D@mn,” you shout. His head whips to you. Relief scrawls wide across his face. “You are slow as hell.” 

  He shakes his head. Stares at you on the water. 

  “Get outta there,” he says. 

  “Get in here,” you say. 

  He pauses. His eyes rake your neck. Your collar. The tops of your br@@sts, when you bob in the water. 

  “Thought you wanted to cool off,” you say. 

  He makes a profoundly irritated noise, somewhere between a whine and a long-suffering groan — but then he reaches for his shirt. Tugs it up, over his head, and throws it out across the rocks. He picks his way toward the shore, wincing where the stones dig into his feet — and undoes his jeans as he goes. Buttons, zipper, belt. He leaves them somewhere between his shirt and the shore. 

  You laugh. Float out, onto your back. The bottle hangs between your fingers, half-submerged. 

  His entry is a lot less graceful than yours. He splashes into the water, shouts — Jesus, f@ck — when the cold nips his ankles — and then bites the bullet, and dives in headfirst. He surfaces a minute later, three feet from you, sputtering and soaking wet. Water drips off his jaw and beads at his throat. His hair is plastered to his forehead. 

  You reach up. Push it back. He smiles into the curve of your wrist. 

  “See?” You grin. “Feels good.” 

  “Feels cold.” 

  “Here.” You pass him the bottle. “This helps.” 

  He shakes his head like a dog, scattering water back into the lake — and takes the bottle from your hands. He holds it up to the setting sun and squints at the contents. 

  “Looks f@ck@n’ disgustin’,” he says. 

  “It is.” You splash at his chest. “Warms you up, though.” 

  “One sip,” you say. “C’mon.” 

  He looks skeptical. But he relents, cause you’re convincing — and brings it up to his lips. Screws his eyes shut while he swallows one sip, and then another. 

  “Stop,” you laugh, when he tilts the bottle and keeps going, “—stop, stop, oh my god, Joel. Jesus.”

  You splash his face. He sputters mid-sip and brings the bottle back down. He winces, but — he doesn’t cough. His lips are slick, shiny. You swim up and kiss him, still laughing, and he tastes a little like cherries. 

  “What the f@ck,” you mumble, wrapping your legs around his waist, “—is wrong with you? I said one sip.”

  He shrugs. Holds you loosely with one arm, and holds the bottle with the other. 

  “Figured that’d shut ya up,” he says. 

  You punch lightly at his chest. Drape your arms around his neck. 

  “It is really f@ck@ng gross,” you say, after a beat. The words come out a little slurred, nestled somewhere near his shoulder.

  He hums in agreement. 

  “So gross,” you say. “And. I think I might be drunk.” 

  “Woulda’ never guessed,” he drawls. 

  You hit him again. He grins. 

  It creeps up on you fast. You didn’t feel it, on your sprint to the lake — but you’re sure feeling it now. Your head is foggy. Your thoughts muddle — in that peaceful, aimless kind of way. You lean into Joel, boneless in the water. 

  And you’re sure he’s feeling it too — there’s no way he’s not, the way he swallowed it down — but if he is he’s not so obvious. He’s bigger than you, and his tolerance is probably a lot f@ck@ng better, and you think maybe he’s used to whatever disgusting Miller concoction is left in that bottle. 

  Which is probably a good thing, at the end of the day. It means he can hold you, in the water, and ensure you don’t drown. It means he can carry you back to the cabin. It means he can tuck you in, and maybe — maybe — hold your hair back, late tonight.  

  For now, though — you feel good. You feel great. You nip playfully at his neck and smooth it over with your tongue. And then you kiss him, again — soaked and sloppy— and he smiles into your mouth.

  “Mm,” you slur. “Taste good.” 

  “Yeah? I taste good?” 

  “Yeah,” you nod. “Like…coffee. ’N….cherries. And like…a little hint of, like….saw…dust.” 

  “Sawdust,” he echoes.

  “’S hot,” you assure him. “’S, like, a man. Y’know. Like…I’m Joel Miller. I build stuff. I play the guitar.” 

  “Yeah,” he says. “Does sound like me.” 

  “Mmhmm,” you agree, and nuzzle deeper to his shoulder. Water laps at your chin. 

  He holds you like that, while the sun slips and the sky turns dark. Blue, then purple, then a stained, almost-black. You trace the ridge of his cheek; the fading cut across his nose. 

  Your fingers stall there. You frown. 

  “‘M sorry,” you say, sadly. 

  He huffs. “For what, darlin’?”

  “’S gonna be — a scar,” you say, softly. “‘Cause of me.” 

  He reaches up. Takes your hand away, gently. 

  “No,” he says. “Not cause ‘a you.”  

  You’re quiet. 

  “Hey.” He peels you from his shoulder. Holds your chin in his hand. “Not cause ‘a you.” 

  He kisses you. Soft, sweet. When he pulls back he shakes his head. 

  “Scar’s a good thing, anyway,” he says. “Means ya healed. Means ya made it.” 

  You blink at him, slowly. Water beads on your lashes. 

  “We made it,” you say.  

  “Yeah,” he says. “We did.” 

  You nod. 

  “I love you,” you say, sleepily. The moon is up now, again. The stars glitter on the lake, and on the beads on both your bodies. “A — lot.” 

  “A lot, huh?” 

  “Mm.” 

  “How much ’s a lot?” 

  “Dunno,” you slur. “A lot’s a lot.” 

  He hums. Can’t argue with that logic. 

  “D’you—” you poke at his chest, “love me? “ 

  “Yeah,” he says. “A lot.” 

  “How much ’s a lot?” you parrot, with a sloping, punchdrunk smile. 

  He pauses. And he’s smiling, too, but when he speaks he’s serious. The moonlight splashes off his jaw. 

  “More ’n anythin’,” he breathes. 

  He does have to carry you back to the cabin. Not that he minds. You’re a lot less stubborn, when you’re drunk, and you seem to have no filter for telling him — and the entire, surrounding forest — that you love him. Over and over again. Up the shore, and over the stones, and back up the path you’d sprinted down. Which makes him smile. And laugh. And almost trip, four separate times, over tangling roots and his own bare feet. 

  It’s only when you’re back inside that you realize you’ve forgotten all the clothes. Just — left them there, on the shore, strewn out across the stones. 

  Oh, well. Whatever. You can get them tomorrow, when the sun is up. Or never. You don’t really care. You’re exhausted, and your head is spinning, a little, and you can hear Joel’s heartbeat where your cheek meets his chest. 

  He brings you into the bedroom. Sets you down, on the foot of the bed, and you watch your feet dangle while he disappears. 

  He comes back a minute later. He’s got a blanket from the living room — a fuzzy one, synthetic fur, ten times warmer than the flannel on his bedspread — and he wraps it up around your shoulders. He fills a glass from the sink and makes you drink — more ’n that, let’s go, good girl, baby — and takes it back when you’re done. Sets it down on top of your nightstand. Then he pulls a shirt out of his duffel — something big, and soft, and easy to slip into — and lets you curl up inside it. 

  He tucks you in, under the covers. When your teeth still chatter he takes that fuzzy fur blanket and lays it down on top of you. 

  “Stay,” you mumble. 

  He laughs. 

  “‘M right here,” he says. He lays down beside you. The mattress dips. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” 

  “Mm.” You nod, approvingly. Snuggle deeper into his shirt, his sheets, his blanket. “’S good.” 

  “Feel okay?” 

  You self-assess. Or — try to. You’re sleepy. And plastered. 

  “Good,” you report. “Drunk.” 

  “Yeah,” he drawls. “Very.” 

  “Do not,” you slur, into the pillowcase, “let me do that again.” 

  “Tried t’stop you,” he says. “Too d@mn stubborn.” 

  “Mm.” 

  You wriggle closer to him. He loops an arm over that giant, unwieldy blanket — and you. You smile. Your eyes drift shut. 

  He leans over. Kisses you softly on the temple. His nose nudges your cheek; a strand of still-damp hair. 

  “I love you,” he whispers. “A lot.” 

  You drive back the next morning. 

  It’s your decision — even though you’re hungover as f@ck, the second you wake up and squint at the sun — and even though you’d like nothing more than to lay in bed with Joel until next year. 

  But it’s time. It’s time. You haven’t texted your dad for two days, and he hasn’t messaged you. He’s given you space, just like you asked. And you think — maybe — you’re ready to talk. 

  Joel just nods, when you tell him you’re ready. He’s easy like that. He goes down to the lake, to recover the clothes you’d abandoned last night. Loads up the truck while you nurse an alka-seltzer. 

  He pops his head through the door. His duffel is slung across his shoulder. 

  “Almost done,” he reports. 

  You give a weak thumbs-up. 

  “How’s the headache?” 

  You swap it for a thumbs-down. He grins. 

  “How are you not hungover at all?” you complain. “I watched you drink, like, a third of that bottle.” 

  He shrugs. 

  “Ain’t a lightweight,” he says. You bat at his general direction and he chuckles. Re-adjusts his bag. 

  “C’mon, killer,” he tells you. “Get ya a coffee on the way. ’N maybe a — bucket, or somethin’.” 

  “Shut up,” you mumble. But you’re laughing, a little, when you shove yourself up and follow him to the door. 

  “Sh@t,” you say, before he can shut it. “Hang on. I just — forgot something. Real quick.” 

  He shrugs. Lets you go. You go back to the bedroom and fumble on the sheets, under the blankets, until — 

  There. The polaroids. Still tangled up in the sheets, where Joel had cast them aside yesterday. You dig them out. Swipe them clean on the edge of your shirt. 

  And then you look at them properly, for the first time — and your breath catches. You forget the blinding headache between your eyes for a second. 

  The first two are of you. It’s a good angle — he’d gotten it right; captured all of you. 

  You’re straddling his lap, in the first one. You can see the base of his stomach, toned and tanned at the edge of the picture. Your hand is buried in your panties, fingers crooked, and it’s a filthy f@ck@ng picture — but you prefer the second. 

  It’s not that different. You’re still straddling him. Still touching yourself. But your eyes are heavier, and your head is tilted, and his hand is in the frame, cupping your breast with rough fingers. Your shirt is bunched around his knuckles. It’s f@ck@ng — 

  You stare at it, a long time. Heat flutters at the base of your belly. You shove both photos into your pocket and flip over the third. 

  He’d ripped it out of your hands, yesterday, before you had time to watch it develop. Tossed it somewhere on the sheets. You’d almost forgotten it even existed. 

  Look at me, you’d told him— 

  I love you.

  —and then you’d snapped the shutter. Last shot. Last photo.  

  But the first time you’d told him those three little words. 

  And —

  “F@ck,” you mumble, alone in his room. You swipe a finger past the picture.

  It’s perfect. He’s perfect. His hair is tousled on the pillowcase. His eyes are soft, blown wide. His mouth is half-parted, lips upturned in an awestruck smile. He’s got a look scrawled on his face you can’t quite quantify. It’s a look he only ever gives you. 

  You almost put that one back in your pocket, with the rest. But it doesn’t quite belong there. You want it closer. Safer. So you wedge the case off your phone, and slide it in between the glass and the plastic — just for now, just for safekeeping — and tuck your phone back in your pocket. 

  And then you join him by the door. You give the cabin a last once-over and he puts a hand between your shoulders. 

  “Ready?” 

  “Yeah,” you say, softly. You squint up at him. The bruise on his cheek is almost, almost gone. “Let’s go.” 

  You make it home by noon, with a stop for coffee on the way. You have to choke it down, but after that you feel better. Sort of. You hang your head out the window like a dog and let the wind sting your face. 

  You didn’t pack sunglasses, so Joel gives you his. He keeps a pair in the glove compartment — aviators, tinted brown. They’re way too big, and they slide down your nose, but — they keep the headache at bay. He tries to play his music and you bat his hand away. 

  “Don’t even think about it,” you snap. 

  He grins. 

  “Yes, ma’am,” he drawls. 

  So you ride in relative silence, all the way home. Which is fine by Joel, and weirdly comfortable, for you. He rests his hand on your thigh and you let him keep it there. 

  He only drags it back when he pulls into your driveway. Your dad’s car is there — he’s home — and the thought makes your breath hitch. 

  He puts the truck in park. Looks at you, with his hand on the stick. 

  “Alright,” he says, gently. 

  “Yeah,” you say. “Alright.” 

  You stare at each other. He swallows. 

  “You okay?” he asks. “I can—come with ya, or—”

  “No.” You shake your head. “I’m okay. I should — do it myself.” 

  “Yeah,” he nods. “Okay.” 

  “I’ll — text you, or something. After. Let you know how it goes.” 

  “Sure,” he says. 

  He c@cks his head toward his own driveway. 

  “Y’know where t’find me,” he murmurs. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” 

  You smile. It’s what he said last night, snuggled up to you between the sheets, when you asked him sleepily to stay. It’s what he tells you now, when he knows you have to go. 

  “Good,” you say. “Better not.” 

  He laughs, lightly. Drums his fingers on the steering wheel. You watch him drag a long breath in. 

  “I have somethin’ for you,” he says. “‘Fore ya go.” 

  “Oh.” You pause. You’d been reaching for the door handle, but you settle back now against the seat. Turn your head, to look at him. “Okay. Sure.” 

  He swallows. His jaw flickers. He unclips his seatbelt and leans over, into the backseat, and fumbles with the zip on his duffel bag. 

  “What—” 

  “Hang on,” he gruffs. 

  He reappears a moment later. Straightens back against his seat. There’s something cupped between his hands, but you — can’t quite make it out. 

  “Okay,” you say. “You’ve piqued my interest.” 

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” he says. “Ain’t anythin’ special. Just — did it last night, ‘fter ya went t’bed.” 

  You’re quiet. Curious. You nod, a little uncertain, and watch him unfurl his fingers. 

  And then — you can’t help it, really — tears spring behind your eyes. You have to bite your lip to ward them off. 

  Because his duck is in his hands. His little wooden duck. The one you told him you loved, because it belonged to him. 

  “No,” you say, too quickly, “no, Joel, I can’t.” 

  “Yeah, y’can,” he says. He holds it out to you. It looks so small, in the palm of his hand. The carved, careful feathers. The happy black eyes. The tiny J.M. scratched into the side. 

  “He’s yours,” he says, softly. He pinches the duck between his fingers. Turns it, gently. “See?” 

  There’s something else there. Something new, scrawled underneath the feathers, the same size as his J.M., and the same uneven hand, but carved into the opposite side. Newer. Fresher.

  Your initials. 

  You reach out without thinking. Take the duck out of his hands, and close it up in yours. 

  “’S yours,” he repeats. When you look up at him he looks at the floor. He sounds sheepish. “‘F ya want.” 

  “I—” 

  You run a thumb over the new initials. A tear snakes down your cheek and you swipe it away. 

  “But you — you said he was a part of you.” 

  He smiles softly. 

  “So ‘re you,” he says. 

  You shake your head. You don’t know what to say. 

  “Thank you,” you mumble. 

  “C’mere.” 

  He pulls you into his heart, across the center console. Presses a kiss to the crown of your head. When he lets you go you lean in, closer, and ghost your lips across his jaw. 

  “Joel,” you say, again, “thank you.” 

  You pull back. He clears his throat. Then he nods — at the door, at your driveway. 

  “Go on,” he says. “Get.” 

  So you go.'
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