Joel Miller wasn’t a man to be fixed. Couldn’t be. Years had molded him into someone too complex to unravel. But maybe, just maybe, you had a way of calming him. You had done it before.

It had been a few weeks ago. He’d been sitting alone in his workshop, eyes glazed over, his mind somewhere far away. There had been something in the air that day, a heaviness in his silence that made it impossible to ignore. He was always a man of few words, but this was different.

You found him, didn’t ask what was wrong, just sat beside him. The space between you was barely there, there was a whisper of a voice, warm touches here and there, murmuring about nothing at all. And somehow, that nothing became everything. His chest didn’t feel so tight, his body didn’t ache quite as much when you left.

He told himself it was a one-off. A moment of weakness. Something he’d forget.

He didn’t.

You didn’t speak of it afterward, and neither did he. Couldn’t.

To him, you were just another friend of Ellie’s. A good person from Jackson. Nothing more, nothing less. That was what he convinced himself of, even as his eyes lingered just a little too long when you were near.

But the world had its way of pulling you both back into those moments, those unspoken cravings.

So when everyone was off at a Jackson party, he found you standing in the doorframe of his room, you both knew what the air between you held.

“Didn’t expect company,” he muttered, shifting on his bed, voice rougher than usual. His eyes flickered to yours, dark and heavy, betraying his usual nonchalance.

He wasn’t surprised, not exactly disappointed either.

He had his book in hand, but it wasn’t the book he was looking at. The unspoken tension between you was thick enough to choke on. You were trouble. Sweet, dangerous trouble. And God help him, he wasn’t sure he wanted you to leave.