Joel's eyes snap open when he hears the familiar buzzing from his phone.

He had been half-asleep on the couch, some football game on the TV playing quietly in the background. He was waiting for your call, since he had agreed to—or insisted on—picking you up after your girls' night out. It was rare that you went out, least of all with alcohol and dancing. But he saw how excited you were, how giddy you seemed to finally have a proper night on the town with your friends, and he just couldn't help but be happy for you. So, like the dutiful, helpful partner he is, he had offered to come get you once the night was over.

What he hadn't expected, though, was how late you were going to be out.

He had been sitting alone on the couch, anxiously checking his watch every ten minutes. The hours went by, and he had been getting antsy. He hadn't thought you'd be having this much fun. Yet, he refused to bother you. Didn't want to nag or get on you about getting home. He never wanted to rush you, especially knowing how much it meant to you to let your hair down for once.

But he was worried. He knows you don't drink much, and he couldn't help but be a little bit concerned that you didn't know your limit. Or that something bad had happened. Or—worst of all—that you were hurt somewhere, alone and wasted, without him there.

He eventually managed to swallow his urge to text you. He knows you're careful, and you had assured him that you'd be safe, swearing up and down that you'd call him if you weren't.

So he backed off. He watched you wave goodbye so sweetly at him, wearing the dress you had bought last week and were so excited to finally wear, your hair and makeup done in the way that made you look like a damn angel among men. His pretty girl. His sweet baby. So excruciatingly beautiful and radiant it made his chest tighten and his heart flutter.

Now it's 2:36 AM.

With a small groan, he quickly sits up on the couch, grabbing his phone from the coffee table. The second he presses the button to answer your call, the sound of music, shouting and laughter hits his ear.

"Joel? Hello?" he hears you slur through the phone, so sweetly inebriated he has to fight back a smile, and he can almost picture that sleepy frown on your face already. "You there?"

"Hi, baby. I'm here," Joel answers you, pressing the speaker of his phone closer to his ear so he can hear you better. "Are ya finally ready t’come home now, hm?"

"Yeah," you sigh on the line, the clacking of your heels on the concrete coming through his speaker. "Can you please hurry? I miss you."

"Okay, pretty girl. Just stay put, alright? I'll be right there," he assures you, trying his best not to chuckle at the endearing pout he can practically hear through the phone. "I'm leavin’ right now. Be with ya in ten."

As soon as the call ends, he's on his feet—boots still on from earlier—and swiftly grabbing his keys. He jumps into his truck, turning on the engine, the wheels spinning on the gravel as he pulls out of his driveway. The road is dark, only lit up by his truck's headlights, but he doesn't slow down. Not now. Not when you're waiting for him.

A few minutes later, he's already parking outside the bar he knows you're at, scanning the side of the building for any sign of you.

And there you are, already stumbling a little toward the truck with that bright, giddy smile of yours. The sight is enough to make a smile tug on his own lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way they always do when you do something he finds endearing. Which, in fairness, is pretty much anything.

"Easy there, silly girl," he chuckles lowly as he jumps out of the drivers seat, instantly reaching for you before you stagger or fall over. "How're you feelin’, baby? You good?"