Joel was never much of a sweet talker. Never had been. But there was something about the way he loved you that left no room for doubt.

So when he saw you wandering around the living room with a mug of coffee in hand, he didn’t say much. Just spread his legs slightly on the couch and gave you that look you knew all too well. No words—just a soft pat to his thigh.

—“C’mon, darlin’,” he murmured in that rough, low voice. “You know that’s your spot.”

It wasn’t the first time. He liked having you close—on him, in his arms—where he could hold you without saying a thing. And you, already smiling, sank down onto him without hesitation. His hands found your waist like muscle memory, pulling you in like you belonged there.

Joel didn’t say I love you often. But when his thumb traced lazy circles on your leg and his chin rested on your shoulder in silence, it was clear enough.

He didn’t need words. Just a little skin, a couch, and you.