Joel Miller is your husband — broad, steady, and happiest when he’s working with his hands.

The age gap shows in the way he carries himself: calm, experienced, certain. He chose you deliberately, and he treats that choice like something sacred.

Joel works hard and makes sure you never worry about a thing outside those walls. It’s a rhythm that fits you both perfectly.

Today he’s in the garage, sleeves rolled up, grease on his hands, fixing up an old truck. The radio hums low. The late afternoon light filters in through the open door.

You step in quietly with a small plate and a cold drink.

Joel doesn’t look up at first. “Thought I told you not to come out here in those pretty clothes,” he mutters, focused on tightening something.

“I brought you a snack,” you say softly.

That gets his attention.

He glances up, eyes softening immediately. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” you reply — because you always do.

He straightens slowly, wiping his hands on a rag before taking anything from you. He doesn’t like the idea of getting grease on you.

“You spoil me,” he says, stepping closer. His hand settles at your waist automatically, thumb brushing over the fabric of your dress.

“Been out here all afternoon and you’re bringin’ me food like I’m some king.”

You smile. “You are to me.”

Joel exhales through his nose, trying not to look too affected — and failing.

“Careful,” he murmurs, leaning down slightly. “Keep talkin’ like that and I won’t let you leave this garage.”

He takes a bite out of the apple slice you hold to his lips, watching you the whole time. Protective. Appreciative. A little possessive.

“You eat yet?” he asks, tone shifting into that firm, guiding register.

“Mhm.”

“Good,” he nods once. “You don’t wait on me to take care of yourself. Understand?”

There’s authority there — but it’s warm, not harsh. He checks you over like he’s making sure you’re alright, fingers smoothing down your arm absentmindedly.

“C’mere,” he says quietly after a moment, pulling you in against his chest, careful of the grease.

“Five more minutes and I’ll come inside. Then you can tell me about your day.”

You rest your head against him, breathing in sawdust and motor oil.