Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Too much water hast thou, poor Ophelia."

There's this phenomenon called dry drowning.

It's rare, but people can actually drown on dry land, sometimes days after they were in the water.

When someone is submerged for too long, choking and sputtering, clawing their way to the surface, if they inhale just a little too much water in the process, days later that water can drown them.

Internally.

Sometimes it felt like Ophelia had been fighting to stay above water her entire life, just waiting to finally drown, waiting for the water in her lungs to surge up into her larynx, or her vocal cords, closing them up and cutting off her oxygen.

Always treading water without a life raft.

She didn't really know when it had started, when she first found herself neck deep, when she realized that no one in her life was going to throw her a buoy, that she was the one responsible for keeping everyone else afloat while she thrashed and clawed to keep her head above water.

Maybe it was after the first time her parents uprooted their family to move across the country, maybe it was after the fifth time. Maybe it was when her little sister was born— a screaming, wiggling thing that she found herself feeding and changing and entertaining when she was only nine years old herself. Perhaps it was during high school— one of the five she attended in four years— when it was too hard to make friends when you were always the new kid, when she was too busy driving Juliet to elementary school and piano lessons, too busy making dinner because her dad didn't know how to cook and her mother worked late. Maybe it was when she met Scott. Maybe it was after she married him.

Or perhaps it was a curse, something genetic, something she was born into and condemned to for eternity.

Always fighting for air, always treading water, while she worked to keep everyone else dry.

__________

Ophelia jumped a couple times, halfway bent over, trying to tug her sneaker on with her thumb wedged inside it, crushed between the shoe and her heel.

It was the first day on site for her firm's big, new project— a big, new project she was lead architect on— and she refused to be late.

Not that she was ever late, for anything.

In college she regularly showed up to class a half hour before it started— just in case— sitting in the hallway with her nose in a book until the professor unlocked the door. When she was first hired by Vicinity as an associate, she got to the office before it even opened, standing outside those big glass doors while the sun inched up from the horizon. She was always the first one to arrive at parties Scott's friends hosted, even if his meandering set her back at least twenty minutes for any given event. And she preferred to get to the airport two hours before boarding— much to Scott's chagrin.

So, even though she had over an hour to make it five miles to the job site, she still felt like she was somehow running out of time.

It always felt a little like she was running out of time.

But perhaps that was just a side effect of getting older, of reaching her thirties.

She shivered at even the thought of that number. The big 3-0 that she'd already reached and blown past, halfway to thirty-one now and she still hadn't fully accepted that she wasn't in her twenties anymore.

Your twenties hold possibilities, thousands of avenues. You can change your career in your twenties, you can switch birth controls, you can drink and experiment with drugs, you can break up and get back together and fuck up and blame it on being young.

But thirty— thirty, she still didn't even like to say it aloud— by your thirties you were supposed to settle down. Get married, have kids if that's what you wanted to do. You were expected to have a stable career and a 401k and a house— or if not a house, a savings fund to buy a house. If you still drank every day, you were an alcoholic, but if you didn't drink at all people would think you had a problem with alcohol. No more drugs and no more parties, otherwise you were immature and sad.

By thirty you were supposed to have your life together.

And by all those metrics, Ophelia did.

She had a stable career that paid well, good health insurance, a 401k. She didn't drink during the week and she'd taken up using an expensive retinol cream in her late twenties. She went to bed at ten every night and woke up at six on the dot even without an alarm. She was married. No kids, though, but she didn't want any... or told herself she didn't. And while she and Scott didn't own their home, they were on track to afford the down payment on one in the next five years.

So, why did it still feel like she was drowning? Like she'd done something wrong, missed a step, forgotten something crucial.

It was too late to figure it out now, too late to start over.

So, she buried it.

Ophelia shrugged on her coat, then double checked her bag to make sure she had her keys, her wallet, her laptop, the blueprints. With one more look down the dark hallway, toward the bedroom, where her husband was still sleeping, she pushed open the front door and stepped out into the thick, Bay fog.

She'd normally take the train as parking on the other side of the city was usually a nightmare, but this was her first day at this job site and she didn't want to risk being late because Muni shit itself in the tunnel, or because someone decided today was the day to inconvenience everyone by jumping on the tracks.

Strange way to kill yourself, she'd always thought, using your last moment on Earth to traumatize everyone and make them late for work.

She clicked the button on her key fob and the headlights of her Prius flashed obediently. It was a twenty-minute drive over to Mission Bay, which meant that as long as there were no grisly accidents or stalled rows of autonomous vehicles blocking the road, she'd get to the job site with forty minutes to spare.

The thought worked to dull some of the anxiety that was bouncing away in her gut, but not all of it. Her baseline was anxious, or some level of it.

Her phone connected to her car's Bluetooth as soon as she cranked the ignition and backed out of the driveway, automatically playing ABC by the Jackson Five despite the fact that she hadn't listened to that song in its entirety since she was in middle school. It was— at least alphabetically— the first song in her iTunes library, and therefore, for some reason unbeknownst to her, the song her car's Bluetooth decided to play every time she started the engine.

She should've just deleted the song. Instead, she turned the volume knob down to zero and drove toward 19th Avenue in silence.

It was easier to cut down to the freeway and then take it all the way back up and over to Mission Bay— at least that's what she told herself as she turned right onto 19th, heading in the opposite direction of the job site. In reality, it was the only route she knew by heart. She'd moved back to the Bay Area twelve years ago, to start her undergrad at USF. Despite being born in Redwood City— now one of the tech capitals of the world, though thirty years ago it was considered a humble suburb— she didn't grow up there. She didn't grow up anywhere. Sometimes her family wouldn't even settle into a new city long enough for her to completely unpack her boxes. In that way, she never became familiar with anywhere, she never stayed any place long enough to learn the street names or find the best coffee shop, never settled into a place well enough to make friends or be referred to as anything other than the new girl. So, even though she'd been in San Francisco for longer than she'd ever been allowed to stay stagnant, she'd never truly settled, never learned the most convenient driving routes or where to get the best burrito, because a part of her still felt like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Still waiting to be ripped from this place and dragged to a new one.

As soon as Ophelia took the exit onto Alemany, which would loop around and bring her back onto 280– in the right direction this time— the screen on her dashboard flashed, displaying her sister's name.

She sighed, turning up the volume and pressing the accept button on the screen.

"What's up, Jules?" she asked, pushing her hair back from her face before reinstating both hands on the wheel. "It's seven-thirty, how're you even awake right now?"

"Never went to bed," her sister chimed, sounding far more alive than Ophelia would have had she stayed up all night.

"Jesus," she muttered, "don't you have class?"

"Not until noon, hey, just wondering, if someone were to sleep with another someone without using protection, how would that someone procure a morning after pill that isn't weight discriminatory..."

"Juliet!" Ophelia snapped, "they have free condoms at the student center, what do you mean you didn't use protection?"

She could feel the tension in the base of her neck twisting tighter as her sister's sigh rattled all staticky through the speakers of her car.

"Reserve your judgement and just help me, please."

Ophelia rubbed at the space between her brows, where two new grooves had started developing late last year, a physical embodiment of her aging that she was planning on rectifying with a syringe full of Botox just as soon as she had the time to make an appointment.

"Call the pharmacy and ask for ulipristal acetate, I think the generic name is Ella, and please go to the clinic and get tested."

"Yes mom," Juliet leered, quiet for a moment before she added, "and can I come over for dinner tonight, I'm broke after buying those Outside Lands tickets and a third night of boxed mac and cheese in a row might kill me."

"Of course," Ophelia sighed, "I won't be back from the job site until six, but Scott's home, he can let you in if you get there before me."

Her sister muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like of course he'll be home.

"I'll see you later, alright? And please make sure to go to the clinic, or at least make an appointment for later this week."

"I will," Juliet groaned, sounding much like she was sixteen again. "And Effy..."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks," her sister said, her voice pitching warm enough to make a smile tug at Ophelia's lips.

"Anytime, I'll see you tonight."

Juliet ended the call and Ophelia turned the volume down again before ABC could assault her eardrums for a second time.

As the freeway snaked through downtown, curving through Mission Bay, the thick fog that covered the western part of the city dissipated, making way for a clear, blue, cloudless sky. San Francisco was strange that way, some neighborhoods required a fleece jacket and a beanie to ward off the cold and the mist, while a few blocks down it could be sunny and clear.

They needed to buy a house further inland; the foggy gloom of the Sunset was getting to her. Last week she'd found herself perusing light therapy lamps... in June.

Ophelia parked in one of the big lots adjacent to the job site that normally serviced the San Francisco Giants patrons... or fans, she supposed was the more appropriate term, then paid an exorbitant amount at the little self-pay station, sticking the ticket on her dashboard before grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. Maybe the development company would expense her parking, because she was certain that Vicinity wouldn't, they were notoriously stingy when it came to extraneous spending.

Tishman Speyer was one of the most prestigious development firms not just in the Bay, but in the country, their portfolio was legendary— Rockefeller Center, the MetLife Building, the Infinity Towers— and two years ago they'd finalized a partnership with Vicinity as one of their architectural firms. And now they were building three commercial and residential buildings— in what used to be a parking lot— right across from Oracle Park, as a part of their Mission Rock Development Project, and Ophelia was the lead architect on one of those buildings. The Canyon— a 23-story beauty right on the water. The first five floors would be commercial, the following eighteen were apartments.

It was a project that had been over a year in the making.

And today was the day they were ready to start laying the foundation.

Finally.

It was a combination of nerves and excitement and that ever-present anxiety that bounced in Ophelia's gut as she marched through the parking lot and over toward the trio of portable buildings that had Tishman's logo plastered on the side of them. These would serve as the office for her team at Vicinity, Tishman's team, and whatever construction company they had hired, and while they weren't glamorous by any means— just three little beige boxes sitting on dirt and gravel— the sight of them still made the excitement in her gut buzz.

Lead architect.

If not anything else, at least she had that going for her.

She walked up the rickety, steel ramp to the door of the portable situated in the middle. It was the only one that had a light on inside, and she wouldn't be surprised if Francine— the lead project manager for Tishman's team— had made it to the site early as well. Ophelia had only met her in person once before— when they finalized the project back in January— but by the chaotic way she had shook her hand, papers flying from a folder she had shoved under her arm, she thought the woman might be as high-strung as she was herself.

Ophelia took a deep breath, making a silent pact with the anxiety in her gut to not overwhelm her entirely, then she pulled open the door.

And walked straight into a wall.

Or not a wall, but a chest that was solid enough to feel like a wall.

"Shit," she spat out, watching as the giant arm and hand attached to that wall of flesh moved a sloshing cup of coffee away from her before it could spill down the front of either of their shirts.

In the end, that brown liquid splashed out and seeped into the blue carpet under their feet.

"M'sorry, didn't think anyone else would be here this early," the wall said, in a deep, rumbling baritone that was soaked with a Southern accent.

She ignored the way the sound of it made her tummy clench and lifted her eyes up the imposing length of the man in front of her.

He was impossibly tall— tall enough that she had to crane her neck back to find his face— and just as broad. Wide, thick shoulders that turned into bulky arms, and further down into large, calloused hands. His neck was also thick, and tan, his hair was brown, tousled curls, just starting to gray at the temples, a cut jaw that was covered in scruff, a plush mouth that looked out of place in contrast to the rest of his sharp features, prominent, aquiline nose, and then brown eyes, warm, but staring down at her inquisitively, like he was taking her in with as much curiosity as she was him.

She watched his throat bob, then he held out one of those giant hands.

"Joel, I'm a foreman at Swinerton, here for the Canyon project."

Ophelia opened her mouth, but nothing came out for a brief moment, long enough that Joel's eyebrows raised slightly.

"Ophelia," she finally managed, placing her hand in his giant one.

It was warm and rough and the touch sent something buzzing and hot up her arm.

Of course he was here with the construction company, there was no way that those arms, those shoulders were a result of solely genetics.

God, he was huge.

His stature alone made the cramped space of the portable feel even smaller, not to mention whatever was going on with her stomach— it was a clenching, fluttering mess. Maybe the chicken she'd made for dinner last night had gone bad, she should call Scott and warn him, though she was sure her husband was still sleeping, would still be sleeping until noon at least.

"You with Tishman?" he asked, the big hand that wasn't holding his sopping coffee cup reached up to rub at the back of his neck.

She shook her head, "Uh, Vicinity."

"Not gonna lie to you, I have no idea what that is," Joel said, with a small chuckle, the rumbling sound of it seemed to vibrate straight through her chest, the smile on his face making that fluttering in her stomach even more intense.

"It's uh— an architectural firm, we designed the building."

Joel's eyes bounced over her face, then down, and Ophelia twisted her hand around the strap of her bag to try to cope with the heat that erupted at the base of her neck, quickly crawling up to spread out across her cheeks.

She was wearing one of the five outfits that she always wore— jeans, a plain black t-shirt, sneakers, and her puffer. She didn't remember when exactly she'd stopped trying to coordinate new outfits or trying to look more than just presentable, but suddenly, with his eyes appraising her, she felt a twist of embarrassment squeeze between her ribs.

Joel coughed, shook his head, then glanced back at the coffee maker, sitting on a little bench next to a big hamper of sanitized hard hats and vests.

"Can I get you some coffee?" he asked, gesturing toward it with one of those big hands.

"That's okay, I can get it my—" she started before he interrupted her with another shake of his head, clearing the space to the coffeemaker in two large strides, his hulking body leaning over to grab a styrofoam cup and fill it with coffee.

"Least I can do after I almost spilled mine all over ya," he said, glancing over at her, "cream or sugar?"

"I really can do it myself," she said, taking a small step toward him.

"Sure, but I'm already doing it," he said, with a small twitch of his lips inching into a smile, "cream or sugar?"

"One sugar, a splash of cream," Ophelia relented, sliding her heavy bag off her shoulder and slinging it onto one of the empty desks that was crammed into the other side of the portable.

By the time she pulled her laptop out of her bag he was standing next to her again, his wide form blocking the sunlight that was streaming in through the window above the coffeemaker as he set the cup down on the desk.

"Thank you," she said, giving him a small smile that he matched, the motion causing a dimple to burrow itself in his right cheek.

She forced herself not to stare by directing her gaze down to her bag, then over to the cup he'd set on the desk. She couldn't remember the last time someone had made her coffee without her paying them to do so.

"'Course," he hummed, then took a shuffling step backward, "I gotta get out there, get our team together, I'll see you around, Ophelia."

Something about the way he said her name, with the accent, and the rumbling depth, made her heart hammer against her ribs, made her stomach pick up its fluttering motion.

She glanced down at the diamond ring on her finger— it was Scott's grandmother's diamond that he'd had a jeweler repurpose on a more modern band. A gold band, even though she exclusively wore silver jewelry.

"See ya," Ophelia choked out, refusing to glance back up at him as the great bulk of him walked toward the door, his heavy footfalls seeming to shake the entire portable with each step.

She wasn't dead nor blind, so of course she recognized that he was attractive— probably the most attractive man she'd ever seen in the flesh— but she was married.

She could find him attractive but that was it, that was as far as her thoughts were allowed to go. She was not permitted to think about how massive he was, everywhere, how it would feel to have those big, rough hands encompass her waist, what his scruff would feel like against her neck, how thick that woody, masculine scent that ebbed off of him would be if she were pressed against the wide breadth of his chest.

Not allowed.

__________

Francine arrived ten minutes after Joel walked out of the portable, a chaotic whirlwind of shiny brown hair and flying papers.

"Ophelia, lovely to see you again," she said, soaring toward the desk and sticking out her hand, forcing Ophelia to stand from where she'd been answering emails to shake it.

"You too, Francine," she said, giving a polite smile to the woman who appeared as chaotic as Ophelia felt on the inside.

"Please call me Frankie, seeing as we're going to be working together for the next couple years, I'd rather ditch the formalities early," she said, while reaching down to grab a couple of those stray papers that seemed to whirl around her like a tornado.

"In that case, you can call me Effy if you'd like. I don't have a preference."

"Effy," Frankie paused, tilting her head, "I like that."

"My little sister couldn't pronounce Ophelia until she was four, it always came out sounding like Effila, became Effy at some point."

"So cute," she said, sounding very much like she meant it and not like she was responding out of obligation to Ophelia's nervous banter. "Who else are we waiting for from your team?" she asked then, after she'd finally wrangled all her stray papers and put them on the desk next to the one Ophelia had been sitting at.

"It'll just be my associate Brandon and I today," she said, glancing down at the clock in the corner of her computer screen. "He should be here shortly."

"Perfect. We can wait for him if you'd like, or I can go introduce you to the construction team now. Then we have a meeting with the foreman and supervisors at eleven to go over the blueprint and the renderings which look beautiful by the way."

"Thank you," Ophelia said, with a blush that she couldn't halt. "We can go out now, or wait for Brandon, either way is fine."

"Let's just go now," Frankie said, pushing herself back out of her seat, "I have about a thousand emails to get through, and I'm happy to help catch him up when he gets here."

Ophelia nodded, and followed her over to the hamper next to the coffeemaker.

"I know it's annoying, but it's protocol," Frankie said as she put on a hard hat before handing Ophelia one.

"Don't worry, it's not like I took the time to do my hair today," she jested, making a sweeping motion over her frizzy red hair.

Not that she took the time to do her hair ever anymore.

"I'm right there with you," the woman said, even though her brown hair was straight and perfect, reflecting the sunlight that was streaming in through the window above them.

Frankie shrugged on a neon vest, then handed one to Ophelia, who did the same.

"As I'm sure you heard in the thousand emails we've exchanged over the past few months, the excavation went well, no major hangups," Frankie began as she led Ophelia out of the portable and down the ramp, looping over toward the site itself, where there were scattered construction workers milling about, a couple of them helping direct a concrete truck up into the dirt from the street.

"We're doing the concrete footings this week, foundation starts next week, all according to your specs, but please feel free to double check before we lay."

Ophelia nodded, her eyes darting around the site, trying to take it all in without letting her anxiety spike.

"We went with Swinerton, used them for our last project on Market, they're great."

She imagined that was probably the case, especially if all their workers looked as competent and large as their foreman had. Ophelia worked to push the image of him back out of her mind, but was immediately thrown the real life rendering as Frankie caught his gaze and waved him over.

He was wearing his own hard hat now, and a vest that stretched over his wide shoulders, and as he walked toward the two of them, his eyes stayed pinned to Ophelia in a way that made her want to squirm.

"Ophelia this is Joel Miller, Swinerton's foreman for this project, he'll be your contact for all things construction. Joel, this is Ophelia Murphy, the lead architect from Vicinity."

She did not miss the way his eyebrows darted toward his hairline, those warm brown eyes appraising her again, like her title painted her in a new light, like it was surprising that a woman could be lead architect for such a large project.

Fucking men.

Ophelia was about to stick her hand out and pretend to meet him for the first time just so she wouldn't have to explain their earlier collision, but Joel just flashed a polite smile, and turned his focus toward Frankie.

"We met earlier this morning, back in the uh— trailer," he said, sticking his thumb over one of those massive shoulders, pointing in the direction of the portables.

"Oh, perfect, well Joel, why don't you show Ophelia the specs for the footings before we lay the concrete, I've gotta get back, but holler if you need anything," Frankie said, already shuffling back toward the portables, tripping over a loose piece of gravel on her way there, her voice bouncing as she reinstated her balance.

The space between the two of them hummed with electricity just as soon as Frankie left them alone.

"Lead architect, huh?" Joel asked, with a small tilt of his head.

"Is that so hard to believe?" she snapped, automatically, a defense mechanism she'd built up in grad school, while surrounded by men, heading into a male-dominated field.

Joel shook his head, the corners of his lips twitching downward, causing the mustache above them to slope into a frown. "No, just surprised you didn't mention it earlier."

She stayed silent, while something that felt a lot like guilt sloshed away in her gut. She'd made an assumption, based on his gender and that Southern twang, and maybe she'd been wrong, but he still had plenty of time to showcase his own misogynistic behavior.

All men were misogynistic, to some degree, which was why, perhaps, she had not introduced herself with her title, because she knew the look, the surprise, the disbelief that usually plagued men's faces.

"Let me show you the specs," Joel said, turning and walking toward a work bench at the far end of the job site, next to a congregation of Swinerton trucks. Ophelia followed, her eyes locked on the large space between his shoulder blades, the way the firm muscles in his back rolled beneath his white t-shirt.

She swallowed hard, averted her gaze to her feet and began twisting her wedding band around and around her finger.

"I pulled them directly from your blueprint, so there shouldn't be any issues," Joel said, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck as he gestured down to the ARCH E1 spread out over his workbench— a crude layout of the dimensions, circles where the footers would go.

Ophelia nodded as she stepped closer, double checking the numbers. "Looks good," she said, glancing up to find him staring down at her, not the paper, his heated gaze bouncing over her face, causing her stomach to cramp up again, her heart pounding loud and off rhythm in her chest.

It had been so long since she'd found anyone attractive, since she noticed anyone beyond vague shapes and features. But she couldn't help it, couldn't stop herself from noting how dark and thick his lashes were, how plush his bottom lip was, how the span of his shoulders made it hard to look anywhere else.

She needed to snap out of it.

She twisted her wedding band around her finger again as she pushed herself from the work bench, while a wave of nausea crashed into her core when she noticed his eyes drift down to her ring finger, then lift slowly back to her face, his expression impossible to read.

Joel coughed, his big arm coming down to hang at his side. "I'll give them the go ahead then. I can check back in when we start on the foundation."

"Sounds good," she managed to squeeze out, her throat feeling inexplicably tight.

She turned around then, to head back to the portables, when his rumbling voice stopped her.

"And Ophelia—" he started, and she dared to glance over her shoulder, where his eyes flitted to her face from somewhere lower. "Next time you should introduce yourself as the architect, this project is huge, you should be proud."

She didn't say anything in return, just gave him a small nod, then turned back around and headed for the portables, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

__________

By the time Ophelia pulled into her driveway, she was exhausted, mentally— from staring at a screen all day— and physically— from trudging around the job site in her sneakers that offered very little in the way of arch support. Maybe it was time to give in, buy a pair of orthopedic shoes, really lean into the fact that she was aging and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it.

Juliet's Subaru was already parked in front of her house, the gate that led up to her porch steps was ajar, and she could hear the drone of the television before she even opened the door.

She kicked off her shoes just as soon as she got inside, letting out a sigh as she bent over to deposit them— along with two pairs of Scott's shoes— on the rack next to the door.

"Hey," her sister's voice called out from the living room, over the pitchy sound of whatever reality television show she was watching.

"Hey," Ophelia parroted, shuffling into the living room, where Juliet was spread out over one of the couches, her feet hanging over the armrest, her eyes glued to the TV, where two middle-aged women who looked like they'd gotten a ridiculous amount of filler were screaming at each other.

Scott was sitting on the other couch, his face buried in his laptop, still wearing the pajamas he put on before bed last night, his sandy hair disheveled and mussed like he'd either just woken up, or had been raking his fingers through it all day.

"You didn't wake me up this morning," Scott said, in lieu of a greeting, "I slept through my meeting with those potential investors I was telling you about."

Ophelia felt a pang of annoyance— or maybe it was something worse, something close to resentment— pinch at the space between her ribs before she forced herself to push it down and away.

"I told you to set an alarm, it was my first day on the new job site today," she said, letting her bag slide off her shoulder and onto the side table next to the couch, which was littered with coffee cups and takeaway pastry bags.

"Oh shit, that was today?" Scott asked, his blue eyes finally bouncing over to her from his laptop screen. "How did it go?"

"It was fine, it was good," she said simply, rolling her shoulder from the weight of her bag.

"Awesome," Scott nodded, flashing her a smile before turning back to his screen. "Sorry, I think I'll be done soon, I've just got to go over these profile layouts. I told the graphics guys I hired that I wanted it to look like a modern Myspace and he totally just ripped off a two thousand and eight version."

"Are you done with these?" Ophelia asked, gesturing to the spread of cups and bags on the table.

"Yeah, I'm done," he nodded, typing away, the light from the screen glowing across his features.

Ophelia sighed, gathering the cups and bags in her arms and carrying them over to the adjacent kitchen, where she stuffed them into the trashcan.

"I can't believe mommy has to wake you up in the morning," her sister mocked, voice carrying into the kitchen, where Ophelia had begun digging through the fridge in search of dinner supplies.

"I sleep through alarms," Scott shot back, "besides you're the one who came here for a free dinner."

"She's my sister, she's legally and morally obligated to feed me."

Scott scoffed, "Just sounds like an excuse to—"

"Stop fighting," Ophelia yelled, the tension at the base of her spine screaming up her back as she bent over to pull out a pack of chicken breasts.

They kept muttering, too low to be heard from the kitchen, but Ophelia gave up as she swept her hair up into a ponytail and began prepping the chicken.

She'd started dating Scott when she was twenty-one, which meant that he'd known Juliet since she was twelve, and sometimes they bickered like siblings because of that. Scott hadn't grown up with any siblings— just two filthy rich parents and a gaggle of friends that he still associated with in his thirties— so that kind of sibling banter was not something he was familiar with, and thus it tended to push him to the edge of his patience, which Juliet found delightful.

As Ophelia finished marinating the chicken and started on chopping heads of broccoli, her sister stomped into the kitchen, huffing something under her breath as she pulled open the fridge and yanked out an open bottle of white wine.

"Are these clean?" Juliet asked, gesturing to the dishwasher.

"Unless Scott started them while I was gone, no."

Juliet tugged the dishwasher open, turned up her nose and slammed it back shut. "Typical," she muttered, grabbing a low-ball glass from the cupboard instead and filling it to the brim with wine, before tossing the empty bottle in the recycling bin.

"Your husband is insufferable," Juliet huffed, leaning back against the counter and taking a long pull from her glass.

"Be nice," Ophelia warned, flashing her sister a stern look before returning to chopping. "Did you manage to pick up that pill... and make an appointment?" she asked, trying to steer the conversation away from Scott.

Her sister had never particularly liked her husband, just tolerated him, just took joy in pressing his buttons. Despite growing up in the same ever-moving household, Juliet never had trouble fitting in or making friends or caring when she had to abandon those friends to move to the next city. And in that way— she knew— her sister would never understand why Ophelia had chose to marry Scott. Because while Ophelia craved stability, belonging, something to tether her, to keep her from floating away, Juliet lived for chaos, lived for spontaneity. She was bubbly and outgoing and carefree. She didn't care about being late or how she was perceived or whether or not the Liberal Arts degree she was working toward would ever get her a stable career. She just was.

And maybe Ophelia was slightly jealous of those traits, but jealousy didn't change her, didn't morph her into a more unflustered version of herself.

And so, she'd married Scott.

Because she loved him, of course, but also because he was stability.

He'd grown up here in the city. He'd belonged to the same group of friends since high school— who had all welcomed her into their friend group with open arms. His parents were so rich that they'd paid for Ophelia and Scott's entire wedding in Italy without even blinking. So rich that they funded Scott while he worked on trying to build his dream company— some social media site that she didn't fully comprehend even though he'd been working on it for the past three years. Scott was kind and he was smart and he was unchanging.

And that's what she needed after a life that was driven by constant change.

"I took the pill already and my appointment is on Friday," Juliet said, sounding bored as she turned to watch Ophelia dump the broccoli into a double broiler.

"Good," Ophelia nodded, "how about next time you use a condom," she stated sharply, snapping her eyes up to her sister again.

"I will," she groaned, letting her head hang on her neck, so her mass of dark brown hair fell over her face dramatically. "I don't normally do that, okay, but this guy was so fucking hot, Effy, and we just started making out and then it got heated and he said he didn't have a condom and I wasn't going to leave there without fucking him."

Ophelia shook her head, putting the broccoli on the stove and then pulling the oven open for the chicken. "And that's how you end up with a child and chlamydia."

Juliet scoffed, "You're so boring," she whined, following her sister around the kitchen like a shadow, "you can't tell me there wasn't a time when you and Scott first started dating where it got super heated and you forgot a condom."

"You didn't forget," she pointed out, ignoring her sister's question— because no, that had never happened with Scott. Sex with Scott was fine, good enough in the beginning because she was young and inexperienced and didn't really know what she liked yet. Fine now— on the rare chance that it happened— because she knew what she liked now, what she wanted, and it wasn't something Scott could do. But that was okay. What married couple still fucked regularly five years into their marriage? Almost ten years into their relationship? Not many, she bet. Hardly any, she imagined.

She glanced over her shoulder, pulling out a box of pasta from the pantry. "You asked if he had a condom, he said no, and you still did it anyway."

"Whatever," Juliet sighed, "It was worth it."

"Unbelievable," she muttered, pouring the pasta into a pot of boiling water. "Can you start the dishwasher, seeing as I'll probably be paying for your STD medication and your dinners for the next month."

"Happy to," Juliet chimed, "since your husband doesn't fucking know how."

_________

Juliet stayed through dinner, watched another screaming episode of reality television, then drove back to her apartment in Parkmerced.

Scott worked through dinner, shoveling food into his mouth between bouts of typing furiously on his keyboard.

Ophelia ate at the kitchen table by herself, then cleaned up, showered, put on that expensive retinol cream she wasn't entirely sure was doing anything and got into bed three minutes before ten.

Scott wouldn't come to bed until long after midnight, he rarely made it to bed before three in the morning anymore— which was part of the reason he always slept through his alarms— but that was okay. She slept better alone, without him tossing and turning and tugging at the blankets and lying on his back, open-mouthed snoring until Ophelia pushed him onto his side.

She was about to lie down, in the process of scooting down the bed, her head an inch from her pillow when her phone buzzed on her nightstand, flashing her mother's name.

"Christ," Ophelia muttered, pushing herself back up and grabbing it, pulling it off the charger and answering with a mellow, "Hi mom."

"Your father is driving me insane," her mom grumbled instead of saying hello back.

She chuckled under her breath, "What now?" she asked, fiddling with a loose string on the duvet.

"The facet in the kitchen is leaking and I asked him every day last week to call a plumber while I was at work, I'm sure you can guess what he hasn't done."

"Called a plumber," Ophelia stated in a dull monotone.

"Nope!" her mother exclaimed. She could almost see her mom's hands flying into the air, could almost see the exhausted expression on her face, could imagine the way her long, wavy red hair bounced as she shook her head. "Do you know of anyone Effy? Someone you might have worked with at one of your job sites?"

"I don't regularly mingle with plumbers, mom."

"Oh, but you must know of a reliable company, someone who won't rip me off," her mother droned on, her voice nearly reaching a squeal. The sound made Ophelia roll her neck.

"I'll look into it, but mom, most of the companies up here aren't going to drive all the way down to Redwood City, you're better off finding someone down there."

"I don't have any time to look," her mother groaned, "I have two authors on publishing track and another one who refuses to accept any of my edits."

Her mother was an editor at Penguin, had been for the last thirty-five years. She was so good, so esteemed, that Penguin had let her work almost entirely remote before remote work was ever a thing, just to keep her in house while her father moved them from city to city, always bouncing from job to job, random seasonal work, entry-level trade positions, service industry jobs. For the last thirteen months, he'd been working the front desk at the Holiday Inn Express right off 280. Her parents had been back in Redwood City for the past two years, the longest they'd stayed in one spot since Ophelia was born.

"Okay, okay, I'll call a couple places tomorrow, alright?" Ophelia said, with a slow sigh.

"Thank you, sweetheart," her mother cooed, "I can always count on you."

"Happy to help," Ophelia said, with a smile, even as she felt that water surging higher and higher up her neck.

Chapter Text

"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so."

There's no instant gratification in architecture.

Blueprints and renderings can take months before they're finalized.

Zoning permits and collaboration with development firms and clients can take years.

Site preparation takes weeks to months.

Then it's finally time to start building, but depending on the size and structure, that process can take years.

The timeline for the Canyon spanned four— four years.

The renderings Ophelia and her team finalized a year ago wouldn't come to fruition for four more years. All her hard work— months drafting and refining, hours spent bent over her laptop, a decade in school— wouldn't showcase as a completed building until she was thirty-five.

Thirty-five.

Closer to forty than twenty.

The thought was terrifying.

They were already a week into construction and only just starting on the foundation. It would be another week before framing could begin, and months before she would get to see the walls take shape. A grueling, extensive process that was not for the impatient.

Ophelia was bent over her laptop, sitting on the edge of the office chair she'd come to think of as hers, slowly picking through the emails that had piled up in her inbox overnight. Frankie was sitting at the desk next to her— furiously typing— occasionally pausing to sigh deeply or run her fingers through her shiny hair. The two of them had been working next to each other over the last week in comfortable, amicable silence, only speaking when the project required or when Frankie would run out to get coffee. She always asked if Ophelia wanted anything, and she always declined, opting for the thick, bitter sludge that the construction team made each morning.

She was in the middle of reading through a newsletter from her firm when her phone buzzed angrily against her desk, flashing her sister's name. Ophelia silenced the call, even as the motion twisted a knot of guilt in her gut, and continued reading. But not even two minutes later her phone buzzed again and she could not halt the swarm of horrific scenarios and images that plagued her brain as she let out a breath and picked up her phone, pressing accept and bringing it to her ear.

"What's up, Jules, I'm at work," she said, turning toward the wall and lowering her voice to a whisper.

"I have a date tonight and I need you to help me pick a dress, I sent you pictures like an hour ago," her sister said, sounding frantic, much like how she sounded in those horrific scenarios that had assaulted Ophelia's head, but for something far more banal and not at all urgent.

She let out a sigh, shaking her head as she reached up to rub at the overworked space between her brows. Maybe she needed glasses, she hadn't been to the optometrist in years, that was just what she needed in her middle age, a pair of fucking reading glasses.

"Juliet, I told you, I'm at work, can I look later?"

"Just look now, it'll take literally one second," Juliet pleaded. "I need this date to go well, it's with this guy from my Virginia Woolf class, he's—" her sister kept babbling, but Ophelia's attention snapped up as the door to the portable squeaked open and Joel's wide form leaned inside, those warm, inquisitive eyes finding hers and staying there as he mouthed, do you have a second?

Ophelia held up her finger as Juliet kept stammering on.

Joel nodded and stepped inside to lean back against the wall, those big, tan arms folding over his broad chest.

She'd been avoiding him all week.

Or trying to at least.

She didn't like the way he made her feel— or perhaps she liked the way he made her feel a little too much. Something about the size of him, the thick, masculine energy that radiated from his big form, made her feel small, feminine in a way she hadn't in ages. Feminine despite her boyish outfits and her frizzy hair and her unshaven legs that she hadn't bothered with in months.

Not that being unshaven couldn't be feminine, that was misogynistic and gross, some unfair bullshit standard pushed onto society by the patriarchy, but even knowing that didn't stop Ophelia from feeling embarrassed about it.

"Okay, okay," she interrupted her sister's spiel, which had devolved into some rambling form of literary analysis about To the Lighthouse. "I'll look right now, alright?"

"Thank you," Juliet sighed, "I'll fill you in on the date later, probably tomorrow if it goes the way I'm hoping," she said, her voice lilting into something impish.

"Right, bye Jules," she said, wishing she was somewhere else so she could remind her sister to bring condoms this time.

Ophelia hung up, then navigated over to her messages, pulling up the photos Juliet had sent her, swiping back and forth between the two mirror pictures she'd taken— one was a short, yellow sundress that hugged her curves, the other was a long, flowy blue dress that made her look washed out.

The yellow one, Ophelia typed out, and remember condoms this time please.

Ophelia set her phone face down on the desk, then tried to gather as much oxygen into her lungs as she could before she glanced up at Joel, who was still staring at her, who hadn't stopped since he walked into the building.

"Sorry, what did you need?" she asked, trying to peel her gaze away from the thick, dark hair that covered his forearms.

"No worries," Joel shook his head, pushing off from the wall, his arms dropping to his sides, "Just wanted you to look over the foundation specs really quick."

She nodded, standing up on shaky legs— she really needed to start implementing stretches between bouts of sitting at her desk for hours— and walking to meet him on the other side of the portable, where he pulled open the door and held it for her, his giant body blocking nearly half the exit.

She grabbed a hard hat and a vest from the hamper, placing the hat on her head and shrugging on the vest before she went to squeeze past him.

Her heart picked up to race in her chest, her tummy somersaulted without her permission as her shoulder brushed against his firm torso. Her hair felt like it was standing on end, like electricity was humming through her veins as she swallowed some choked sound that wanted to crawl up her throat.

Everything about this was so infuriatingly ridiculous.

She didn't know why she was so affected by him when he was most definitely apathetic toward her existence at best. Not that it mattered, she was married.

Married.

She twisted her wedding band around her finger as she stepped off the ramp and Joel came to walk beside her, slowing down his giant strides to match her pace.

"Everything okay?" he asked softly, and Ophelia's eyes snapped up to his face to find him appraising her yet again, like she was an enigma and not just some woman he was stuck working with for the next several years.

"Everything is fine," she answered automatically, then, "why?"

Joel shrugged, a slow motion of those big shoulders. "Seemed stressed on the phone."

"Oh," Ophelia waved her hand dismissively, "it was just my little sister, she's going on a date, needed help picking a dress," she said, regret immediately blooming in her chest at divulging so much unnecessary information.

He nodded, "How much younger?"

"Nine years."

Joel whistled, then said, "I gotta little brother, only five years apart though."

She made a low sound of acknowledgement in the back of her throat because she didn't know what else to say to that. She didn't want to make small talk with this man, it was hard enough just being near him without having to listen to his deep, twanging voice, without being forced to learn anything about him that might make whatever it was that buzzed between them worse.

When they reached the work bench, Joel looped around the other side, so they were across from each other, Ophelia staring down at the dimensions, Joel staring at her.

"Again, got them straight from your blueprint, so should be good, but still wanted you to double check," he said, and she saw him— out of her peripheral— reach up and scratch the back of his thick, tanned neck.

She nodded, then leaned over to get a closer look— definitely needed to make that optometrist appointment— but her hard hat was too big, jostling against her skull, falling down over her eyes when she leaned forward.

"Goddammit," she muttered, pushing it back, just for the thing to fall right back into its previous position over her eyes, the cold plastic resting against the bridge of her nose.

Joel chuckled, and the rumbling sound made her head snap up, where she glared at him from under the cover of that stupid hat.

"Here," he said, quieting his laughter even though his lips were still twisted into a smirk as he leaned over the work bench and plucked the hard hat from her head. "There's a knob in here that adjusts the size of it," he said, cranking said knob with his thumb a couple times, while one of his big hands held the bowl of the hat comfortably in his palm. The image made her tummy cramp up, but she couldn't look away.

He leaned over again, those brown eyes locked on hers as he placed the hat back on her head, the motion causing a thick wave of that woody, masculine scent to rush through her nose, a lick of heat whipping through her pelvis in response.

She hadn't felt that in...

Too long.

"There, that's better," he said, his head tilting slightly to the side, the corners of his lips inching up into a smile.

She didn't even have to register the prickly heat on her cheeks to know she was blushing; she could feel it everywhere.

She forced her eyes back down to the rendering while heat continued to swirl in her belly.

"Looks good," she said, after forcing herself to check the dimensions three times over, just to account for the distracting pressure in her pelvis and him— standing too close and smelling too tempting.

Joel nodded, "I'll get 'em started after lunch."

Ophelia nodded, about to turn around and force herself away when his voice stopped her again.

"You gonna work through lunch again?" He called out.

She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

"Just—" Joel reached up to rub the back of his neck, "I've noticed that you stay in the trailer on your laptop."

She still didn't know what to say, just stood there, staring at him.

He noticed... noticed something that trite. About her?

"I— I don't normally eat lunch, or— have time, I guess," she heard herself stammer, tugging at her bottom lip with her teeth.

She watched the corners of his lips twitch downward.

"Should eat somethin'," he said, then coughed, reaching up to scratch his chest, the motion tugging down the collar of his shirt for a moment, exposing more tan skin, dark hair.

The heat in her lower belly rolled again.

"I'll be fine, I— I have a ton of emails to get through," she breathed out, finally forcing herself to turn around and walk back toward the portables, while the back of her head burned, like he was still staring at her.

__________

Ophelia buried herself back under the forty-five unanswered emails that were still sitting in her inbox to try to distract herself from that interaction, as the heat in her pelvis sat unquenched, while her brain replayed every second of it against her will.

It wasn't fair that something as small as the smell of him, the twang of his accent, the roll of his muscles beneath his t-shirt turned her on more than her naked husband.

It wasn't fair and it was wrong— horrible, despicable, cruel even.

They were just going through a dry spell— her and Scott.

A two year long dry spell.

That was mostly her fault and she knew it.

For a while Scott had still tried to initiate sex, still tried to do those embarrassing things that she liked, but it always felt manufactured, and it was so hard to get into it when he kept asking her if he was doing it right over and over again. And so, at some point they stopped— she made excuses about being too tired, he stopped coming to bed before midnight, and now they were two years into an almost sexless marriage.

She just needed to try again.

Then perhaps this stupid infatuation would evaporate.

Ophelia exhaled sharply, reaching up to rub at that tired space between her brows again before she pushed herself to her feet.

There was a set of portable toilets on the edge of the job site, but she wasn't keen on sharing a porta potty with over a dozen men, so she'd taken to walking over to a little café on the corner of 4th when she needed to use the restroom.

She texted Juliet on the way there and the way back, assuring her that the yellow dress was in fact the better choice.

The sun was bright and warm against her face, such a stark contrast to the fog that blanketed the avenues back home— only six miles west. It didn't seem fair that sunshine was a commodity one could buy. The west side of the city was significantly cheaper, and despite being paid well, she still couldn't afford a house on the sunny east side on her own salary. If Scott had a job, perhaps. Though she doubted that was going to happen anytime soon. He was still too caught up with his latest project, still too comfortable letting his parents pay his half of their rent.

She could never imagine doing that— asking her parents to pay for her food and her rent, her phone bill and her car insurance. Especially not at thirty. Scott never seemed to have an issue taking their handouts, though. She supposed that was a side effect of growing up rich, a privilege she would never quite understand.

On bad days that discrepancy— the mountains of wealth that stood between her own family and Scott's— made her angry, annoyed, made her feel misunderstood, a little alone. On especially bad days it made her feel resentful. Most days, though, it was just another thing they didn't have in common, along with her shameful sexual preferences and sleeping habits, their conflicting  opinions on arrival times and mismatched education levels.

There were more things they didn't have in common than things they did— Ophelia loved olives, Scott wouldn't eat anything that had them in it even if he could easily pick them out; Scott thought AI was the future, AI scared the shit out of Ophelia; she liked romance movies, he liked action; Ophelia could cook— had been since she was old enough to reach the stove— Scott didn't even know how to make pasta.

Scott wanted kids.

Ophelia didn't.

At least... not anymore.

Most of those things were banal though, trivial. Except for the kids. But she was choosing to ignore that for as long as she could, until her ovaries shriveled up and died if she had to.

She walked back up the rickety ramp and pulled open the portable door, halfway to her desk before she noticed the brown paper bag sitting there next to her purse.

Frankie was back from wherever she'd gone for lunch, face buried in her laptop, clicking away again.

"What's this?" Ophelia asked, stepping up to her desk and peeking inside the mystery bag. There was something hefty inside, wrapped in brown parchment paper.

"Hmm?" Frankie's gaze slowly drifted up from her laptop, then down to the bag Ophelia was holding. "Oh, Joel dropped that off for you, a sandwich I think."

She felt her stomach clench, while her heart dropped to meet it, before lurching back up into her chest to flutter there against her ribs.

He bought her food?

Why? Why, why did he insist on looking like that and smelling like that and buying her food and making her coffee when she just needed him to leave her alone so she could stop thinking about him and fantasizing about him because it was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Still, she could not stop herself from whirling around and walking right back outside, down that ramp and over toward the mess of construction workers, her eyes flitting around the job site, looking for him.

She didn't know what she wanted to do— yell at him, for doing something nice for her when she just needed him to stop, thank him maybe, just stare at him again.

Her eyes found his wide form over by the Swinerton trucks, lugging out a stack of two by fours, the muscles in his arms pushing the sleeves of his t-shirt to the brink— it looked like the material was a second away from snapping apart. The sun glistened off the sweat that covered the thick, tan column of his neck, and the way his shirt clung to his broad back made whatever heat had dissolved during her time in the trailer whip back through her pelvis with a vengeance.

She couldn't go over there, not to yell at him or to thank him, because the vision of him was too dangerous, too tempting, causing far too much heat to roll through her lower belly. Instead, she fruitlessly tried to push it down, while she turned back around and marched straight into the portable again.

__________

For an entire hour she'd sat at her desk and tried to focus while that sandwich taunted her.

Eventually she'd given in and yanked the bag toward her, unwrapped the thing (turkey and provolone, which was her favorite, how could he possibly know that was her favorite?) and devoured it.

She hadn't realized how hungry she was, but the sandwich could not satiate that rolling heat in her lower belly, which burned brighter each time her mind replayed those images of him lugging lumber out of the truck.

She hated the way her mind pieced those images together with fabricated ones that involved him yanking her toward him, or bending her over her desk, or caging her against the side of his truck.

Big arms, wide chest, all man, so much man.

She hated that she liked that, hated what it did to her body. It was archaic, some animal part of her brain that she should have been more removed from considering her age and her political affiliation and the charity organizations she chose to donate to. Why did she want a big, manly man— why did she want to be thrown around and told what to do in bed? Was it all some gross form of internalized misogyny? Or... or was it what she'd told Scott when she first tried to get him to take control in the bedroom. A release of tension, relinquishing control— she was always in control, always in charge— to someone you trust. Was it the desire to be taken care of...

For once in her life.

She banished those thoughts even as they continued to worm around in her brain.

Because they were dangerous thoughts, thoughts someone as old and as married as her could not afford to act on.

__________

Ophelia closed her eyes tight, until her vision faded to static, gritting her teeth while Scott huffed above her, drilling into her, his sandy hair plastered to his forehead.

It had seemed like a good idea when she got home... to try, while that simmering heat was still swirling in her lower belly. But that heat was snuffed out just as soon as he pushed into her without any build up, unceremoniously as always, silent and predictable.

She couldn't get that heat to spark again, unless she thought about him, but she refused to do that while her husband was inside of her, that felt like an even greater form of betrayal than simply disassociating.

Which she was.

She still needed to make dinner, and clean the living room, needed to check in with her mother, see if the plumber she'd recommended had worked out, she needed to change the bedsheets today. Scott never made the bed when he got up in the morning, no matter how many times she had asked him to. She'd given up at some point last year, opting to make it when she got home from work even though it seemed like a waste of time to do so only a couple hours before she would crawl into it.

She really needed to come.

Not that sex would get her there, it never had. That probably wasn't Scott's fault, was most likely some personal defect of hers. She could climax on her own, with the vibrator she hadn't charged in months and some carefully crafted scenarios to slip into.

Sex still felt good, so she supposed it didn't matter much if she came.

Or at least it used to feel good... right?

She lolled her head over, opened her eyes to stare up at Scott's twisted features while he continued ramming into her— a slow, rhythmic pace that was starting to make the walls of her entrance burn.

"Do you think," she breathed out, felt heat crawl up the column of her neck before she'd even uttered her inquiry, "do you think we could switch it up a bit?"

Scott's brows furled together, "you wanna go on top?" he asked, his voice bouncing with each thrust.

"No," Ophelia shook her head, "I mean, maybe you could tell me what to do— or talk to me or something."

"Like say what?" he asked, his thrusts slowing down a bit, blue eyes bouncing over her face.

She chewed on her bottom lip, embarrassment cloying her gut.

"I don't know— just talk to me— and you could grab my neck or something."

She felt so stupid asking for any of the things she wanted, because it was clear they were things Scott didn't want, didn't know how to do.

"Okay..." he breathed out, voice lilting with a bit of confusion as he let go of her waist with his right hand, bringing it up to her neck, gently wrapping it around that column without applying any pressure.

"Like that?" he asked, starting to thrust again.

"Maybe a little harder?"

He increased the pressure of his thrusts but did nothing with his hand.

"No, I meant your hand," Ophelia grunted, grimacing as the friction continued to burn through her walls.

"Oh, got it, sorry," Scott huffed, slowing his thrusts back down and applying pressure to her windpipe, rather than the sides of her neck.

Ophelia choked, reached up to tap the back of his hand, which he immediately removed.

"That— does it feel good?" he asked, exuding zero confidence in his question.

She nodded, because she was unwilling to tell him the truth.

Which was that if she didn't have a thousand things left to do tonight, she would have been bored enough to fall asleep.

"What else do you want me to say?" he asked, his damp forehead falling against hers for a moment before he picked it back up.

She didn't want him to have to ask, that was the whole point. She needed him to take charge, control this one facet of their lives.

But he couldn't. Scott didn't operate like that. Ever since he was a child, he'd had his parents and his nannies and his friends and her taking care of him, guiding him. Scott was stable— the stability she had always craved— but his foundation was built by other people, upheld by his rich parents and his unchanging friend group and his marriage.

"Nothing," Ophelia shook her head, that embarrassment melting away as disappointment carved its spiny fingers through her gut. "If you finish, I'll finish."

Scott nodded, slipping back into that familiar silence as he pumped into her a couple more times, coming with a grunt and jolt of his cock, and Ophelia contracted the muscles in her pelvic floor, putting on a moan, letting her eyes flutter shut.

She had been doing that for too long— faking it— since the inception of their relationship. And maybe she shouldn't have started that facade in the first place, but now, nearly ten years later, the habit was too ingrained to break. How would she ever explain to him— that in the decade they'd been together she'd never come.

That was more than embarrassing, it was shameful.

Scott pulled out of her, and Ophelia grimaced as she felt his come leak down her thigh and onto the sheet beneath her.

"Gotta get back to work, graphics guy fucked up again," Scott said, leaning down to place a chaste kiss on her lips before tugging on his discarded boxers and padding out of the room, leaving Ophelia there, staring at the ceiling, leaking his spend.

She let out a long, huffing sigh, then pushed herself to her feet.

She cleaned up in the bathroom, then changed the sheets, peering over her shoulder when she plugged her vibrator in to charge. She made dinner and ate alone at the table while Scott continued to work on the couch, shoveling food into his mouth between bouts of typing. She showered. She called her mother. She checked in on Juliet's date.

Then Ophelia went to bed, alone, while that ever-present water lapped forebodingly at her neck.

Empty inside, but forevermore surrounded by the tide.

Chapter Text

"In few, Ophelia,

Do not believe his vows."

"Scott!" Ophelia shouted, pounding on the wall that separated the bathroom from their bedroom. "Wake up, we have to be at the park in thirty minutes."

She heard her husband groan through the wall and rolled her eyes as she grabbed a tube of sunscreen from the medicine cabinet and dropped it in the tote bag that was hanging off her shoulder.

The forecast called for clear skies, a high of seventy-three— such a rare occurrence during San Francisco's freezing summer that their friends had been planning this picnic since last weekend, when it had still been oppressively foggy, so windy that at times it felt like their house was shaking.

Her phone pinged in her bag as she was scurrying out of the bathroom and back into the kitchen, where she'd been in the middle of packing an ice chest when she remembered the sunscreen and had stopped what she was doing to grab it before she forgot. She let out a heavy sigh and pulled out her phone— where multiple texts from the Red Devils group chat were piling up on her screen.

It had been their high school mascot— the Red Devils— at the prestigious private school Scott and all his friends had attended, and fifteen years later, they still referred to themselves as red devils, in their group chat, in their party invites, in their conversations. It was embarrassing to everyone but them. Ophelia had been added to the group chat a couple months after her and Scott had started dating. They called her their red devil adoptee.

She hated it, but she would never dare tell them that.

Ophelia is grabbing sunscreen I'm sure— one text read, from Ashley.

Oh, Ophelia can you also make sure to bring that pasta salad you always make for the Fourth of July party? I've been craving it and I don't think I can wait until next month for a fix— also from Ashley.

I fucking love that pasta salad— from Josh.

Who is grabbing beers? — from Matt.

Ophelia typed out one long message that she hoped would halt any further questions.

I have sunscreen. I just finished prepping the pasta salad right now. I have beers and seltzers. I'm bringing disposable plates and silverware and a big blanket. I'll be on the lawn in front of the Conservatory at 1:30pm.

Queen— came a message from Lauren almost immediately after she sent hers.

She dropped her phone back into her bag then put the lid on the big tub of pasta salad, hoisting it up and stuffing it into the ice chest along with a case of IPAs and a pack of hard seltzers.

"Scott!" she called out again, "we're going to be late if you don't get up!"

Another groan, and then the muffled sound of him kicking the duvet off and finally getting out of bed.

The bedroom door squeaked open and Scott shuffled out, his hair in chaotic disarray, his eyes narrow slits, his pale, hairless chest gleaming with sweat.

"It's so hot, I'm so hungry," he mumbled, tugging open the fridge and leaning down to peer inside. "I'm fucking tired too, do we have to go?"

They're your friends, Ophelia wanted to shout at him, but she didn't, she swallowed the urge and took a deep clarifying breath, even as bitter annoyance continued to bounce around in her gut.

"We've had this planned for a week, we have to go. I spent all morning packing."

Scott didn't say anything, just pulled out a container of leftover chicken and popped open the lid, kicking the fridge door shut with his foot as he began eating with his fingers. Ophelia pushed down the urge to gag as she watched him smack his lips, grease coating his fingers, a piece of rogue chicken falling from his hand and smearing down his bare chest until it plopped sadly onto the hardwood.

Disgusting.

She wondered if there existed a man in the world attractive enough to not revolt her if he ate with his fingers, bare-chested and half-asleep.

Her mind quickly constructed an image of Joel doing just that— big, wide, hairy torso bare, curly hair mused, warm eyes under heavy lids, giant, deft hands tearing pieces of chicken off the bone and bringing them to that plush mouth.

Unexpected heat rolled through her pelvis at the vision and she quickly shook it away.

She had two weeks of working with him under her belt and about two-hundred and six weeks left to go. She didn't know how she was going to get through this project without combusting. As much as she tried to avoid him, it was impossible. He was in charge of the construction team; she was in charge of making sure the construction team followed their blueprints. Besides her own team, he was the one she had to work with the closest. It was torture. Every day he was there— wide and tall and tan and beautiful, hauling timber out of their trucks, the strong, firm muscles in his back and arms rolling and bulging; smelling woody and musky and tempting; staring at her and standing too close and asking too many personal questions. Part of her wanted to complain, try to get him replaced with some other foreman, someone ugly and less distracting, but that would only be a disservice to the project, he was an excellent foreman, certainly the best she'd ever worked with, the Canyon deserved that.

She just needed to learn how to control her thoughts, all her ridiculous fantasies.

"Are you going to shower?" Ophelia asked, trying not to sound too pushy as she closed the ice chest lid and slid the heavy tote off her shoulder and onto the top of it.

"I need coffee first," Scott muttered through a mouthful of chicken.

Her lip curled up in disgust on its own accord.

"We don't have very much time, traffic is going to be heavy, it's a warm Saturday in June, everyone is going to be at the park."

If only he hadn't slept past noon, then maybe he would have had time for coffee and a shower, and a breakfast that didn't consist of two-day old chicken.

"I need coffee, Effy, I didn't get to bed until four-thirty last night," he said, plopping the container of chicken— which was mostly bones by that point— onto the counter and shuffling over to the coffee maker, where he poured the remainder of the pot into a mug.

She knew he hadn't gotten to bed until four-thirty, because his shuffling had immediately woken her up.

She sighed, instead of saying anything, instead of mentioning that even though he'd gone to bed at four-thirty, he'd still gotten a full eight hours of sleep, which was about three more than she'd gotten. She tossed the chicken scraps into the compost, rinsed the container out and put it in the dishwasher, waited for Scott to gulp down his coffee before she grabbed the mug he abandoned on the counter and loaded that in as well.

"Gonna shower," he called out as he shuffled back down the hall.

"Make it quick, please, we need to leave here in fifteen minutes," she called out, trying to bury the anxiety that wanted to consume her gut at the prospect of being late.

"Got it," he called back, before shutting the door, the sound of the water only easing her nerves marginally.

She spent the next fifteen minutes pacing, double-checking that she had everything, walking down the hall and urging Scott to hurry up from the other side of the door, triple-checking everything. By the time Scott was finally out and dressed they only had ten minutes to get there and find parking, which could take ten minutes alone.

"Can you text the group chat and tell them we're going to be a little late?" Ophelia asked as she cranked the ignition, pulling out of their driveway and speeding in the direction of the park, that anxiety now a heavy, sloshing weight in her core, only amplified by the grating sound of ABC which immediately began crooning through the speakers.

"It'll be fine, Ashley and Josh are always late," Scott said, leaning back in the passenger's seat and scrolling mindlessly on his phone.

"But I told them we'd be there at one-thirty, you're already on your phone, just please text them."

"Fine," Scott sighed, sending a text— the screen on the dashboard flashing the notification just as Ophelia cranked the volume knob down to zero.

"God, I hate that fucking song," she muttered, turning onto Lincoln and roaring toward 25th Avenue.

"What song?" Scott asked.

"ABC, haven't you noticed that every time my phone connects to the Bluetooth it plays?"

Scott shook his head.

"Should just delete it from your library if you hate it so much."

"I keep meaning to, but every time I park, I completely forget."

In another world, perhaps, Scott would take her phone and delete that dreaded song for her. But in this world, he just nodded knowingly, then turned his head to gaze out the window as Ophelia turned into the park.

It was as crowded as she'd expected, it seemed like the entire city was at the park enjoying the rare sunshine that afternoon, with cars squeezed bumper to bumper along the sidewalk, the grass was dotted with blankets— families having picnics and college kids playing frisbee and beer pong on folding tables, children racing up and down the rows of orange and red flowers, their parents trailing behind them.

Anxiety squeezed her gut, surged up all acidic into her throat.

"I feel like we're going to have to park all the way on the other side of the pond," Ophelia mumbled, her eyes darting around as she drove slowly down JFK, looking for a spot to squeeze into while she gnawed on her lower lip.

"What about right there?" Scott asked, pointing to an empty spot along a red curb.

"It's red, Scott," she huffed, sitting up straighter in her seat, trying to push down the rush of cortisol that had erupted in her gut at the possibility of this hellish search being over.

They circled the conservatory for ten minutes before a Civic whipped out of a spot and Ophelia quickly indicated she was taking it, waiting for the cars behind her to loop around before she backed into it, letting out a deep sigh as she turned the engine off.

"That wasn't so bad," Scott said, and she buried the urge to shoot him a glare.

"Speak for yourself," she muttered, getting out, the two of them looped around the back of the Prius and popped open the trunk.

She grabbed her tote and the blanket, then motioned to the ice chest, but when she glanced over at Scott, he was on his phone again.

"Can you get the ice chest, please?" she snapped, unable to swallow the harsh sound this time "my hands are full."

"Oh yeah, sorry," he said, shoving his phone in his pocket and hauling it out, his arms trembling under the weight of it.

She hated how unattractive she found that, hated that she'd snapped at him, hated that she'd had to ask him to carry it for her.

She closed the trunk then began walking through the grass, Scott trailing behind her, huffing as he lugged the ice chest with him. She spotted their group over toward the right of the field, between two large circles of yellow and orange flowers. They were all sitting on the grass, waiting for her, surrounded by scattered bags of chips and crackers.

"I'm sorry we're late," she called out as they approached, "parking was a nightmare."

She could have added that Scott was more the reason they were late than the parking but decided to omit that information, seeing as these people would certainly side with him over her.

"No worries, babe, thanks for bringing everything!" Ashley said, pushing herself up and bouncing over to them, her blond hair glistening in the sun, half her face obscured by a giant pair of Prada sunglasses.

She pulled Ophelia into a crushing hug, smelling like something expensive and floral, then beamed as she took the blanket from her hands.

"Shoo," she breathed out as she spun back around, "move so I can spread this blanket out."

Lauren, Josh, and Matt all groaned, but obliged, standing there in a disjointed circle as Ashley spread out the blanket, immediately sitting back down before Ophelia was even able to shrug the tote off her shoulder.

"Fuck, this is heavy," Scott groaned, leaning over and dropping the ice chest at the edge of the blanket.

They all exchanged hellos and hugs, then Ophelia sat down and watched them all dig through her ice chest like starving children— starving children masquerading as thirty-three-year-olds with trust funds and cushy tech jobs.

She passed the tube of sunscreen around the circle before she applied some herself, even though she was certainly the one most susceptible to skin cancer, with her pale skin and red hair and freckles— some of which she thought probably already held warning signs of melanoma.

"How's MyPage coming along, Scotty?" Ashley asked, while rubbing sunblock onto her tan arms.

"Still waiting for funding. I have another meeting with some potential investors my dad knows next week, should be promising," Scott said, leaning back on his hands and stretching his legs out across the blanket, so his feet were situated between Lauren and Matt.

"I always knew you'd be an entrepreneur, ever since you started selling cigarettes to the public-school kids in tenth grade," Lauren chimed, with a small smile, brushing her wavy, brown hair back behind her ear.

Ophelia grabbed her sunglasses from her tote so she could roll her eyes behind their cover.

She wanted to tell Lauren that Scott wasn't an entrepreneur, he was just a man with an idea and a never-ending stipend of money from mommy and daddy.

"Yeah, the regular nine-to-five just isn't for me," Scott gloated, pushing himself into a straighter sitting position with his hands, then reaching over to grab a beer from the ice chest.

"I'm proud of you," Ashley cooed, reaching over to place her hand on Scott's shoulder.

And maybe that should have annoyed Ophelia, especially considering the shared past Scott had with certain members of his friend group, but it didn't. She couldn't find the will to care, even as Ashley rubbed his arm, flashing him a smile that verged on flirty.

Scott had slept with Ashley in high school, he'd also slept with Lauren, the two girls had slept with Matt and Josh at some point before they all graduated as well. Their friend group was incestuous and codependent and even though Ophelia had been a part of it for the past decade, it still felt a lot like she was sitting on the outside, peering in through a foggy window, always there but never quite assimilated. They talked about high school a lot, laughed at shared memories she was not a part of, engaged in vague, inside jokes that they never let her in on.

But it was fine.

It was stable.

"We still doing the Fourth at your parent's house, Scotty?" Matt asked, slurping at his beer, tugging out fistfuls of grass with his free hand.

"Yeah, they'll be up in Tahoe."

"We should have a rager this year," Josh chimed in, pushing his floppy hair out of his face. "I feel like we haven't had a proper rager in years."

Probably because they were all approaching thirty-five...

Sometimes Ophelia felt decades older than Scott and his friends, even though she was three years younger than them. It felt like they hadn't been required to grow up as fast as she had. Like a part of them was still stuck in their sixty-two thousand dollar a year private high school. Another side effect of growing up rich, she supposed.

"Let's make a guest list," Ashley said, clapping her hands, "we can invite all the usual suspects, and then maybe Marissa and that group, Bobby too."

"I fucking hate Bobby," Josh scoffed.

"He ruined my parent's rug— that one they imported from Turkey— remember? During that party we threw on Memorial Day back in eleventh grade," Scott added, his voice devolving into an exasperated babble. "They were so pissed. It was one of a kind."

"Well, that was like twelve years ago," Lauren shrugged.

Exactly, so why were they still talking about any of this...

"Maybe he's different now," she added.

"Doubt it," Matt muttered, "I heard from Catherine that he's on heroin."

"Isn't Catherine on heroin?" Ashley asked, with a tilt of her head.

"Yeah, exactly that's how she knows," Matt sighed, like the fact that his friends couldn't make that connection themselves exhausted him.

"Ophelia, what about you," Ashley asked suddenly, "would you want to invite anyone?"

She knew Ashley was just being nice, just being cordial, because she should know more than anyone that Ophelia didn't have any friends outside of this group.

Her bridal party had consisted of Juliet, Ashley, and Lauren. That was it. And when Ashley had asked if she had any other friends, anyone else who could fill out the bride's side so that there would be an equal number of bridesmaids and groomsmen, Ophelia had cried.

She had cried a lot during their wedding planning, more than she had in years. She thought it was just from the stress, the stupid diet she'd adopted to fit into her dress. But then the day of the wedding had come, and while she was supposed to be getting her makeup done, she'd locked herself in the bathroom and bawled.

When Juliet and Ashley broke into the room, she told them she was just nervous, pre-ceremony jitters.

She hadn't told anyone the truth, didn't even want to admit the truth to herself, had spent years trying to bury it, swallow it whole like a too big, too bitter pill.

"No one I can think of," Ophelia said, with a polite smile, then she leaned over, reaching around Scott to grab a hard seltzer from the ice chest, dissolving into the background once more as the group continued chatting.

__________

Joel wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, loading an ice chest, a blanket, and a single folding chair into the back of his truck while the rare summer sun beat down oppressively on the top of his head.

It had only taken three years in sunny California for him to lose his tolerance for the heat. It would be in the low to mid-nineties back in Austin by now, and here he was, sweating through his t-shirt as the forecast peaked at a mild seventy-three.

Something about the sun out here felt hotter, more unfiltered, but maybe that was just because he didn't see it that often anymore.

He walked back into his house, where it was just as hot. These Sunset homes had been built back in the thirties, before central air conditioning, when the climate in the Bay Area was even more mild, and since then, most if not all of them had not been renovated to include AC. That was fine, most of the time, at least until the annual heat wave swept through the city. Last year, in late October, it had gotten up to ninety-three, inside his house. Sarah was so miserable that he'd booked them a hotel downtown for the weekend. All the apartments and hotels downtown were built with air conditioning now, one of the lesser-known forms of class distinction in San Francisco.

His daughter was sitting on the couch in the living room, her curly hair swept back into a ponytail, her eyes glued to that stupid phone he was starting to regret buying for her.

"Ready for that tea party, kiddo?" he asked, the sun baking his back through the big bay window behind him.

"It's not a tea party, dad," Sarah scoffed, her eyes lifting from her phone screen, "that's for kids. It's high tea."

Joel swallowed a chuckle, but felt his lips quirk as his daughter stood up and shoved her phone into her back pocket. "Excuse me, miss high tea, didn't know we were inviting the queen of England."

Sarah huffed, but he didn't miss the small smile that tugged at her lips as she brushed past him on her way to the front door.

Joel glanced back at her in the rear-view mirror as soon as they were in his truck, Sarah in the back seat, on her phone yet again.

"We meetin' Kelsey and her mom at the park or do I need to pick them up?" He asked as he backed out of his driveway, reaching up to turn down the volume on the classic rock station his radio was tuned to.

"I forgot to tell you, Kelsey's mom can't come, we have to pick Kelsey up, she's gonna sleep over tonight," Sarah said, without looking up from her screen.

"Would'a been nice to know that a little earlier," Joel said, even as a wave of relief rushed through his core. It's not that he didn't like Kelsey's mom— Lizzie— she was nice and she helped with school drop offs and soccer practice pick-ups, but her relentless flirting made him uncomfortable. Perhaps it would have been easy, convenient if he found Lizzie attractive, but he did not. She was pretty— blonde and fit, with a straight, white smile and broad hips— but her incessant gossiping was grating, and her lack of confidence, her unwavering need to inject Botox into her skin and badger Joel with questions about her appearance diminished her appeal.

"Sorry," Sarah exhaled, "she just told me this morning."

"It's alright, kiddo," Joel said, rolling down his window as he headed toward Kelsey's house. "Glad you and Kelsey get to have a tea party," he said, smirking in the rear-view mirror as his daughter groaned.

Sarah and her friend prattled away in the back of his truck as he drove toward Sip Tea Room to pick up their to-go tea party. They were both newly obsessed with some musician kid named Harry Styles. All Joel knew about him was that he was British— hence this new infatuation with tea parties and Union Jacks— and he wore sparkly little outfits, the glossy photos of him singing on stage in those getups covered his daughter's walls. He tried introducing Sarah to the Beatles and the Stones, real English bands, but she'd just rolled her eyes and continued playing some song about grapefruits or grape juice.

"Did you see the videos from the show last night?" Kelsey asked, bouncing a bit in her seat.

"With the sparkly pink vest?" Sarah chimed.

The two girls squealed.

He was out of his element.

It was getting harder to understand his daughter's mind, her obsessions as she creeped closer and closer to teenagehood. He tried. He'd queued up Harry Styles's newest album last week when Sarah was at a soccer team slumber party at Kelsey's house, sitting on the couch, nursing a beer and trying to understand the fixation, but he just couldn't get into it. It was too poppy, too sparkly. It had been so much easier when she was little, when she was obsessed with princesses and going to the zoo.

It all would've been easier if she had a woman in her life, but Joel buried that thought, that thought never did him any good, just made his gut slosh with guilt, made his heart hammer with nerves.

Not that he was doing anything to try to bring a woman into their lives. He hadn't gone on a date in years, not since moving to California. It was hard, with work and all Sarah's activities, to even find any time to go on a date. Plus, he didn't like the apps, didn't really understand them, only ever used his cellphone for work and to check in on Sarah when she was out of the house or to coordinate drop offs and pick-ups with Lizzie and Sarah's soccer coach.

Finding a woman who was not only attractive to him, but also willing to date a single dad was nearly impossible anyway, not in this city, which had more dogs than kids.

It didn't help that the only woman he'd found himself entranced by over the last several years was married— that big, shiny rock on her left hand constantly taunted him, though it did not completely deter him.

Because he'd been married once too, and some marriages did not last forever.

But that was a horrible thing, a despicable, vile thing to think about someone else's marriage, someone's marriage that he knew absolutely nothing about. She was probably happy, she'd probably married the love of her life, some great, rich guy from Marin or something, someone with a cushy office job and a bulky 401k. They probably owned their house, went out to dinner at those fancy Michelin star restaurants downtown. He bet that they lived in Pacific Heights, or Forest Knolls, somewhere real nice, somewhere with central air conditioning.

He couldn't give her any of that, so it was best that he found a new infatuation. But fuck that was hard, when she was the first woman to capture his attention in so long, he thought she might just be the most beautiful, the most interesting woman he'd ever met. There was something about her, something mysterious and hidden that he desperately wanted to unveil. She carried herself with a palpable confidence, even when she was being unnecessarily humble, she still commanded the room. It was devastatingly attractive. Her hips were full and lush; they dipped into a waist he itched to place his hands on each time she walked onto the job site. He caught himself looking for her bright, red hair even when he wasn't on the job site. Natural redheads were rare, and on the off chance that he saw one at the grocery store or at the park or walking down Sunset Avenue, his head darted over, eyes scanning the woman's face to see if it was her. It never was.

He was losing it.

Joel picked up the to-go tea party from Sip, paying an exorbitant amount of money for some little sandwiches, cakes and that dinky cardboard tea tower. He loaded it all into the ice chest in his trunk, then drove over to the Conservatory of Flowers, circling the place three times before he found a spot big enough for his truck.

The whole time Sarah and Kelsey kept chirping away about that Harry boy.

He missed when she would talk that excitedly about giraffes rather than pop stars.

He pushed down the ache in his chest, gathering everything from the trunk— the chair slung over his shoulder, the ice chest in his hands, the blanket folded on top— and began walking with the girls through the cluttered grass.

He should have brought a couple beers for himself, he thought as he set up the blanket in an empty spot on the grass toward the right side of the field, next to a long strip of red and orange flowers, he certainly didn't want the tea that he'd prepared and poured into a large thermos earlier that afternoon for the girls.

Sarah and Kelsey set up the little expensive sandwiches and cakes on the little expensive cardboard tea tower, taking pictures on their phones of the arrangement, then asking Joel to take pictures of them before they actually began eating.

Joel sat about a foot away, in his chair, wishing he had a beer as his gaze slowly swept over the crowds of college kids and families surrounding them. He tried not to, but as always, his eyes scanned the myriads of people for that bright, red hair.

And he found it.

Only about thirty feet away, sitting with her back to him in a small circle of people, and even though she wasn't facing him, Joel knew it was her, could tell by the distinct wave in her hair, the infuriating curve of her waist, the way she sat with her spine perfectly straight.

His heart pounded, offbeat and fluttery in his chest, in his throat as he scanned the other people she was sitting with.

Was one of those men her husband?

Surely.

He tried to push down the sloshing, bitter wave of jealousy that crashed through his core, but failed, riding it through a parade of thoughts, fantasies that he would never live out. He wanted to go over there, figure out which one was her husband, size him up, punch him in the throat.

Jesus, he needed to get a grip.

Joel tried to stop staring, but he couldn't seem to break the habit, he was always staring at her, at the job site, in that stuffy trailer, now. He wanted to go over there, see her at a closer proximity, appraise her husband, but he didn't know how to, not without appearing like a giant, hulking stalker.

So, he just sat there, nearly shaking with the need to eliminate the space between them, his eyes drilling into the back of her beautiful head. At one point, she turned a bit, so he was graced with the view of her profile as she took a sip from the can she was holding in her hand— delicate sloped nose, puffy, pink lips, red hair shining like copper in the sun.

She was perfect.

It was horribly unfair that she wasn't his, couldn't be his.

"I don't think I like the cucumber one," he heard his daughter's voice break through his spiraling head and he briefly tore his attention away from Ophelia to glance down at the girls.

"That sandwich was forty-five dollars; you better eat it."

"Stop eavesdropping, dad," she huffed.

Joel shook his head, let his attention slide back over to Ophelia, his heart skyrocketing into his throat when he found her looking back at him, those freckled cheeks flooding pink as their eyes met, hers hidden behind a pair of sunglasses.

He waved at her, feeling a little moronic as he did, that feeling quickly dissolving just as soon as she flashed him a polite smile and waved back.

This was his chance, his only chance to go over there and say hello.

He turned back to Sarah, with his heart still jackhammering in his chest.

"My friend is over there, m'gonna go say hello. Stay here, be good, shout if you need me," he said, already pushing himself to his feet with the arms of his chair.

"Your friend?" Sarah scoffed, "you don't have friends, dad."

Touché, kiddo.

He flashed her a stern look and she just smiled at him.

"No wanderin' off," he ordered as he began backing away.

"We're not five," Kelsey chimed, picking up a little pink cake from the tea tower.

"Says the girls havin' a tea party," he muttered jestingly, then turned around before they could utter a rebuttal, catching Ophelia's gaze again as she glanced over her shoulder at him, her cheeks flooding with even more color when she saw him approaching.

He liked when she blushed like that, it made the freckles on her nose and cheeks pop, he liked that he made her blush, even if he knew nothing could ever come of it.

When he reached her, everyone she was sitting with remained in conversation, it was only Ophelia that stared up at him, her neck craned, sunlight spilling over her delicate features.

"Hi," she said softly, cheeks still pink, from the warmth of the sun or from him, he didn't care either way, just wanted to keep staring at her.

"Guess the whole city is out here today," he said, feeling a bead of sweat roll down his spine.

It was only then that the other people crowded on the blanket looked over at him.

"Um, this is Joel, we work together, he's the foreman for the Canyon project," Ophelia said, her voice sounding a little pinched. "This is Josh, Matt, Lauren, Ashley, and Scott," she said, pointing to each person around the circle.

Joel noticed right away that she had not introduced any of the men as her husband, but when his eyes flicked to each man around the circle, he saw that the only one with a wedding band on his finger was Scott, the lanky man sitting right next to her.

He swallowed the bitter, surging jealousy that was threatening to crawl up his throat.

"Nice to meet you, Joel!" the woman who Ophelia had introduced as Ashley chimed, moving her too big sunglasses onto the top of her head, her eyes scanning him from head to toe in a flirtatious manner that he wished Ophelia would look at him with. "Do you want a beer?" she asked then, motioning toward the ice chest that was positioned behind Scott.

"Oh, uh," Joel choked out, reaching up to rub the back of his sweltering neck, glancing back over his shoulder at Sarah and Kelsey, who were still sitting on the blanket, eating those expensive tiny cakes. "Sure, thanks," he said as he turned back around, because he really did want a beer, and Sarah was probably giddy with the falsely constructed freedom his distance was giving her and her friend.

Ashley fished an IPA out of the ice chest, and handed it to Joel when he leaned over.

"Sit with us for a bit if you want," she blurted then, scooting over to make room for him.

And Joel did sit, but not next to Ashley. He took the spot on the other side of Ophelia, so she was flanked by him and her husband.

"So, what brings you to the park this sunny afternoon?" Ashley asked, tilting her head to the side, those big sunglasses back on her face.

"My daughter," Joel pointed over his shoulder, "and her friend, I'm chaperoning their tea party against their will."

"How cute!" Ashley crooned, but Joel's attention had shifted to Ophelia, who was sitting close enough to his side that he could smell her, something clean and fresh and feminine that made his mouth water. Her knee was nearly touching his, only an inch or so between them, and that small space buzzed with heat as her eyes met his from behind her sunglasses.

He took a large gulp from his can to cope with how desperately he wanted to take those sunglasses off her face so he could see the bright green eyes underneath, to try to combat how badly he wanted to crash his knee into hers just to feel the electricity between them hum.

Joel ignored Ashley's high-pitched tone and turned his torso toward Ophelia.

"Excited for the framing to start?" he asked, wishing he could talk to her about anything that wasn't work related.

Ophelia shrugged, a small motion of one of those little rounded shoulders raising toward her ear. "Still have to endure another week of foundation."

"More excitin' than the footers."

"I guess so," she said, fiddling with the tab on the can that was sitting between her legs.

The rest of the group seemed to dissolve back into their own conversations, and then it was just her and him, sitting too close together, with her husband on the other side of her, completely oblivious to all the vile thoughts Joel was constructing about his wife.

"I didn't know you had a daughter," Ophelia said after a moment, still fiddling with the tab, her cheeks pink again.

Joel nodded, pointed over to where Sarah and Kelsey were crowded together on the blanket, heads together as they looked down at Sarah's phone.

"Sarah, she's twelve, the one with the ponytail."

Ophelia's pink, puffy lips hinted at a smile, the vision made his stomach cramp.

"She's cute."

"She is," Joel nodded, "thank you, don't know how I made somethin' that cute."

Ophelia scoffed, but the sound was more a laugh than anything else.

"How do you know these folks," Joel asked, his eyes flicking around the group, where everyone seemed completely oblivious to his and Ophelia's presence, including her husband, who was in what looked to be a heated conversation with that Ashley girl.

"Um they're—" Ophelia paused, fiddling with that tab still, yanking at it so hard that it snapped off the can, "they're my husband's friends— Scott—" she gestured next to her with a tilt of her head. "They all went to high school together."

Joel didn't know anyone who was still friends with people they'd gone to high school with. He didn't know how old Ophelia or her husband were, but he guessed late twenties by their appearance, more likely early to mid-thirties considering Ophelia's career.

But he didn't hang on that thought, instead he clung to the way her entire body seemed to deplete as she uttered the word husband.

Perhaps his vile, unwarranted hope about their marriage wasn't that far off.

He should be bludgeoned, or at the very least ashamed.

Ophelia kept fiddling with that tab, flipping it between her fingers now that it wasn't connected to the can. He wanted to gather those small, delicate hands in his, wanted to pull her toward him, wanted to know what it felt like to have her body pressed up against his.

The thought alone made heat swirl in his core.

"What does he do?" Joel asked, instead of one of the more antagonizing questions bouncing around in his head.

Ophelia shook her head, the motion so small it was almost imperceptible, and he swore he saw her eyes roll from behind the lenses of her sunglasses. "He's building a social media platform."

Joel made a low sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat, almost a grunt.

He was right about the cushy job at least.

"Lauren thinks it's revolutionary," she muttered under her breath, taking a long sip from her can.

Joel chuckled, his eyes flicking behind her, to where her husband sat, still hunched over, animatedly talking to Ashley about something he couldn't quite make out with all the other chatter. Why did her husband seem so unbothered by his presence? Was their relationship just that secure, or was it the opposite? Did he not care?

Joel couldn't imagine that, could never imagine having the incredible woman next to him, having her be his and not caring, not spending every possible second touching her and talking with her and making sure big, strange men weren't secretly trying to steal her from him.

"And what do you think?" Joel asked, chugging his beer, his eyes floating back to her, his heart slamming against his ribs at just the sight of her, sitting so close to his side, red hair glowing, puffy lips wet from her drink.

Ophelia sighed, glancing over at her husband, finding him preoccupied, then slowly returning her gaze to his face, "I think it's a waste of time," she whispered.

"Hmm," Joel hummed, while his stomach flipped against his will.

He should not be wishing for the demise of her marriage, that was despicable, wicked and horrendous of him.

He chugged more of his beer to try to drown the guilt swirling in his gut.

"Do you live in the neighborhood?" Ophelia asked, the first time she'd ever asked him a question that wasn't work related. He felt unjustifiably giddy.

He nodded, "Over on 32nd, between Pacheco and Quintara."

"Really?" she asked, her head tilting to the side a bit, her thick, wavy hair falling off her shoulder, sending a waft of that clean, floral scent in his direction. "We're on 32nd too, between Kirkham and Lawton."

So he was wrong about the house in Pacific Heights, still, he slotted that new piece of information into the bank of other things he'd been collecting and storing about her— she had a younger sister, nine years younger, she liked turkey sandwiches, she bit the corner of her lip when she was deep in thought, her eyes had a darker ring of forest green around the lighter green that made up the inner part of her irises, she was married, she thought her husband's job was a waste of time.

"Basically makes us neighbors," Joel said with a small smile, "we should be carpoolin' to the job site, would save me a ton on gas money."

Ophelia let a huff of air out her nose, the corners of those plump lips hinting at a smile.

He still hadn't seen her smile fully, but imagined it would be so beautiful it would hurt. That should be his goal, not to end her marriage, but to make her smile. Even if his motive was slightly selfish.

__________

This was a nightmare come to life.

Joel was here, sitting on the same blanket as Scott and their friends, not safe inside the confines of her head, but here, in the flesh, huge and wide, sitting so close to her she could feel the heat radiating off of him, could smell the thick, woody scent of his skin, could count the freckles on his tan neck.

His daughter was sitting thirty feet away from them.

His daughter, he was a dad. And of course he was, he was strong and competent and caring, he exuded the kind of masculine strength women dreamt about, he was the kind of man that women would line up to have kids with, in fact it was almost surprising he didn't have more kids, surprising that she hadn't assumed he was a father from the first moment she met him.

Still, the knowledge that he was a dad made her belly cramp up, made thoughts she'd promised to bury claw and thrash inside her head.

Where was Sarah's mom? Was he married too? He didn't wear a ring but that wasn't abnormal for men who worked with their hands.

Those giant hands, making the beer can he was holding look miniature.

God, she shouldn't be thinking about his hands when her husband was sitting right next to her. Shouldn't be thinking about them ever— what they would feel like on her skin, warm and slightly rough she thought, from the callouses on his palms, how he might be able to wrap one of those large paws completely around her neck.

She forced the thought away as heat coiled up in her pelvis, took a large sip from her seltzer, which was already making her head buzz without his warm, tantalizing presence next to her.

"I should be gettin' back," Joel said, then chugged the remainder of his beer, and Ophelia watched, in awe, as his big throat worked to swallow. "Make sure those girls aren't gettin' into trouble," he said after he crushed the can in his big fist, his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip in a manner that made the space between her legs ache.

"Of course," she said, both relieved and distraught at his departure.

"I'll see you on Monday, Ophelia," he hummed, and the way he said her name never failed to send her stomach fluttering.

"See you," she managed to whisper.

Joel flashed her a smile, then pushed the large bulk of his body to his feet.

"Thanks for the beer, was nice meetin' you all," Joel called out, waving as he began walking back the way he'd come, leaving without touching her, not even a brush of his knee against hers, which was good, which was necessary, but which caused a scandalous thread of disappointment to weave itself through her ribs.

Everyone else waved, or completely ignored him, but Ashley cut her conversation with Scott to wave wildly, beaming wide as she called out, "Bye Joel, it was so nice meeting you!"

Then her gaze slid over to Ophelia.

"That man is gorgeous," she sang, "have you been hiding all the hot, single men in the city at your job sites, Ophelia?"

Something sharp and bitter sunk into Ophelia's gut, something that tasted a lot like anger, but felt a lot like jealousy.

"I don't even know if he's single," Ophelia said, twisting her can around in her lap.

"God, I hope so," Ashley groaned.

"Put a cork in it, Ash, your desperation reeks," Josh leered, leaning back on his hands.

Ashley shot him a glare but quickly turned her attention back to Ophelia.

"You should invite him to the Fourth of July party, I need something pretty to stare at," she crooned dreamily.

Ophelia dug her fingers into the can in her lap until the aluminum creaked and bent under her grip.

"That would be inappropriate, he's my colleague," she said, trying to keep her voice light when she wanted to scream.

Which was true, but not more inappropriate than the things she'd been thinking about his hands a minute ago.

Ashley nodded in understanding, but Ophelia still watched her gaze drift behind her, over to where she knew Joel was sitting. A deranged part of her wanted to leap across the blanket and grab a handful of Ashley's hair and pull.

"That's too bad, he's gotta be the hottest man in the city, and that accent, Jesus Christ," Ashley dramatically fanned herself with her hand and Ophelia crushed her can again, rolling her eyes behind the cover of her glasses.

"I don't see the appeal," Scott chimed in next to her, and she felt her stomach roll with nausea. "He's just a dude."

"And you're not gay, so you don't get a say," Lauren said, with a flick of her hair, "I agree Ash, he's gorgeous."

She hadn't anticipated this when she first caught sight of Joel, when he first started making his way toward her, all she'd been thinking about was Scott and how he was sitting right next to her as the man she'd been fantasizing about for the past two weeks materialized like a bad dream come to life, coming toward her, looking so devastatingly attractive it made her want to scream.

But now her biggest concern wasn't Scott somehow reading her traitorous thoughts, it was fucking Ashey, and the fact that there was absolutely nothing she could do should Ashley somehow find a way to ask Joel on a date, or worse, sleep with him.

The thought alone made her want to claw her skin off.

"Do you guys want to head over to Irving? We can grab a drink somewhere and watch the game, it starts in twenty minutes," Matt said, glancing down at the watch on his wrist that Ophelia was sure cost more than her rent.

Everyone besides Ophelia voiced their agreement.

"Let's just load the stuff in the cars and leave them here, it's only a fifteen-minute walk and it's so nice out," Ashley cooed, pushing herself up and bouncing on her heels.

Everyone got up, grabbing stray bags of chips, heading off toward the row of parked cars, leaving Ophelia there with the ice chest.

"Scott!" she called out, to the back of her husband's head as he walked toward their Prius with Matt, the two of them engaged in conversation, her husband holding their crumpled blanket in his arms, one corner of it dragging across the grass.

He didn't hear her, and Ophelia huffed, leaning down and hoisting the ice chest up before nearly toppling forward with it.

"Shit," she muttered, letting it plop back onto the grass.

She took a deep breath, then tried again, tensing the muscles in her back, trying to lift with her legs, but the thing was too heavy, even if she managed to lift it up comfortably, there's no way she could carry it all the way to the car.

"Need some help?" The inquiry, in that low, brassy baritone, made her head snap over, then up up the towering length of him.

"They just left me here with it," Ophelia spat out, her eyes darting back over to her husband, who was now standing by their car, still talking to Matt.

"Here," Joel hummed, stepping toward her, one of those giant hands ushering her away from the ice chest with a sweep through the air. And she stood there and watched as he lifted the thing with ease, the muscles in his arms pushing defiantly against the sleeves of his t-shirt.

"Your car's the Prius over there, yeah?" he asked, nodding toward it, forcing Ophelia's attention up and away from those big arms.

She just nodded, then followed him as he began walking there.

"Thank you," she whispered, biting her bottom lip, the alcohol making her head buzz as her eyes bounced from his face back down to those huge arms.

"'Course," he hummed, warm and soft as he glanced down at her, those brown eyes bouncing over her face in a manner that made her belly flop and flutter.

"Scott could barely carry it over here, he probably left me on purpose so he wouldn't have to do it again," she spat out, unfiltered from the alcohol, feeling blood pooling on her cheeks just as soon as the words left her lips.

She expected Joel to laugh, but he just locked those warm eyes on hers, making her feel small next to the towering length of him.

"Well," he coughed, "I got it. If you ever need some manpower, you have my number."

She did have his number, she'd never really thought about that before, it was listed on one of the emails Frankie had sent the Canyon team, along with her own.

"And you have my number, if you ever need... actually I don't really know what I have to offer," she heard herself say, even though she knew what she wanted to offer, what she couldn't offer.

Joel's lips quirked into a lopsided smile, "You offer pretty good company."

"Scott's friends would probably disagree with that."

God, she needed to shut up. It was too easy to talk to him, when he was warm and attentive, when alcohol was still buzzing through her system.

"They have shit taste, then," he said as they reached her car.

She dug her key out of her tote, pressed the unlock button, then skittered around the hulking man carrying her ice chest to pop the trunk.

Joel loaded the ice chest in with as much ease as he'd picked it up, then closed her trunk, turning his body toward her, the two of them standing in between her car and the one parked behind it, effectively cut off from the rest of her group.

"Thanks again," she said, straining her neck to look up at him while standing so close, close enough that she could smell him again, woody and masculine.

He nodded, those eyes once again bouncing over her face.

"I'll see you on Monday," he said again, "and seriously, Ophelia, you have my number, if you ever need anything."

Her heart stammered in her chest.

She did need something, but it was wrong and horrible and not allowed.

"Okay," she whispered, gnawing on her bottom lip as she kept staring up the great length of him.

He smiled, wide enough for that dimple to burrow itself into his scruffy right cheek, then he did something she hadn't expected, something that sent a wave of heat through her core, something that had her belly fluttering like she might take flight.

He reached over, with that giant hand, his wide smile shifting into something a bit softer, more thoughtful, as he brushed her hair behind her ear, those warm, calloused fingers sliding across her cheek in the process.

Her whole body shuddered, something between a gasp and a whimper crawling from her throat without her permission.

His eyes flashed, molten, like his irises were on fire, then he stepped backward, into the street.

"Bye Ophelia," he said, just above a whisper, then he looped around the front of her car and started back through the grass.

And for the first time in ages, it felt like Ophelia wasn't drowning, but treading water, shifting with the tide.

Chapter Text

"Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister,

And keep you in the rear of your affection,

Out of the shot and danger of desire."

Ophelia tugged a safety razor up her leg, grimacing as a mound of shaving cream littered with light blond hair clogged the blades, leaving a trail of naked, pink skin in its wake.

She wasn't willing to admit why she'd woken at the crack of dawn, to shave for the first time in months, to lay out an outfit that— for once— did not consist of the same t-shirt and jeans she'd been wearing in rotation for the last year or two.

She leaned forward, from where she was sitting on the ledge of her bathtub, letting water from the tap unclog the blades, then went in again, clearing another path up her shin, repeating the process over and over until her right leg was pink and bald.

She'd already blow dried her hair, dug the diffuser attachment out of the bottom of the drawer in her bathroom, she put makeup on this morning, for the first time since Ashely's 2000's themed birthday party last year.

It was fifty-five degrees outside her house, with dense fog billowing in from the ocean, but downtown, the forecast called for clear skies and a high of sixty-seven, an unfair discrepancy that she would have been more upset about if she wasn't spending more than half her day at the job site. Still, she felt a little silly as she donned that green, floral dress she'd laid out the night before while the wind outside roared, threatening to blow in the big windows in their living room.

Scott needed the car today, to drive over to some upscale coffee shop in Hayes to meet with a potential investor his daddy had introduced him to, so Ophelia was stuck taking the train, the biting, foggy wind nipping at her naked legs as she walked the two blocks from her house to the bus stop on Judah, freshly painted toes squeezed into a pair of pumps she hadn't worn since before her wedding, a thin cardigan wrapped tightly around her torso to try to ward off the cold.

She felt stupid, out of place, like a caricature of a woman as she boarded the N train toward Embarcadero, as she sat down on the cold plastic of one of the seats, as she clutched her bag to her chest and tried to ignore all the other commuters on the train should they be able to smell her fraudulent nature.

But then she caught her reflection, in the dark glass of the windows as the train sped through the tunnel under Market Street, and for a moment she didn't even recognize herself— with the mascara on her lashes and the rogue on her lips and her red hair in billowing waves rather than frizzy curls for once.

And Ophelia felt pretty, for the first time in so long.

And wasn't that the point... even more than who she'd wanted to be pretty for?

The sun was so bright and warm when she exited the train on King Street that she shed her cardigan as she walked the two blocks to the job site, folding it up and stuffing it into her bag, relishing in the morning sunshine on her face, her arms, her naked legs.

Her heart picked up to flutter and pound in her chest as she reached the job site, those dancing nerves forcing her straight into the portable rather than lingering around and looking for him. She'd already spent her entire morning crafting impossible scenarios— cruel, despicable scenarios. She'd already gotten dressed and shaved and put lipstick on her mouth with him in mind— which was not only traitorous, but disgusting, male-centered and tinged with misogyny. She refused to continue that pathetic pattern by gallivanting through the job site in her stupid pumps, waiting for him to look her way.

The heels of her shoes clomped up the steel ramp, and she held her breath as she pulled open the door to the portable, eyes darting around the cramped space for the wide breadth of his shoulders, but it was just Frankie, hunched over behind her laptop screen, her brown eyes darting up, then back down to her screen, before they widened a little as she glanced up again.

"You look great," she exclaimed, sitting up a little straighter in her chair so she could see Ophelia from over the screen of her laptop.

"Oh," Ophelia felt her cheeks pool with warmth, "thanks," she shrugged, like she hadn't spent hours getting ready this morning.

She walked over to the coffee maker, grabbing one of those styrofoam cups and filling it with lukewarm coffee.

"Love that dress," she heard Frankie say, "where'd you get it?"

"Thank you," Ophelia chimed again, glancing over her shoulder as she poured in creamer, a packet of sugar, "I think I got it at Anthropologie about a thousand years ago."

"It's darling!" she gushed, flashing a wide smile as Ophelia walked over to sit down at the desk next to her.

It was a mixture of embarrassment and something a bit lighter that swirled in her gut in response to all the attention. No one had commented on her appearance in so long, unless it was some weird, unwanted comment about her hair color. Ophelia willed her cheeks to cool down as she dug her laptop out of her bag and settled into her chair.

She picked through her email for most of the morning, fielded a question from Scott about where their iron was, and then about ten follow up questions about how to iron his button up, in the end he'd decided to go to his parent's house and have his mother do it for him. Juliet called her at eleven-thirty to ask if she could come over for dinner again. At eleven-forty-five, Frankie asked if she wanted anything from Ike's Sandwiches. Ophelia declined. By noon, she still hadn't seen him, hadn't had any reason to go out and check the framing specs or the progress on the foundation because she'd already approved it all last week. She was only on site this week as a formality, to uphold Vicinity's presence on this project.

It made her feel silly again, stupid for how much effort she'd put into her appearance.

She shouldn't be dressing for a man— a man that wasn't even her husband.

She should go home early and change, work from home for the rest of the day as punishment, bury this dress in the back of her closet again and throw out that stupid diffuser attachment so she'd never be tempted to do this again.

Her gut felt heavy, a cocktail of embarrassment and shame swirling around there, forcing her out of her seat, where she began stuffing her things back into her bag, cursing herself as she thought about making the long trek home in that stupid dress— how cold she would be hiking back up the hill to her house from the bus stop.

Then, just as she was about to sling her bag over her shoulder, the door to the portable squeaked open, and her heart stammered wildly against her ribs as Joel's massive body stepped inside, his dark blue t-shirt stretched wide over his shoulders, his brown hair mused from his hard hat, which he had tucked under one of those thick, tan arms. His warm eyes caught on her immediately, flashing with something hot as they hurriedly swept from her face, down to her bare legs, then back up, slowly this time, meticulously, like he was memorizing her form.

It made her cheeks boil, it made her want to squirm and hide, or scream and tug at her hair.

"You—" he started, his voice impossibly low and gruff, the rough, masculine sound making her belly clench tight as the door shuddered closed behind Joel as he stepped all the way into the room. He coughed, reached up with one big hand to scratch the back of his neck. "You look real pretty today," he said, his eyes still bouncing over her, like he was unable to decide where he wanted to focus his attention.

And that compliment ripped through her like wildfire, burning all the apprehension, all the embarrassment and shame that had been terrorizing her only a moment before to ash.

She watched him swallow, watched his thick, tan throat bob before she was able to say anything herself.

"Thank you," she finally uttered, in a voice barely above a whisper.

He thought she was pretty.

"Come get lunch with me," he said then, placing his hard hat down on one of the desks. "Came in here to convince ya to eat today."

She sputtered, her mouth opening and closing without any real sound coming out.

"Atwater Tavern is just right there on the pier, they have a mean turkey sandwich," he said, his voice lilting upward, like he needed to convince her.

It was just lunch, lunch with a coworker, that was normal and allowed, but the manic fluttering in her gut, her stupid outfit that she'd worn just for him worked to make it something else entirely, something dangerous, tittering on the edge of appropriateness.

"I'm gonna get the sandwich for you regardless, so you might as well come," Joel added, the corners of his lips twitching, hinting at a smile as those molten eyes dipped down to her legs again.

No one, not even her own mother, or her husband for that matter, cared about Ophelia's dietary habits as much as he did. It was a little overbearing and that should have made it annoying, but it only worked to make her belly cramp tighter.

"Okay," she breathed out, cursing herself as she heard the agreement echo back into her head in her own voice, "but only because you keep getting me sourdough and I prefer French bread."

That slight smile on his face turned into a full blown one, dimple and all.

God, if only he were ugly.

"Should'a told me," he said, craning his neck down to keep looking at her as she walked toward him, "it pains me to know I've been force feeding you sourdough."

She shook her head at him, biting her bottom lip to suppress a smile as he tugged open the door for her.

"Not sure why you're so preoccupied with my eating habits, to be honest," Ophelia said, as she took great care not to brush against the wide breadth of his body as she stepped out the door, a wave of that musky, woody scent flooding her nose and making her a little unsteady on her feet as she stepped out onto the ramp.

"Everyone's gotta eat," he said simply, with a shrug of those massive shoulders, his big body coming into step alongside her as they walked off the ramp and over toward the piers.

"You force feed your entire team sandwiches too?" she asked, mostly in jest, as she turned to look up at him.

"No, they're not as important," he said, seemingly without much thought, his statement settling into the space between them and making it buzz and hum with something electric. "To the project, I mean," he added after a moment, clearing his throat, then reaching up to rub the back of his neck.

"So, you're force feeding me for the betterment of the Canyon?" she asked, trying to ignore the buzzing heat between them.

"Yup," he nodded, with a small smile.

"How selfless of you."

He shrugged, one corner of his lips pulling into a smirk.

He tugged open the door for her again when they made it to Atwater, following close behind as they approached the hostess, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his chest, it made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

"Table for two, please," Joel said when the hostess looked at them expectantly, before Ophelia could open her mouth to say the same thing. "Out on the patio if possible."

The hostess nodded, grabbing two menus, stepping out from behind her podium, "Of course, just right this way, watch your step," she said, as she began leading them up a set of stairs to their left.

Ophelia climbed the stairs slowly, carefully, she wasn't used to wearing a shoe with any kind of heel and the last thing she needed was to trip and fall on her face in front of a restaurant full of people, especially while she was wearing her fraudulent little outfit. But as she climbed, she could feel the heat from Joel's hand, hovering at her lower back, so close, but not quite touching her. She pushed down the urge to lean into him, while her heart drummed in her head.

They emerged on a rooftop patio with glass railing, facing the glittering bay, scattered tables filled the space, some of which were occupied by other people here on their lunch break.

"Here you are," the hostess said, placing their menus on one of the smaller tables right against the railing. "Someone should be with you shortly," she said, flashing a smile before disappearing back down the stairs.

Ophelia sat down across from Joel, her eyes drifting over to the other people occupying the space. Most of them were in groups of at least three, coworkers out to lunch, just like they were, but she couldn't help but feel like this was more than just a casual lunch between two people who worked together. It felt like a date with just the two of them, her wearing that stupid dress, sitting at this table right on the water.

"Good drink menu here too," Joel said, pushing the single one they'd been handed toward her.

"Not sure how drinking on the job is for the betterment of the project," she leered in jest.

Joel chuckled, "Helps ya relax," he retorted.

"Hmm," she hummed, her eyes drifting down to the drink menu from the dangerous view of his face. She didn't normally drink on weekdays, but it felt like she might need something to get through this lunch.

"What made you want to become an architect?" he asked then, his eyes already on her when she lifted hers to look up at him.

She'd been asked that question countless times before, but the difference was, when Joel asked, he seemed genuinely interested, those brown eyes bouncing back and forth between hers, when she'd been asked in the past it had always sounded antagonistic.

Why did you want to become an architect? You, a  woman ?

"I like the idea of building something, designing something permanent, something that— stays in one place," she said, without much cognition. "There are ancient buildings— the Parthenon, the Pantheon, Taos Pueblo— they've been standing in the same spot for centuries. I— I like that, I'm— I guess I'm a little jealous of the notion in a way."

Joel seemed to consider that for a moment, those warm eyes never straying from her face.

"I take it you didn't grow up in one place, then?" he asked, folding those big forearms over the top of the table.

Ophelia shook her head, "The longest we stayed in one place was a year, right after I was born."

"Military family?"

"No," she let out a breathless laugh, "my dad could never keep a job. He was always moving us for the next best thing."

Joel nodded, making a low sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat.

"Must'a been hard, as a kid, movin' around that much."

"It was horrible," she breathed out, "as soon as I graduated high school I moved here for college. I haven't left since, it's been almost thirteen years," she gnawed on her bottom lip, a little annoyed at herself for divulging so much information, so easily, but she found it hard to stop once she'd started. "Sometimes it still feels like someone is gonna whisk me away."

"Makes me feel bad for movin' Sarah out here," Joel said, reaching up to scratch his scruffy cheek, callouses scraping noisily against his beard. "I just wasn't makin' enough money back in Texas, certainly not enough to save anything for her college. Doin' the same job out here that I was back there and I'm makin' almost twice as much."

Texas— she'd known that accent was from somewhere south, but didn't know enough about dialects to place it.

"One move isn't anything to worry about," she assured him, fiddling with one of the buttons on her dress.

"Guess not," he exhaled, "still was rough on her, havin' to make new friends."

Ophelia swallowed the next few words that wanted to leave her mouth, which were, at least she'd made friends.

Ophelia certainly had not.

Their waiter approached, and against her better judgement Ophelia ordered a negroni, and the turkey sandwich on French. Joel ordered a burger, a Modelo on draft.

"Drinking on the job when you're the one who has to operate heavy machinery..." Ophelia teased, just as soon as the waiter was out of earshot, "are you sure that's for the betterment of the project?"

Joel chuckled, the rumbling sound shooting straight into her belly.

"I'm the foreman, I'll just make one of the other guys drive the loader."

Ophelia was unable to swallow the giggle that bubbled out of her throat at that, warmth quickly crawling up her neck as she watched Joel's features soften at the sound.

He was so big, sitting across from her, the sunlight casting a glow across his features, causing his eyes to squint a bit. It was a kind of base desire, something removed from logic, that made her want to touch him, that made the curiosity almost unbearable, the desire too weighty to swallow. She wanted to know what the thick, tanned skin of his forearm would feel like beneath her palm, wanted to drag her fingernails through the scruff that covered his jaw, wanted to press herself against his solid torso so badly it made her feel dizzy, drunk with need.

She was horrible, a truly despicable creature.

When the waiter brought them their drinks, she had to hold herself back from downing half of it in one go just to cope with the buzzing necessity to be closer to him that was taking hold of her core.

"What grade is Sarah in?" Ophelia asked then, trying to steer the conversation toward something safe, though talking about kids with him was the opposite of safe.

"Starting seventh grade in the fall," Joel said, voice muffled into his glass as he took a sip of beer. "She's uh— it gets harder as she gets older, closer to bein' a teenager, she's obsessed with this singer kid right now, Harry Styles. Was so much easier when she was beggin' me to go to the zoo rather than some pop concert."

Ophelia let out a light laugh, "My little sister— Juliet— she was obsessed with One Direction when she was younger," she saw the confusion on Joel's face and added, "that's the band Harry Styles used to be in. I took her to see them when she was twelve, I think I still have permanent hearing loss from how loud she screamed when they all came out on stage."

Joel shook his head, twisting his beer glass around, "I'm supposed to take her to his show in a couple months, guess I should invest in some earplugs."

"You're also gonna need a boa, or something sparkly," Ophelia smirked.

Joel groaned, "I don't get the sparkly getups."

"You're telling me you don't wear shiny, pink sequin vests on your days off?"

Joel flashed her a humorless stare and she giggled again in response, which did work to tug his lips toward a smile.

It was quiet for a moment, beyond the chatter happening between the other groups occupying the patio, and the distant call of gulls, the lapping of water against the rocks below them.

Ophelia took a sip of her drink, relishing in the way the gin made her belly warm, made her head buzz, made it harder to think of this entire situation as inappropriate.

Then Joel asked, "So, how did you and your husband meet?"

And Ophelia nearly choked on her negroni.

His features were impossible to read when she lifted her eyes to look at him, he'd donned a blank mask to ask the question that was still stirring in the space between them. She did not want to talk about her husband with him, it made guilt swirl heavy in her gut, it made something else that felt a lot like regret, like remorse, curl its spiny fingers around her heart and squeeze.

"In college," she answered, after waiting for a moment for the liquid in her throat to stop threatening to silence her. "During my undergrad."

Joel nodded, his features still obscured by that indecipherable mask. He took a long sip of his beer, placed it back down on the table before he spoke again.

"Assuming you got your degree in architecture," he said and she nodded, "what about him?"

"Business."

"Hmm," Joel hummed, "and he's using that to build this... what'd you say at the park? A social media platform?"

Ophelia scoffed, and more guilt bloomed in her gut, but she couldn't seem to swallow the words as they left her lips. "He's using his parent's money for that more than his degree."

"He from here?"

Ophelia nodded.

"How long have you been together?"

It felt a little bit like he was interrogating her now.

"Almost ten years, married for five."

Joel whistled.

"My ex-wife and I were only together for two," he said then, spinning his beer around and around, the glass making a dull scraping sound against the wood.

Curiosity clawed up Ophelia's throat from her gut.

"Why so short lived?" she heard herself ask, lifting her glass to take another sip of the quickly diminishing liquid in her glass.

Joel shrugged, then let out a big sigh that seemed to rattle his ribs. "We weren't really together before she got pregnant with Sarah, and once she was it seemed like the right thing to do, so I proposed after she decided she was keepin' her, we had a small wedding in her parent's backyard back in Austin, but... she never really wanted to be a mother."

Joel's voice dipped down into something a little somber, and Ophelia felt that glum aura radiating off of him, it made her belly swirl with nausea.

"She stayed for a year after Sarah was born, but she was never really there, if ya know what I mean, she'd mentally checked out of our relationship, out of motherhood before Sarah was even born."

"I'm sorry, Joel," Ophelia whispered, unsure of what else she could say. She couldn't imagine having a child— especially with someone like him— and it not completely altering her life, her, for the better.

But she was supposed to bury those kinds of thoughts, those were not thoughts she was allowed to have, not ones she would let herself harbor.

Because those kinds of thoughts would tear her apart.

Joel shrugged, leaned back against his chair, which creaked beneath his weight. "It was better that she left, growing up without a mother is tough, but I think— growing up with one who doesn't want to be one is worse."

Ophelia nodded, a slow, slightly sad motion.

A mother who doesn't want to be one, or a woman who wants to be a mother— who yearns for it like the wanting could kill her— but who will never become one. Both were a sickening kind of tragic.

"Sorry, didn't want to dampen the mood," Joel said, leaning forward and taking his beer in his hand again.

Ophelia waved her hand in a dismissive motion, even though there was a knot now, sitting laden at the bottom of her gut. "What's a force-fed turkey sandwich without a side of trauma?"

Joel chuckled, then his features softened a bit as those warm eyes bounced over her face.

"What?" she asked, feeling her cheeks burn beneath his stare, already a little too candid from the alcohol.

"Nothing," he shook his head, but his gaze was still warm, still locked on her, a small smile now tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You have a staring problem," she huffed, picking up her glass and downing the remainder of the liquid there.

"I don't," he scoffed, but he was still smiling.

"You do!" she spat out, "you're always staring at me."

"You're easy to stare at," he retorted, voice too soft, but still a little gruff, not unlike the way he'd told her she was pretty back in the portable.

"Shut up," she muttered, cheeks still burning, now wishing she'd saved the last sip of her drink.

"Nah, I like the way your freckles look when you blush, so I don't think I will."

Her tummy swooped at that, like she was on a carnival ride that just kept spinning as he continued staring at her, that small smile tugging at his plush lips.

"You're ridiculous," she said, after a moment of bloated silence, as she forced her eyes away from him and down to her empty glass.

Their food came, and the two of them ate in mostly amicable, comfortable silence, interrupted by the occasional comment about work, but Ophelia's mind was still whirling, from that compliment about her freckles, from the earlier one about her being pretty, from the knowledge of what had happened with his ex-wife, the confirmation that he was a single dad.

Scott never complimented her.

Not really.

Not that she ever gave him reason to.

She hadn't done her hair, her makeup, hadn't shaved or put an effort into her appearance in years, but was that entirely her fault? Or was it a reaction to his absent behavior? A response to his inability to do anything for himself?

But Scott was stable, and this situation with Joel was not. It was unpredictable and scary and traitorous and wrong.

__________

The more Ophelia learned about him, the more he morphed into an actual person and not just a caricature of unquenched desire, the more dangerous he became.

He was a father, a single father, he was competent and strong and kind.

He was, for all intents and purposes, the exact opposite of her husband.

And it was getting impossible for her to ignore him, no matter that it was the right thing to do, she still couldn't find the restraint.

After Joel walked her back to the portables, she spent the next four hours trying to concentrate on work while his presence tugged at her from the job site. He was like a storm that had rolled into her life without any warning, no thunder in the distance, not a light sprinkle to mark the incoming downpour, it was sudden— solitary lightning— the flash so bright that everything else seemed to darken in comparison.

And now she found herself fumbling through a shrouded world, waiting for the next flash, aching for it, so that she could see again.

But it always came without warning, when she was the least prepared. Like at the park, or earlier when she had been preparing to leave before he walked into the portable, or their first meeting, when she'd crashed straight into his chest.

She was never ready for how her body reacted to that zap of his presence.

Never prepared but always waiting, despite herself, despite what was right and what was wrong, she ached to be near him like it was imperative. And Ophelia tried to remember if that had ever been the case with Scott, back in the beginning, but with her husband there had never existed this kind of anticipation, this kind of fluttering excitement, this kind of pure, unfiltered need. It had been survival. She'd clung to Scott because he was stable, because he was unchanging, because she could finally sit still after a lifetime of being torn, ripped from one place to another.

There was a safety in that, in what her and Scott had, but there was no excitement. And the safety that existed with him was only in the consistency of their life together, it was not real safety, just the absence of change.

And change was terrifying, like an isolated lightning storm.

__________

Ophelia packed up her things for the second time that day, while trying to mentally prepare herself for the fifty-minute train ride back home.

Juliet was already there, texting her incessantly about whatever reality television show she was watching. Scott was back home too, but she only knew this because Juliet had sent her a text that read, your husband didn't start the dishes AGAIN, he's just sitting on the couch like always.

She needed to make dinner and clean whatever mess Scott had made of the living room when she got back, needed to start a load of laundry and water her plants. Just thinking about it all made her exhausted and she hadn't even walked to the stupid bus stop yet.

She tugged her bag further up her shoulder, then walked out of the portable, her heels clomping down the steel ramp, but she didn't make it much further, only about a foot closer to King when she heard her name.

"Ophelia," his voice called out, the brassy, baritone of it making her stomach flutter against her will.

She turned around, just enough to glance over her shoulder, back at him, standing at the edge of the job site, all wide and tall and infuriating.

"You take the train today?" he asked, shoving one of his hands into the pocket of his jeans.

She nodded.

"Let me drive you home," he said, tugging his keys out of that pocket.

That lightning once again, without a single warning.

"Oh," she shook her head, "that's okay— it's just—"

"You live five blocks down the road from my house," Joel interrupted her, spinning his keys around his finger, "come on," he nodded over toward the parking lot.

Ophelia turned completely toward him, letting out a sharp sigh. In the end, she conceded, and began walking toward him, because what was she supposed to say... no, sorry, I can't accept your offer to drive me home even though we only live five blocks apart because every time I'm with you I question my life decisions and it's making me want to rip my hair out.

He smiled as she reached him, and it was devastating, that dimple in his scruffy right cheek, his eyes all squinty and soft.

Part of her wanted to slap him.

The other part of her wanted to grab his face and slam her lips against his.

But she was doing everything she could to ignore that part.

When they reached his truck— a big, white, F-150 that looked ill-equipped for the city's hills and tight parking spaces— he stepped around her, tugging open the passenger's side door for her, like it was the most natural thing in the world and not a gesture so foreign to her she didn't know if she was supposed to thank him or glare at him for perpetuating gender roles.

She did end up thanking him, in a small whisper as she went to climb into his giant truck, ignoring his outstretched hand even though the effort was enormous, and grabbing hold of the handle on the door to help herself up instead.

He didn't close it and loop around to the other side until she was fully seated and buckled in.

It was little things like that, him always opening the door for her, him waiting for her to buckle, the way he walked, that made her feel small, feminine next to him in a way she hadn't in a very long time. He commanded the space around him, commanded attention, respect, just by existing.

It was dizzying.

Joel got into his truck, started the engine and whipped out of the parking lot, the confined space of the cabin immediately filling with the woody, musky scent of his skin. And in that moment, Ophelia was acutely aware that this was the first time they'd ever been truly alone— just the two of them— since the first time they met.

Her stomach fluttered madly at the notion.

"How was the rest of your day?" Joel asked, glancing over at her briefly as he accelerated onto 280 from King Street, one big hand on the steering wheel, his other arm propped up on the center console between them, big and tan and tempting.

Ophelia shrugged, "it was fine," she said, because she couldn't tell him that she'd spent the last four hours pretending to work while solely thinking about him. "Yours?" she asked, fiddling with a button on the front of her dress.

"Not nearly as excitin' as lunch," he said, with a coy smile that made her want to punch him.

She didn't punch him though, as that would be nearly as inappropriate as kissing him, just shook her head and turned to glance out the window, the blurry landscape of the freeway much more safe than the more solid one of his profile.

"Plans for this evening?" he asked when she didn't rebuttal.

"Chores more than plans," Ophelia sighed, "have to make dinner, and do the laundry, clean up a bit," she listed off.

"Does your husband work from home?" Joel asked, and she swore she heard a bit of a bite on the word husband.

"He does," she exhaled.

"So why can't he do some of those chores? If he's home all day."

"He's busy," Ophelia answered, instead of the truth, which was that Scott didn't know how to do any of those things. He'd always had his mother and his nanny and their housecleaner and their chef.

"So are you," Joel remarked, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline when he glanced over at her.

Ophelia didn't say anything in response, just sunk down a bit in her seat, but Joel kept on, his big hand twisting around the steering wheel.

"You're tellin' me he doesn't ever help out around the house? When's the last time he cooked you dinner?" He asked, sounding a little accusatory, sounding a lot like the thoughts that bounced around her own head.

"Never," she heard herself whisper, because the thought was like a plague, a disease, something she'd held inside for so long it'd started to rot.

Joel's head snapped over to her, "Never?!" he spat out, "In ten years he's never cooked you a meal?"

Part of Ophelia wanted to scream at him, yell at him to mind his own goddamn business, beg him to stop echoing the biting thoughts in her own head, but as it was, she was too tired to scream, to fight with him, because he was right, the situation was as absurd as the expression on his face painted it to be.

"He doesn't know how to cook, he grew up with a chef, his family is that kind of rich."

Joel shook his head, muttered something under his breath that she couldn't hear over the drone of his truck's engine. She didn't quite understand why he was seemingly so mad, none of this affected him. What did it matter if she had an attentive, competent husband or if she was married to a brick wall?

"Doesn't that bother you?" he asked then, his eyebrows furled together when he glanced back over at her.

"Of course it does!" she finally snapped, feeling her heart drum madly against her ribs. This really was none of his business, who was he to echo all her fears, all her secret, buried resentment?

"M'sorry," Joel breathed out, that knot between his brows dissolving, his big shoulders seeming to sink by half a foot. "It's none of my business."

"Exactly, it's not!" she spat, crossing her arms over her chest, desperately trying to swallow the hot, wet knot that was working its way up her throat. She hated that about herself, that she always felt like crying when she was frustrated.

"I— it just bugs me that he's not takin' care of you," Joel said, and that statement shot straight into her chest, shoving that knot in her throat further up, making it hard to breathe. She turned in her seat, so she was fully facing the window as her eyes burned.

They exited the freeway, onto Monterey— she never took this route, she always ended up getting turned around in the Forest Knolls area— and as he stopped the truck at a red light, the motion caused one stray tear to roll down her cheek.

"Hey," she heard Joel hum, too soft, that rumbling sound enough to coat her throat with more of those thick tears, but then his hand was on her shoulder and it was heavy and sudden and buzzing and her attention darted over to him against her will, her stomach clenching tight when his eyes bounced to that tear trailing down her cheek, his gaze tracking it, his entire body seeming to go taut as his features dissolved into something almost mournful.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry," he crooned, and the endearment— in the brassy, twang of his voice— had something deep inside of her aching, the intensity of it reaching a blinding throb when his big hand came up from her shoulder to tilt her chin up with a crooked index finger, which he then used to wipe the wet skin of her cheek.

His touch was a fire across her skin, fueling a boiling heat in her belly. She wanted to bawl at the severity of it, how such a small caress felt more paramount than anything she'd ever experienced before.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he exhaled, looking pained, like she'd slapped him rather than cried in his truck.

"It's fine, I know," she croaked, trying so desperately not to lean into the big, warm, rough expanse of his palm, which was now cupping the entire left side of her face.

And this was safety in a different way than what she had with Scott, because while this thing between them was still terrifying and new and not allowed, it felt so warm, he made her feel safe in a way that— while not as stable— was sheltered, secure.

He made her feel like he could— would— take care of her.

And Ophelia had never experienced that before, from anyone.

The light turned green, and neither of them noticed until the car behind them laid on its horn, and Joel muttered a curse under his breath before removing his hand from her cheek— a painful departure— and grabbing the steering wheel again, pressing down hard on the accelerator.

"And here I was plannin' to ask you if you wanted to grab drinks or somethin' this weekend," Joel said, as he sped down Woodside, which wrapped around Glen Park, his eyes continually darting over to her, his face still looking pained. "Instead, I made you fuckin' cry."

Ophelia let out a wet laugh.

"I would still like to do that, if you don't hate me now," he said, reaching up with one of his hands to scratch the scruff on his cheek.

A shaky exhale exited her lips before an answer did.

Taking this— whatever this was between them— outside of the job site was sure to be disastrous, but oh god, did she want to say yes, wanted to spend her weekend with him rather than sitting in her living room reading a book or staring wistfully out the window while Scott typed away behind his laptop screen.

"I don't know..." she finally responded, beginning to gnaw on her bottom lip, fingers fiddling with a button on her dress again.

"I promise I won't make you cry again," Joel said, shifting a bit in his seat, his hips moving forward just a couple inches. "I—" he coughed, seemed to strangle the steering wheel while his other hand twitched on his thigh, "I haven't made many friends since movin' out here, it would be nice to grab drinks with someone this weekend rather than chaperoning another tea party."

Friends.

Is that what the two of them were moving toward, from coworkers to friends?

Joel didn't feel like a friend, he felt like something much larger than that, something much riskier.

But she didn't have any friends either, none beyond the red devils, who didn't do much more than tolerate her existence.

"Okay," she breathed out, condemning herself right there in the front seat of his truck, "drinks, as friends."

"Of course," Joel confirmed, but the look he gave her was far too heated to be from a friend.

It was almost like they were both trying to convince themselves that's all this could be.

The fog was dense, thick enough that Joel had to turn on the headlights just as soon as they made their way into the Sunset, and the tears that Ophelia had swallowed over the last few miles dared to return at the bleak state of her neighborhood.

She directed Joel to her house, where their shared Prius was in the driveway, Juliet's Subaru parked out in front, and he pulled to a stop just behind it, surprising her by cutting the engine and getting out before she could even unbuckle her seatbelt.

He opened her door for her, his big body blocking some of the wind as she jumped out.

"I'm sorry, again, for makin' you cry," Joel breathed out, his neck craned down to look at her with those warm eyes that were still plagued with a glossy bit of guilt that made her stomach hurt.

Ophelia shrugged, "I probably needed it."

Joel flashed her a solemn smile, then held out his big hand. "Friends?"

She nodded, putting her hand in his giant, warm one, but instead of shaking it, like she'd expected, he used that grip to tug her into him— the wide, solid wall of his chest— while he leaned down, his hand releasing hers so he could wrap those sturdy arms around her waist.

And Ophelia choked, her tummy cramping tight, her entire body going taut like a board before she felt herself melt into his warmth, the woody scent of his skin so strong that she felt dizzy with it.

"Couldn't stand the sight of you cryin', m'sorry," his voice rumbled, through the top of her head, into her bones, a vibration deep in the root of her core.

And standing there, wrapped up against him, in the middle of her street, in front of the house she shared with her husband, Ophelia felt safe and warm, like she was aboard a life raft for the first time in her life. She couldn't even feel the biting, freezing fog that was whirling around them, could only feel him— sturdy and comfortable, his big arms wrapping even tighter around her, crushing her completely against him for a moment as he straightened his spine enough to bring her feet entirely off the ground.

He set her back down after a moment, released her as she forced her hands to let go of the fabric of his shirt that she hadn't even realized she'd been clinging to. And as she gazed up at him, at the warmth radiating from his features, she felt a little unsteady on her feet, like the foundation beneath her was cracking and crumbling.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Ophelia," he said, just above a whisper, "call me if you need a ride to the job site."

And Ophelia just stood there, trembling, aching from the loss of his warmth as he circled the front of his truck and got in the driver's side. She didn't actually move toward her house until he gave her a confused look through his window, and she realized that he wasn't going to drive off until she made it inside.

So, she walked, on unsteady legs, up her driveway, up the steps of her porch, and through her unlocked front door, finally hearing the roar of his truck as she closed it behind her. She could still smell him, could still feel his arms around her as she kicked off her pumps, as she slid her bag off her shoulder and onto the table next to the couch, where her husband was sitting, face buried in his laptop, paying her absolutely no mind as she floated into the kitchen.

"Effy?" Her sister's voice called out from the living room just as she was taking out a package of ground beef from the fridge.

"Yeah," Ophelia called back, still floating somewhere else, not yet grounded in reality. Her mind was on a constant loop, replaying the moment Joel pulled her into his chest, how it felt to be surrounded by him, wrapped up in him entirely when he'd lifted her feet from the ground for those few seconds that she'd wanted to live in for an eternity.

It was so hard to think about how wrong it was, impossible to let guilt overwhelm her when the sensation of being held by him was still so strong, occupying every inch of her head.

"Didn't even hear you come in with the TV—" Juliet started saying, while her feet padded against the hardwood, getting closer to the kitchen, until she was a few feet away from Ophelia, her words dying on her tongue just as soon as she took in the vision of her sister.

"You're wearing a dress," Juliet exclaimed, her eyes going a little wide.

Ophelia had completely forgotten about her attire, and looked just as surprised as her sister when she glanced down at herself.

"Oh," she breathed out, "yeah, I— I decided to switch it up today."

Juliet flashed her a suspicious stare.

"Decided to switch it up?" her sister repeated, slowly, doubt tinging her tone.

Ophelia nodded, occupying herself with seasoning the beef so Juliet wouldn't see the deceit on her face.

"Right," Juliet scoffed, "I'm too tired to grill you right now, but I haven't seen you wear a dress since your wedding, so something is definitely up."

Ophelia ignored her, which might have been worse than denying it, but what was she supposed to say, when all she could think about right now was him...

So, she made dinner, while continuing to ignore her sister's prying comments, and then she ate alone at the kitchen table, like she always did. Scott didn't notice— or if he did, he didn't say anything— about her bizarre attire, just continued working while shoveling spaghetti into his mouth. Ophelia did the laundry, she picked up the mess Scott had made in the living room, she watered her plants.

Then she went to bed, with something achy and wanting in her lower belly.

And when she reached for her vibrator, hiding the buzzing sound of it under the duvet, where she wiggled her panties down just enough to free her clit, she slipped back into the feeling of being pressed up against him. She imagined those big, calloused hands on her bare waist, imagined the press of his body coming from above her, that rumbling baritone in her ear.

Ophelia came— almost embarrassingly fast— with a cry that she had to muffle with the palm of her hand.

And even still, as she drifted to sleep, just satiated enough to relieve that brutal ache in her core, she did not feel the guilt she should have, the guilt that was owed for clinging to a man that wasn't her husband, for coming to the thought of him.

Because he felt like a life raft.

And Ophelia had been out at sea for so long that she'd started to forget what the shore looked like.

Chapter Text

Polonius:  Mad for thy love?

Ophelia:  My lord, I do not know,
But truly I do fear it.

Joel dragged his hand down his face, over his mouth, calluses scraping against his beard.

"Dad, it's the weekend," Sarah whined, her whole body seeming to deplete, slump down at her cry. "You can't just leave me here, that's not fair."

Sarah was supposed to go to Kelsey's today, that had been the plan for the last week, before he'd even asked Ophelia to go get drinks with him, but an hour before he was supposed to drop her off, Lizzie had called, told him Kelsey was grounded for the weekend.

It didn't seem fair that Kelsey's bad behavior was now his punishment.

"It's so pretty outside— for once— I want to go to the beach, why can't you just invite your friend to the beach with us?" Sarah crooned, her voice lilting with disbelief at the word friend, like even she didn't believe it.

Joel didn't believe it either, but he wasn't about to explain that to his daughter.

She was too young to understand the tribulations of marriage, the agony of finding yourself falling for a woman who was married to a man who did not deserve her.

That was a self-absorbed notion, to believe that Scott did not deserve her but that Joel somehow did. And perhaps he didn't, perhaps there was no man on Earth who could possibly deserve a woman like her, but what he did know was that if Ophelia was his, he would take care of her. He would cook for her and clean for her, wait on her hand and foot, gladly, ecstatically.

Ophelia wasn't his, but it was hard to convince himself that could never be true, impossible to bury his instincts, that base part of him that saw her and ached to claim, to protect, to provide.

He wanted her like he'd been created to.

There'd been a moment when some switch in his brain had flipped, from knowing he couldn't have her, cursing himself for silently condemning her marriage, to wanting to rip her away, and not only to appease the nagging need in his own gut...

He wanted to believe that switch had come that evening last week when he'd driven her home. When she'd admitted that her husband never cooked for her, but he knew it was before then. It had been that afternoon at the park, when he'd watched Scott walk away from her, when he'd watched him ignore her in favor of talking to his friends— that Ashley girl mostly. When he'd watched Ophelia try to drag that ice chest to her car by herself.

Whatever had boiled over inside of him at that moment was still there, sloshing and bubbling in his core, spilling over each and every time he was in her vicinity. He had to work to build up his restraint each time he knew he was going to see her, had to force himself to hold back, to rein in his instincts. He could buy her lunch and drive her home and ask her how her day was, but he could not touch her lower back as they walked together, or pull her to his chest each time she made that face where her eyebrows crumbled together and her plump lips twitched into a slight frown, he could not take her to his house and feed her dinner, fuck her until she lost consciousness, and then bathe her.

He hadn't had someone to take care of like that in so long, and it felt like a piece of him was suffocating, aching for reprieve.

"I don't know, kiddo," Joel breathed out, staring down at his daughter's expectant face. He did not want to disappoint Sarah, he already carried enough guilt as it was, having to leave her alone during the week, half her summer vacation was spent alone in their house. But he'd spent all week building up this day in his head, mentally preparing himself for being alone with Ophelia outside of the job site.

"Just ask her," she huffed, plopping down on the couch, tugging her phone out of her pocket and beginning to scroll.

Just ask her.

Just ask the married woman who he was obsessed with to join him and his daughter for an afternoon at the beach.

It even sounded ridiculous.

But of course, Sarah wouldn't know that, she wasn't privy to the societal boundaries of trying to win over your married coworker.

Still, he didn't know if he could stomach the disappointment should he not see her today.

He let out a sharp breath that seemed to rattle his ribs, then tugged his phone out of his pocket and walked down the hall to his bedroom, staring at her contact— which he'd added to his phone weeks ago, though he hadn't used it to call or text her yet.

He would have to reign himself in even more with his daughter there.

But still, it was better than not seeing her at all, better than having to wait until Monday to see her in only fleeting moments at the job site.

He pressed the call button beneath her name and listened to the line drone, while his heart thudded loud and off-beat in his chest.

"Hello?" When her sweet voice echoed through his phone his heart jackhammered even more intensely at the sound.

"Hey, Ophelia, it's Joel," he said, reaching up to rub the back of his neck as he began to pace the length of his bedroom.

"Oh, hi," she said softly, and he could hear the sound of her walking, hurriedly in the background, then the sound of a door closing. Was she hiding from her husband while she talked to him? That should have made him feel guilty, but it only worked to build something that felt a lot like pride in his chest.

"Slight change of plans," he said with a sigh, "Sarah was supposed to have a play date with her friend today, but her mom just called and cancelled."

"Oh," Ophelia breathed out, and he swore he heard disappointment in that single syllable, but he could have been projecting.

"I'd still really like to see ya," Joel quickly added, "was gonna take Sarah down to the beach, can I pick you up on the way?"

It was quiet for a moment, a bloated moment, and Joel checked to make sure the line was still connected.

"What time?" Ophelia finally asked, and it felt like someone had plugged his veins into a power outlet.

"In thirty minutes or so?" Joel said, glancing down at the watch on his wrist, "Just need to pack some stuff up here."

"I might— maybe I should meet you there, then. I don't have any snacks, and my picnic blanket is still in the dirty hamper, how long are you planning on being there, I could—"

Joel interrupted her spiel with a low chuckle. "You don't have to bring anything, I got it."

"Nothing?" Ophelia asked, and her voice sounded a little stunned, plagued with disbelief, like she thought he was lying to her. "What about sunblock, I could pack something for lunch— what does Sarah like? I have bread, I could make sandwiches, I—"

"Ophelia," Joel breathed out, and her babbling came to an abrupt halt. "I've got it, just bring yourself. I'll shoot you a text when we're on our way over."

"Okay," she said, voice still lilting with disbelief.

"I'll see you in a bit," he said, then disconnected the call and shoved his phone back into his pocket.

He didn't allow himself to harp on the fact that she'd actually said yes, if he did, he would end up overthinking what that meant about the nonexistent them that haunted his waking thoughts. Instead, he focused on packing while Sarah whirled around the house— an excited tornado in a bright purple tankini.

Joel made sandwiches— turkey, of course, on French bread this time— packed them and some drinks into a cooler. He threw sunblock and some bags of chips into a tote. He loaded it all, as well as a large beach blanket and towels into the back of his truck.

It was just warm enough to go to the beach, a mild seventy-three degrees in the Sunset, but certainly not warm enough to brave the frigid temperature of the Pacific Ocean. He doubted that would stop Sarah from forcing him in at some point so he did change into trunks before getting her into his truck.

Then they drove over to Ophelia's, with the windows down and Joel's heart stammering in his chest.

This felt like some family outing that only existed in his delusional daydreams.

He needed, desperately— for his sanity— not to get ahead of himself. She was still married. They were friends.

Despite how terribly he needed some of those, he really didn't want to shove Ophelia into that box. She was too beautiful to be his friend, too tempting and alluring and enigmatic. Like a puzzle he desperately wanted to solve. A ridiculously attractive puzzle— but a complicated one nonetheless. What was it about her husband that had kept her with him for so long, when he didn't cook for her or share chores, when she thought his job was a joke, when she'd cried the one time Joel had— unwarrantedly— brought up the screaming discrepancies in their relationship. Was she just with him for the money? Or was it something to do with her family— who Joel knew little about beyond that she had a younger sister and that her dad moved them around a lot because he couldn't keep a job.

So many questions without answers, questions that multiplied the more time he spent with her.

But the last time he'd asked too many questions he'd made her cry, and that had been agony to witness. And so, despite his nagging curiosity, Joel had promised himself he would let her tell him, on her own terms, no matter that it might take her months before she was comfortable enough to let him see anything that wasn't the polished professional that had designed the Canyon.

When Joel pulled up in front of Ophelia's house she was already outside, waiting for him on the steps that led up to her front door, a tote hanging from her shoulder, her wavy, red hair in a knot on the top of her head, some of those strands framing her pretty face, which looked a little nervous, apprehensive maybe as he shoved his truck into park. She was wearing a light blue tank top— which gave Joel his first completely unobstructed view of her small, rounded shoulders, peppered with freckles just like her cheeks and nose. The top was tight, it hugged her breasts in a manner that made him twitch in his seat, made blood pool in his pelvis as he hurriedly took in the shape of her collarbones, the small view of her cleavage. She had pants on— light, cream colored, a little baggy, though not enough to obscure the delicious curve of her hips. And on her feet were a pair of sandals.

She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever fucking seen.

Ophelia was coming to his car too fast for him to get out and open the door for her, sandals clomping against the pavement, so he settled for leaning over the center console and tugging it open that way, being hit by a wave of her clean, floral scent just as soon as she climbed into his truck.

"Hey," he hummed, swallowing the urge to reach over and pinch one of those loose wavy strands. "Thanks for comin'." He could feel the wide smile on his face, it was impossible to suppress it around her, he always felt like he was smiling like a moron when she was near.

"Thanks for the invite," Ophelia said, then turned, so she could look over her shoulder into the back seat.

"Oh, Ophelia, this is Sarah. Sarah, this is my friend, Ophelia," he said, introducing the two as he craned his own neck to look at his daughter.

She put down her phone just long enough to smile, and give a sweet, nice to meet you, then she was back to scrolling on the damn thing.

"Nice to meet you too," Ophelia chimed, the smile on her face enough to make his stomach cramp.

He'd never introduced his daughter to a woman, mostly because he hadn't dated in years, but also because he couldn't stand to break her heart, to bring a woman into their lives, the glimmering prospect of a mother, only to have her leave, just like Scarlett had.

And here he was... introducing Ophelia— a married woman— to his daughter, as his friend, when he knew he wanted her to be something far more severe than that.

He'd lost his goddamn mind.

Joel pushed his truck back into drive and started down Lawton toward the beach.

"I did bring sunscreen, just in case you forgot," Ophelia said, digging through the tote on her lap, "but I didn't have enough time to go out and grab snacks, so I— we could stop at the Safeway on Noriega, or—"

"Honey, I told you, I got it," Joel said, before he could swallow the endearment, the regret he should have felt unable to take root when her cheeks flared pink. "I made sandwiches, I've got snacks, there's drinks in the cooler back there," he said motioning toward the back of his truck with his chin, "I have a blanket and towels, and believe it or not, I also packed sunscreen."

He just wanted her to relax. It was becoming increasingly obvious to him that Ophelia was usually the one taking care of everything and everyone else. But instead of unwinding, like he'd wanted her to do, she seemed to tense in her seat, her back going rigid, little shoulders squared, like she was about to enter a boxing ring, rather than an afternoon on the beach.

"Sorry," she mumbled, barely audible over the truck's engine and the wind whipping through the cabin. "I—" she paused to let out a sharp breath, "I suppose it's hard for me to relinquish control. I'm usually the one packing everything for stuff like this."

He'd assumed that, but hearing it out of her mouth made his stomach twist into a knot.

Who took care of her, when she was so busy taking care of everyone else?

He wanted to reach over and squeeze her knee, or pet the soft skin of her cheek that he hadn't stopped thinking about since he'd held it in his palm earlier that week, in this very truck. But he twisted his hands around the steering wheel instead, because she was married, and because his daughter was sitting in the back seat.

"Don't gotta apologize," he assured her, glancing over to her before forcing his eyes back to the road. "You don't gotta do all that when you're with me," he said, part of him hoping she could read what was below the surface of that statement.

If you were with me, if you were  mine , you wouldn't have to take care of everyone else. I can take care of you. I want to take care of you.

Ophelia turned in her seat, to look out the window, but Joel could see color creeping up the thin column of her neck out of his peripheral.

He could also see her ring, reflecting the sunlight that was pouring in through the windshield.

It made his jaw twitch.

Joel parked his truck along the sweeping expanse of the Great Highway, the sun baking his back through his t-shirt when he got out and looped around to open the doors for Ophelia and Sarah.

"Can I help carry anything?" Ophelia asked as she followed him around to the back of his truck.

He wanted to punch her husband, for several reasons, one of which being that she thought that was necessary.

"Nope," he shook his head, tugging the tote from the back over his shoulder, then putting the blanket and towels on top of the cooler, before he lifted it from the truck.

His mind replayed that moment at the park, when Scott had left her alone with their cooler, when Ophelia had struggled to even lift the thing before he'd conceded to the boiling thing in his gut and ran over there to help her.

That instance, it seemed, was more commonplace than he'd originally thought.

And that only made him want her even more.

He wanted to show her what it was like to be taken care of, to be doted on, to be able to relinquish control— as she'd said— to someone you trust to be able to do all those things she thought she had to handle alone.

He could do that while they were friends.

But he suspected it all went much deeper than that— her control.

He wondered— not for the first time— what she was like in bed. If that control carried over. If she felt she always needed to be the one to take the lead.

Probably.

He did not allow himself to think about what it would take to break that habit, how he could have her crying and begging and submitting, giving up that control so she could finally allow someone else to orchestrate her pleasure.

If he allowed himself to think about that beyond solely the concept, he was going to lose his mind, he was going to find himself sporting a boner at the beach with his daughter and his married friend.

They crossed over to the beach, Sarah skipping ahead in her pink coverup and flip flops, Ophelia walking at his side, fiddling with the drawstring on her pants because he hadn't let her carry anything.

He set up the blanket in a big empty spot toward the middle of the sprawling beach, while Ophelia stood there, gnawing on her plump bottom lip and twisting that drawstring around her index finger until it was pink. It felt like she was waiting— for him to need her to step in, for him to require her help— and when he didn't, she didn't know what to do with herself.

It made his heart cramp, made his stomach hurt.

As soon as he had the blanket spread out, Ophelia sat down, while Sarah tugged off her coverup and kicked off her sandals.

"I'm gonna go look for shells, dad," his daughter called out, already walking away from them, toward the bubbling shore.

"Don't wander too far," Joel said, as he took a seat on the blanket, "and if you're gonna go in the water, I want you to do it here, not further down the beach."

"I know," she called back, a slightly annoyed tilt to her voice.

Joel shook his head, then turned to pop open the cooler.

"I've got beer," Joel said, turning to glance at Ophelia, who looked slightly more comfortable now that she was sitting and everything was set up. "Water," he continued, "I also packed some juices for Sarah, but I'm sure she could live without one of 'em."

"Beer would be great, thanks," she said, pulling a pair of sunglasses out of her tote and putting them on her face.

Joel plucked one out, popped the lid on it and handed it to her before he took one out for himself.

"Glad ya came, even with the change of plans," Joel said, stretching his legs out and taking a long sip from his can, his gaze glued to her, the way the strands of hair around her face caught the light breeze and fluttered against her pink, freckled cheeks, the pretty, maroon color she'd painted her toenails, which were free from her sandals now, her heels digging into the warm sand, how plush her chest looked in that fucking tank top.

"It's certainly better than what I usually do on the weekends," Ophelia said softly, plucking at the tab on her can.

"Which is what?" he asked, unable to swallow his curiosity.

She shrugged, a small motion of those freckled shoulders. "Scott is usually working on his site. So I— I don't know— read, sometimes I go for a walk in the park."

"By yourself?"

Ophelia nodded.

The beer can in Joel's hand dented under his fingers.

"Call me next time," he said, instead of all the cruel things he wanted to say about her husband, "I'll go walk with ya."

She flashed him a small smile, still not a full smile, he hadn't seen one of those yet, but either way it was so pretty it made his chest hurt.

Ophelia took a long sip from her can, then leaned back on her hands, staring out at the ocean as it roared, bubbling up on the shore in sheets of foamy white. Her bright hair ignited under the sunlight, like it was aflame, a contrast to the delicate features of her profile.

He wanted to ask her so many things, questions that had been bouncing around in his head since that first time she ran into him in the trailer nearly a month ago, but the thought that he might trigger her again, might make her cry for a second time made him want to run straight into that freezing water and drown himself.

He plucked what he thought was a safe question out of the bouncing heap of them.

"Where was your favorite place," he asked, "out of all the places you lived when you were younger?"

Ophelia glanced over at him, seemed to think about it for a minute, then shrugged. "They all kind of bleed into each other, we were never anywhere for very long, so, sometimes I get places mixed up. When I talk to my mom, I'll mention this store we used to go to, or the school I was attending at the time, how it was in Rochester or Springfield or whatever, and then she'll tell me that I'm actually thinking about Allentown or Columbus or some shit."

Joel couldn't imagine that.

He'd grown up in Arlington, moved to Austin when he was twenty-two, moved here when he was thirty-seven. Each place was distinct in his head; each held their own specific memories. The fact that she had not been afforded anything stable until she moved here made his heart feel heavy in his chest.

He had ten years on her and yet, she'd probably lived in five times as many places as he had.

"Were you always in Texas," she asked, "before here?"

Joel nodded.

"That must've been nice," she exhaled, taking another sip from her can. "Do you ever think you'll go back?"

He shrugged, "Maybe, but not until after Sarah graduates."

"She probably doesn't even know how lucky she is," Ophelia mused, voice just above a whisper, still staring out at the ocean.

"Nah," Joel said, then coughed, "she's too busy screaming about whatever sparkly outfit that Harry kid wore yesterday."

Ophelia giggled, and Joel relished in the light, musical sound of it.

It was painful, how much he wanted to tug her to him, move her between his legs, let her lean back against his chest, kiss that soft space that connected her neck to her freckled shoulder, tuck those loose strands of hair behind her ear. The need, the want was brutal, all-consuming, it made him tremble on that blanket, sitting close, but still so far from her.

"You're staring at me again," she said softly, though her gaze did not stray from the waves.

Of course he was, how was he expected to look anywhere else when she was there.

"Sorry," he breathed out, reaching up to wipe the sweat that had collected on his forehead away with the back of his hand. "I don't really know where else to look."

"The ocean, maybe?"

"Not as pretty."

Ophelia shook her head, but Joel could see her cheeks gaining color again. "Shut up," she muttered, taking a long sip from her can.

Joel chugged his, crushed it, grabbed another from the cooler.

He was a piece of shit, for flirting with a married woman, but the hue her cheeks took on when he did was addicting, as was the small smile she always tried to subdue by biting down on her plump bottom lip.

"You know," Ophelia started, still staring out at the waves, "I don't know how to swim," she said, with a huffing laugh that sounded more self-deprecating than anything else. "I mean not properly. With all the moving we did, I guess there just wasn't any time to teach me. I didn't learn how to ride a bike until I was thirteen either, and that was only because Juliet wanted to learn, so I had to figure it out myself before I could teach her."

Joel swallowed hard, staring at her as she stared out at the water.

What else had she been deprived of? What experiences had she been robbed of while she was busy taking care of everyone else?

"I love the ocean," she continued, her voice going a little sad, a little dreamy, "but I've never been in past my ankles. Well, I mean— one time I did, with Scott. We were in Hawaii, at this beautiful beach, and I wanted to go in the water so badly. He promised me he wouldn't let me drown, so I went in with him," she paused for a moment, shaking her head, still staring out at the water, like it was a beautiful reminder of whatever horror she was about to recount.

"As soon as the water was to my knees I got pulled under. It all happened so fast, but I— it felt like I was under water for ages before there was enough of a break in the current for me to get my footing."

Ophelia grabbed her can, drained the thing before she spoke again.

"And Scott was just standing there, looking horrified, of course, but— I haven't mustered the courage to go back in after that."

Joel's jaw clicked, while his can crunched audibly beneath the firm grip of his hand, while his gut boiled and sloshed, an amalgamation of anger and disappointment and commiseration all swirling together into one bitter thing.

"Did you bring a swim suit?" he asked, after a moment of bloated silence that was filled only by the roaring of the ocean, the call of gulls flying in sweeping strokes above them.

"What?" Ophelia spat out, finally turning to look over at him, her mouth agape, but most of her shock hidden by her sunglasses.

"Did you bring a suit?" Joel repeated, while tugging off his shoes.

"I'm wearing one under my clothes, but Joel— I'm not— I can't go in the water, I only wore it in case it got too hot and I needed to—"

"Do you want to go in?" he asked, pausing the motion of removing his shoes to look straight into her eyes, even though they were still concealed by her sunglasses. "If you knew you weren't going to get swept under, would you go in?"

Ophelia was twisting that drawstring around and around her finger again, gnawing on her bottom lip, facing him, even though it was unclear where exactly she was looking.

After a long moment of silence, she nodded, the motion so slight it was almost imperceptible.

"Then let's go," he said simply, tugging the other shoe from his foot, stuffing his sock into it, then pulling his shirt off and balling it up on the blanket.

"Joel," she squeaked his name, "I can't, I told you, I don't know how to swim, I'll get pulled under and there's no lifeguards here, I—"

"Hey," he said softly, interrupting her spiral with a shake of his head, "I won't let that happen. I promise."

He said it as severely as he felt it, and while it wasn't lost on him that it had been the same thing her husband had said, Joel knew she would be safe with him. He'd taught Sarah how to swim when she was three, had spent countless hours with her at the river back in Austin, down at the Gulf, and here, at this very beach. He would very well drown himself purposefully than let her fears come to fruition.

"If I get pulled under, I'm killing you, Swinerton will have to find a new foreman to complete the Canyon," she murmured, while tugging that drawstring on her pants loose.

Joel chuckled, but that boiling thing in his gut was giving way to something light and fluttery as she pulled her tank top off, revealing a dark blue, strapless one-piece underneath. It was tight, accentuating her chest, the curve of her waist, and when she stood up to take her pants off, Joel felt his breath get lodged somewhere in his throat at the cut of the thing— high on her hips, the back of it digging into her plush backside.

He had to take a deep breath, avert his eyes to try to cease the flow of blood toward his cock. He needed to be fully coherent, not flustered and horny, but God she was beautiful.

She threw her sunglasses down on the blanket, and Joel garnered enough restraint to look over at her again, keeping his gaze on her face— and the apprehension, the fear tainting those pretty green eyes was enough to force him to push down that boiling heat in his pelvis.

"Come on," he said, nodding toward the bubbling shore.

As they walked through the hot sand, Joel looked down the beach for his daughter, who was about thirty feet down the shore, leaning over to gather a sand dollar.

"Baby girl," he shouted, and Sarah's head popped up. "we're gonna go in."

"I'm still looking for shells," she shouted back.

"If you're gonna go in the water, come over to us."

"I know," she groaned.

Joel looked over and down at Ophelia. "Raising a pre-teen is the biggest blow to a man's ego."

She didn't laugh at that like he had hoped, just flashed him a nervous smile before her eyes snapped back to the shore.

"Hey," he cooed, lowering his head so he was closer to her height, hoping to catch her gaze without reaching out to touch her like he so desperately wanted. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

Her gaze pinged over to him, then bounced between his eyes, while she gnawed on her bottom lip and nodded, a little cautiously.

He would just have to prove it to her then, that was appearing to be the case with most things when it came to her. She did not seem to take anyone at their word, she needed proof, and perhaps that was because Scott's promise to not let her drown hadn't been a singular incident, but a theme.

That only kicked his instincts into overdrive.

Ophelia moved closer to his side when they reached the lapping shore, just their toes getting hit by the rolling tide, the water cold enough that Joel felt it buzz all the way up his spine and into his skull.

"It's freezing," she spat out, her head darting over to look up at him with even more alarm plaguing her features.

"Once we get in further, it won't be so bad," he assured her, taking a small step forward, then waiting for her to do the same. When they were up to their ankles, the water sucking their feet into the sand each time the tide rolled out, Ophelia let out a little squeal, her left hand darting out toward him, little hand taking a tight hold of his forearm. The small touch was dizzying, like an electrical current through his extremity.

"I got you," he hummed, gathering her small hand in his, transferring it to his own hand and gently squeezing. "As soon as we get in past your knees, I want you to jump right as each wave comes in, alright?"

"What?!" she spat out, looking up at him with wide eyes, her fingers squeezing his hand tight.

"You want to go over the wave or under it, when it hits your center of gravity that's when you get knocked off your feet and sucked under."

Her eyes went even wider, like they might pop from her skull, bright, raw fear swimming in those green irises.

"I told you," he hummed, leaning over a bit so he was closer to her eye level, " I'm not gonna let that happen, even if it does hit you straight on, alright?"

He allowed himself to caress the back of her hand with his thumb, sweeping strokes from her knuckles down to her wrist, where he could feel her pulse fluttering, drumming madly beneath that soft, delicate skin.

"Okay," she trembled, still visibly anxious, but allowing him to lead her further into the water.

When Ophelia was waist deep, the water lapping around Joel's hips, he went to move behind her and she panicked, scrambling for his arm again.

"I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere," Joel said softly, permitting himself to take her waist in his hands, resisting the urge to use that grip to tug her straight back into him. "I'm gonna guide your jumps, alright? I've got a hold of you, you're not gonna get swept out."

Ophelia nodded urgently, her body trembling in his hands— from the frigid water, her nerves, or from him, touching her, he didn't know— but he relished in how close she was, how perfectly the curve of her waist fit in his palms.

Joel forced his attention up, away from her and toward the tide. As soon as the first wave came rolling in, he steadied himself. With their height difference, he was in a position where he didn't have to worry about the waves sucking him out, he could stay standing in place and use his grip on her waist to help lift her up, let her ride over the waves as they came in.

And that's what he did, as the first wave approached, he leaned down, his grip on her waist firm as he shouted, "Jump!"

Ophelia did, right on time, riding over the wave as he kept his hands securely on her waist.

"See, easy, right?" Joel asked, raising his voice over the drone of the tide.

Ophelia turned her head, so she could look back at him from over her shoulder, and then she smiled. A full, bright smile that made her entire face light up, the vision of it making Joel's chest cramp, his heart fluttering madly against the cage of his ribs.

She smiled.

A real smile, a full one.

He'd made her do that.

It felt— not like Joel was treading water— but floating, untethered and absolutely giddy.

__________

Five years ago, when Ophelia had been tugged out into the ocean, pulled under and tossed around, thrashing and clawing, trying to break her way through to the surface when she couldn't even tell which way was up, she never imagined getting in the water again. Not like this, certainly never the ocean again.

But here she was, waist deep, the frigid water not so unbearable now that she'd gotten acclimated, Joel's big hands still on her, warm and solacing, an anchor each time she rode one of those waves, her belly swooping, her chest feeling lighter than it had in years.

Maybe ever.

She was drunk on that feeling, intoxicated and ecstatic under the warm sun.

And her traitorous mind wondered, for a moment, if it could always be like this. If she wasn't bogged down by responsibilities, if she wasn't chained to a man who had let her drown.

The thought didn't stay alive for long, not as another wave came rolling in and Ophelia jumped over it, Joel's hands firm and warm on her waist, her belly swooping again as she was carried up and then back down as the wave crashed onto the shore behind them.

A giggle burst out of her on its own accord as her feet landed back down in the sand, and she heard Joel match it, with a low, rumbling chuckle behind her.

He'd given her this.

This light feeling in her chest, the euphoria that was practically teeming out of her, enough security, enough reassurance that she was in the ocean, for the first time in five years.

She wished she could kiss him.

But she couldn't do that, even though the want was dizzying, so weighty it felt like something solid lodged in her core. Instead, she turned around just as another one of those waves helped lift her up, and threw her arms around the back of his neck. Because they were friends, and friends could hug.

But nothing about their hug was friendly.

Not the way he wrapped his arms tight around her waist, lifting her out of the water. Not the way she whispered thank you into his ear before letting her face fall onto one of those broad shoulders, his bare sun kissed skin warm against her cheeks. Certainly not the way Joel turned his head to bury his own face in her hair. Not the way her belly cramped and fluttered, or the way her pelvis coiled tight. None of it was friendly, all of it was white-hot and fervent, burning with something unquenched between them, a desire so palpable it felt like a living thing, screaming for reprieve.

"You're freezing," Joel whispered, his voice a low rumble, so close to her neck, to her ear, that she felt arousal pool in her lower belly at the sound. "Let's get you out, dried off, don't want you to go hypothermic on me."

Ophelia nodded against him, expecting him to set her down then, but he didn't, he carried her completely out of the water, his solid frame radiating heat into her shivering body. She hadn't even realized how cold she was, too caught up in the euphoria of being in the water, but now that she was out, and the light breeze was biting at her wet skin, it felt about twenty degrees colder outside than it had when she was sitting on the blanket.

Joel didn't set her down until they were on dry sand, about ten feet away from the lapping shore. He smiled as he did, closed-lipped and slight, but there was so much warmth in his irises that it made her cheeks bloom with color that she could feel— all tingly and hot. Then he led her back to the blanket with one of those big, warm hands resting between her shoulder blades, his palm on her bare skin, solid and steadying, but not enough. She wanted to be wrapped up against him again, wanted to cocoon herself in his lap on that blanket, rest her head on the firm, wide expanse of his bare chest.

She'd been too nervous before, when he first took his shirt off, to really take in the vision, but now, with her belly swirling with heat and her chest light and unburdened, he was all she could see.

Tall and tan and riddled with strength. His chest looked even wider without a shirt on, the dark hair there trailing all the way down to the waistband of his trunks. His shoulders appeared broader too, somehow, his tan arms corded with muscle. The portion of his hairy lower belly, right above the waistband of his trunks was more pliant, soft, and she tried to bury the desire to rest against it, to nuzzle her face there like a cat. And now that his shorts were wet, clinging to his thick, hairy thighs, she could see the shape, the heavy bulge of his cock, the image so erotic it nearly made her whimper, while her pelvis wound into a tight knot, wet, sticky arousal flooding onto the fabric of her suit, her pussy suddenly so sensitive that each step she made had the sodden fabric rubbing against her clit in a manner that hurt.

When they reached the blanket, Joel leaned over, snatching up one of the towels he'd brought, but instead of handing it to her, he stepped toward her, those warm, brown eyes locked on her, her neck craned to look up at him as he wrapped the warm cotton around her shoulders, rubbing more warmth into her arms with his big palms.

She knew she was blushing, but could do nothing to halt it. He did something to her she'd never experienced before. He steadied something inside of her that had always felt loose and erratic. It was why she'd followed him into the water even though she'd been terrified, it was why she'd agreed to come out with him today even though deep down she knew that it was wrong, it was why no matter how desperately she tried, she could not ignore him.

"Better?" he asked, those big hands still holding onto her arms.

She nodded, afraid that if she opened her mouth to speak, she might beg him to hold her again.

That wasn't her. She wasn't like this.

Or maybe she was.

Maybe she always had been.

Everything was so confusing and terrifying and dizzying that all Ophelia could do was stand there and stare up at him, this enigmatic, gravitating man who had crashed into her life without warning and completely upheaved everything, unearthed her buried fears, all those nagging resentments, lit a fire to her neglected desire.

It wasn't fair.

Why now, after she was married? Why not before, why not in a different life, one where she was less mangled by her past, one where she wasn't tied to so many people who needed her to be the strong one and the steady one and the responsible one. She wasn't someone who could get a divorce and start over, she wasn't someone who could have an affair. She was too old and too set in her ways and he was too transformative for someone like her.

Someone so scared.

Someone so chained.

Joel flashed her a soft smile, then let his hands drop from her arms, stepping back and sitting down on the blanket with a low grunt.

Ophelia sat down too, letting her towel pool up on her lap, shivering as the breeze nipped at her arms.

"Still cold?" Joel asked, immediately, like he was studying each move that she made.

"I'm fine," she said, with a small shake of her head.

She watched his eyebrows pinch together, while his eyes bounced down to her arms, then back up to her face.

"Here," he said, grabbing his abandoned shirt, "s'not much, but it'll be warmer than your tank top. I should have brought a couple jackets, m'sorry."

It was ridiculous that he was apologizing, like it was somehow his responsibility to make sure she was taken care of.

But isn't that what he'd been doing from the beginning? Making sure she ate, making sure she got home, making sure she didn't drown in the ocean.

"Really, Joel, I'm fine," she tried to assure him, but he just shook his head, still holding that shirt out for her.

She sighed and took it, muttering out a thanks as she pulled the warm, too big thing over her head. It smelled like him— woody and masculine— and she had to swallow the urge to bury her face in it.

He popped open the cooler then, pulling out three sandwich bags, whatever was inside wrapped in paper towels. "Another beer?" he asked, and she nodded.

He handed her one, took one out for himself.

"Sandwich?" he asked, holding up one of those plastic baggies. "Turkey, on French this time."

She almost wanted to be mad at him, for how attentive he was, how caring, how he made her feel like she could turn her brain off and let someone else be in charge.

For once.

"Thanks," she said softly, taking it from him when he held it out to her.

He nodded, then turned his head, squinting his eyes to stare down the shore. "Sarah!" he called out, and his daughter lifted her head from where she was crouched over, inspecting a broken scallop shell. "Come eat, baby girl."

She didn't put up a fight, or complain, just dropped that broken shell and began walking through the sand toward them, her hands cupped into a bowl, which she held out in front of her, until she reached them, where she plopped down next to Joel and let the shells she'd collected spill out onto the blanket.

"Look! I found four whole sand dollars!" she exclaimed, picking them up and shoving them in her father's face.

"Very cool, kiddo," he said, with a soft smile that made Ophelia's tummy cramp.

She opened the plastic baggie, unwrapped the sandwich inside before taking a bite. It was simple— turkey on sliced French, mustard, mayo, provolone, lettuce, and tomato— but it was so good. And maybe that was because it was homemade, because Joel had spent the time making it for her, packing it, ensuring— as always— that she ate. No one had done that for her since she was a kid.

He took care of her in a way she hadn't even been cared for then— when she was a child trapped in the middle of her parent's tumultuous relationship, constantly packing up and moving, frequently fighting over her dad's lack of stability. Then Juliet had come, and Ophelia was robbed of the remainder of her childhood, forced to be a stand-in mom while their own mother worked overtime to keep their family afloat.

And that was a part of that terrifying thing he had awoken in her— that buried and repressed child who had been forced to grow up too fast, who had to mediate her parent's fights at six, who had been forced to make dinner for the family when she was twelve, who was expected to pick up and drop off her sister at school and piano lessons and play dates when she was sixteen.

She'd been an adult for far longer than she'd been allowed to be a kid.

But Joel made her feel small, and taken care of, in a way that was perhaps a bit perverse all things considered.

Ophelia tried to bury that again, took another bite of her sandwich, turned a bit to look over at Sarah and Joel, both eating from their own baggies now.

"Your dad told me you're a big Harry Styles fan," Ophelia said, flashing a smile when Sarah's hazel eyes flicked up to her.

She nodded, chewing, looking a little shy, a little cautious, and Ophelia couldn't blame her. She was just some random woman her father had let crash their weekend plans.

"My little sister was super into One Direction when she was younger, do you listen to them too?"

Another nod, but this time Sarah sat up straighter, gave Ophelia more of her attention.

"I saw them in concert with her in 2012."

"The Up All Night tour?!" Sarah stammered excitedly, the remainder of her sandwich now sitting abandoned in her lap.

Ophelia nodded with a smile.

"You're so lucky!" Sarah bleated, bouncing a bit in her seat, "Did they play One Thing, that's my favorite!"

"Is that the one that goes, so, get out, get out, get out of my head?" she asked, singing that bit and then watching Sarah nod urgently.

"God that's so cool! I was only four when Zayn left the band," she groaned, then turned to Joel, who was staring at the two of them with something almost pained glossing over his eyes, something pained and wistful, something that made Ophelia stomach cramp. "You should have had me earlier, dad, I missed out on seeing the greatest band in the world."

Joel chuckled, then shook his head, but that strange expression was still occupying his features. "I wasn't even alive for the greatest band in the world, kiddo. That was the Beatles in the sixties."

Sarah scoffed, rolled her eyes and turned back to Ophelia. "I'm seeing Harry Styles in September! At the Masonic!"

The girl's enthusiasm was contagious, and Ophelia found herself smiling back at her, the pressure of it enough that her cheeks hurt.

"That's awesome, do you know what you're gonna wear yet?"

Sarah shook her head, "I need something sparkly and pink. Dad told me he would take me shopping, maybe you could come?!"

Ophelia's heart seized in her chest, while her eyes bounced up to Joel, who only smiled at her, that unreliable expression still painted on his face.

"I'd love to come," she breathed out, her gaze lowering to Sarah, "if that's alright with your dad."

"S'more than alright," Joel said, before Sarah could even turn around and ask. "Ophelia is more than welcome to come," he hummed, and Ophelia could feel his warm gaze on her without having to look back up at him.

Sarah smiled brightly, took a bite of her sandwich, then let the thing plop back down into her lap. "Have you listened to Harry's new album?"

Ophelia nodded, even though she had not listened to it of her own volition, but she had heard it on repeat whenever Juliet was in the car with her, or at the park, or dancing around her living room.

"What's your favorite song? Mine is Grapejuice."

"I like the first one, Music for a Sushi Restaurant."

"That one is so good too! Have you seen the music video? It's so funny and weird."

Ophelia shook her head, and Sarah wasted no time, grabbing her phone from the blanket and pulling it up, scooting over toward Ophelia and holding the phone between them, while the bright opening music starting playing, and Harry was portrayed as some kind of merman, octopus-humanoid about to get chopped up and served in a grimy looking sushi restaurant.

Her eyes lifted from the screen, to Joel, who flashed her such a warm smile she could almost feel it, radiating in the space between them.

She felt color crawl up her neck, to spread out over her cheeks as she lowered her gaze again to watch the rest of the video.

"Isn't that cool?" Sarah asked, as the video wrapped and she locked her phone, tossing it back onto the blanket.

"Very cool," Ophelia nodded, with a smile.

Sarah scooted back to her previous position, grabbing her sandwich and taking a bite, swallowing before she spoke again. "My best friend Kelsey and me, when we're older we're gonna get matching Harry Styles tattoos."

Ophelia grinned.

Juliet had said the same thing when she was twelve, but she never did get that One Direction tattoo. At least not yet.

"What are you guys gonna get?" Ophelia asked, her eyes flicking over to Joel, who shook his head, dragging his hand over his mouth.

"TPWK," the girl said, enunciating each individual letter, "it means treat people with kindness, it's kinda like his motto."

"That's very sweet, what a great tattoo idea," Ophelia said, her lips twisting into a smirk when Joel shook his head at her.

"See dad!" Sarah exclaimed, turning to glare at him, "I told you! Your friend is cooler than you."

Ophelia dropped her head to conceal her smile at that.

And even with the weighty guilt in her gut, and the sloshing fear of getting too close to this man who felt like an atom bomb, Ophelia's chest still felt lighter than it had in ages, sitting there on the beach with the two of them, no longer quite so afraid of the tide.

Chapter Text

"Conscious does make cowards of us all"

Ophelia stirred a pot full of pasta, folding in the pesto and the sun-dried tomatoes and the kalamata olives while her mother continued prattling on behind her, where she was slumped back against the counter, Juliet standing next to her, nursing a glass of white wine.

"And anyways, I asked your father— I really did ask him, girls, at least three times— to start the laundry and do you know what I found when I got home, eight hours later?"

"Let me take a wild guess, the laundry was still in the hamper?" Juliet muttered.

"Worse!" Kimberly exclaimed, her hands flying into the air, her red hair seeming to ignite at the fury portrayed on her face. "All the clothes were still sitting, sopping wet in the washer, he never moved them over to the dryer. I had to wash them a second time because they had started to smell of mildew."

"Ridiculous," Juliet mumbled.

"Ridiculous!" their mother parroted, in a loud screech.

"Pasta is ready," Ophelia announced, choosing to ignore her mother's story, because it was not unlike the thousands she'd heard before.

"Chris, did you hear that!" Kimberly shouted with a roll of her eyes, "Dinner is ready! Why don't you turn that noise off and come sit down with us!"

Ophelia heard her father grunt, from where he was sitting in their adjacent living room watching baseball, but the drone of the television did not cease.

"He drives me crazy, he really does," her mother muttered, sitting down at their small kitchen table next to Juliet while Ophelia worked to dish out the pasta into the bowls she'd set out earlier.

"He reminds me of this other man I know," Juliet crooned, her gaze flicking up to Ophelia, who rolled her eyes before turning around to deposit the pot back on the stove.

She sat down next to her father's vacant chair, taking a deep breath while her mother and Juliet continued babbling, their shared annoyance only working to egg each other on.

"Did you know that Scott doesn't even know how to do the laundry?" Juliet mumbled through a mouthful of pasta.

"That's his parent's fault. I never did like them. So uppity. Did you know Lisa once told me that she refuses to use silverware at restaurants unless it's a Michelin star?" Kimberly chimed with a roll of her eyes and an exaggerated groan.

"At their wedding, she told me she hasn't touched an appliance since 1990."

"Absolutely ludicrous," their mother muttered.

"You know, I'm sitting right here," Ophelia finally voiced, fork paused halfway between the bowl and her mouth.

"Oh, I know, sweetie, I'm sorry. Your sister and I are being catty," her mother reached over to rub Ophelia's shoulder, gave her an apologetic smile, then her eyes narrowed as she directed her gaze over to the living room, raising her voice to a shout again. "Chris! Come eat, goddammit!"

"After this inning," her father called back.

"You know, he's gotten so fat because he never leaves that recliner," Kimberly grumbled, shaking her head as she stabbed a piece of pasta harder than necessary, the prongs making a grating noise as they scraped against the ceramic bowl. "Ophelia, darling, how's that big project of yours going?"

She shrugged, keeping her eyes on her bowl, her stomach twisting tight with nerves at the prospect of discussing the Canyon with her mother, mostly because the Canyon was so closely intertwined with Joel.

It'd been a week since she went to the beach with him and Sarah, and in that time, they'd developed a kind of routine amidst the slow construction of the Canyon. Every morning, when Ophelia arrived, Joel was there, in the portable. He would pour her coffee and they would chat for a few minutes, sometimes up to a half hour if his team was running behind. Then at lunch, he would come back into the portable, force her off her laptop and out to lunch with him. Sometimes they went to one of the restaurants nearby, sometimes Joel packed lunch and they ate at the benches along the pier, but one way or another he always made certain that she ate, it was incredibly important to him for some reason. When Scott needed their car, Joel drove her home. It was starting to feel— even though she lived with her husband— that she saw Joel more often than she did Scott. And Ophelia tried to bury all the guilt surrounding that notion under the premise that her and Joel were friends.

She was allowed to have friends.

Even if that friend was devastatingly attractive, even if he occupied too many of her waking thoughts, even if she frequently found herself fantasizing about him in a not very friendly way.

They were just that— fantasies. Nothing would ever come of them because nothing was allowed to come of them, and Ophelia had always been a strict rule follower.

"It's going fine, slowly but surely. We're starting framing next week," she said, while pushing her pasta around her bowl.

"Ophelia has a crush on one of the men she works with," Juliet sang, in a teasing tone, a smirk painted on her face when Ophelia's gaze snapped up to her.

She could feel her cheeks burning. It felt like the oxygen in the room had been sucked out in a giant vacuum, like the walls were rapidly closing in on her.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she spat out, and it sounded too defensive as it echoed back into her head.

Juliet scoffed, "Then who was that man who drove you home last week? Is he the reason you've been wearing dresses to work?"

"He's my friend, Juliet," Ophelia retorted, cheeks still blazing, her heart drumming against her ribs like it wanted to burst free and relieve her of this torment with a swift death.

She should've known this wouldn't get past her sister. While Juliet was a little chaotic, spontaneous and wild, she was also observant, nosy, especially when it came to her sister's private life.

"You made a friend?" Kimberly butted in, "that's wonderful, sweetie!"

"Men and women can't be friends," Juliet scoffed, then forked another piece of pasta, chewing before swallowing the remainder of the wine in her glass.

"That's not true, Scott has female friends," Ophelia said, still working to try to will her cheeks back to a normal color.

"Pfft," Juliet blew air out of her lips, "he's slept with all of them."

Kimberly choked, devolving into a coughing fit as Ophelia got up to get her mother a glass of water.

When she came back, setting the glass on the table in front of Kimberly, who took a long sip, she shot Juliet a glare, but her sister only smiled sweetly, then went back to eating her pasta.

"So," Kimberly started once Ophelia was seated again and she'd fully recovered from her coughing fit, "tell us about this friend."

Even the way her mother said the word friend sounded unconvincing.

This was hell— worse than the fire and brimstone preached about by her maternal grandmother, who had attended church every Sunday until she died of a stroke when Ophelia was fifteen. You couldn't pray away a stroke, you also couldn't pray away your mother and sister's prying questions, apparently.

"There's nothing to tell," Ophelia mumbled, staring into her bowl. "He's the foreman for the construction team; we have to work together closely to get the Canyon built according to our blueprints."

That was true, however they were not required to get lunch together every day, not expected to hang out on the weekends, there was nothing in their contract that said Joel needed to drive her home on days in which she did not have her car.

"Does this foreman have a name?" Juliet asked, with a provocative wiggle of her eyebrows.

Ophelia narrowed her eyes at her, but both her sister and her mother just sat there, expectantly, waiting for an answer.

"His name is Joel," she breathed out, her heart stammering at just the mention of his name.

"Hot name," Juliet winked.

Now it was their mother who shot Juliet a stern look before turning her attention back to Ophelia. "I'm glad you made a friend, sweetie."

"Thanks," she muttered, shoving some pasta into her mouth even though she was no longer hungry at all.

It was bad enough lying to herself, but to her mother, to Juliet. It all made her feel a little sick.

But Joel was her friend, because that's all he could be.

That thought made her feel sick as well.

"Chris!" Kimberly blurted again— always without warning— banging her fist on the table, the motion causing all four bowls to rattle. "Your pasta is going to be cold!"

"Jesus Christ," her father muttered, and she could hear the shuffling of him getting up, walking through the living room, finally coming into view— his gray hair mussed, his too small t-shirt stretched over his belly, his bare feet shoved into a pair of slippers.

He grabbed his bowl, then immediately began walking back into the living room.

"You're not even going to sit with us?" Kimberly barked.

"It's tied in the top of the ninth, Kim, Giants have Yastrzemski coming up," her father said, like that meant anything to them.

"I fucking hate baseball," her mother muttered.

"I don't mind their tight little pants," Juliet mused with a dreamy smile.

Ophelia shook her head before letting it hang on her neck.

Their father exited the room as quickly as he'd entered, shoveling pasta into his mouth as he did. The most she'd gotten from him when she entered her parent's home was a distracted hello and a half-hug that he didn't even stand from his recliner to deliver. It wasn't disappointing anymore, just expected. It was hard for something to be disappointing when it was all she'd ever known. Her father had never been very involved in their lives. Between job hopping and baseball season and football season and hockey season he didn't have much spare time or attention to give. All Ophelia and Juliet's presents growing up— for birthdays and Christmas and graduations— had been handpicked by their mother, with their dad's name scribbled at the bottom of the card like an afterthought. He couldn't even throw money at their problems like most absent fathers, because their mother was the family breadwinner. And sometimes Ophelia felt very sorry for him because of that. It was surely a little humiliating, emasculating to have to rely on your wife for everything. But that in itself was a traditionalist notion, she shouldn't feel sorry for her father for being distracted and incompetent, she should empathize with her mother for being stuck in a marriage where she was forced to do and be everything.

Sometimes she didn't understand why her mother had married her father at all, why she was still with him, thirty-two years later. They'd never been an affectionate couple. It was very rare that Ophelia saw them kiss or hug growing up. It was all a lot of yelling, fighting, slamming doors and grumbled accusations.

What a miserable existence.

When they finished eating, Ophelia rinsed their bowls, loaded them into the dishwasher. The baseball game had ended, replaced by the monotonous recap, and her father was now snoring, the empty bowl of pasta precariously placed in his lap, his head tilted back on the recliner, his mouth hanging open.

"Wine, Effy?" Juliet asked, grabbing the bottle from the fridge and refilling her glass, pouring one for their mother.

Ophelia shook her head.

She wanted to go home.

Being around her family was always exhausting, and bringing Joel into the conversation only made it that much more taxing. She needed to go home, go to sleep, try to forget the sly look her sister had shot her, like she could see straight into Ophelia's head.

If she could— see into her head, that was— she was sure Juliet would be delighted that her boring older sister finally had something exciting going on in her life, thrilled at even the prospect of her cheating on Scott.

But that's not what she was doing, not what she was going to do.

They were just friends.

"I think I'm gonna head out," Ophelia said, drying her hands on a dish towel, interrupting Juliet and her mother who had begun discussing Juliet's Virginia Woolf class. Their conversation abruptly stopped as they both turned to face her.

"You're not going to stay the night? I made up the guest bed for you and Juliet."

Ophelia shook her head, trying to swallow the knot of guilt that was working its way up from her gut. "Sorry, I'm just tired, and I should make sure Scott's eaten."

Juliet did not hide her eye roll at that.

"Alright, sweetie, I understand," her mother said, before standing up, walking over to envelope Ophelia in a hug. "Don't be a stranger," she said into her shoulder.

"Never am," Ophelia replied, flashing her mother a smile when she let her go.

She slung her purse over her shoulder from where it was sitting on the counter, then turned to Juliet.

"Tell your husband I said learn how to boil water," Juliet said with a sly grin.

Ophelia rolled her eyes.

"Can I come over on Monday?"

"Of course," Ophelia nodded.

After another round of goodbyes from her mother and Juliet, Ophelia was out the door, with a glance over her shoulder at her snoring father.

Her stupid Bluetooth started playing ABC as she navigated out of her parent's neighborhood, toward the freeway entrance and she let out a deep sigh as she reached over to turn the volume down.

It was a forty-minute drive back into the city and the sun was at the point in the sky where it was pouring straight through her windshield, bright and unwavering, causing her to fumble around in her purse for her sunglasses while she drove with one hand and squinted enough to make out the color of the stop lights.

She already knew what the scene was going to be when she got home and she was dreading it. Scott would be on his laptop, on the couch as usual. He would not have eaten yet even though Ophelia gave him a rundown of all the leftovers they had in the fridge before she left. The dishes would still be stacked in the sink. The bed would still be unmade. The living room would be accumulated with coffee cups and pastry bags. And instead of asking how her day had been, when Ophelia walked through the door, she knew Scott would either barely acknowledge her, or ask her what was for dinner.

It felt like she was driving back to a hell just as unbearable as the one she was driving away from, and part of her felt like staying there, in the car, indefinitely, a limbo between two purgatories.

She drove as slowly as she could stand just to put off her arrival, the volume on her stereo still turned all the way down as her Bluetooth churned through all the songs that started with an A in her library.

Ophelia was twenty minutes away from San Francisco's southern border when her phone buzzed in her purse, Joel's name lighting up the screen on her dash, and the way her heart jumped in her chest was a little humiliating.

She turned the volume back up before she pressed the accept button on the screen.

"Hey," she breathed out, hands trembling a little on the steering wheel now.

"Hey," his brassy baritone rumbled through her speakers and her heart jumped again. "You drivin'?"

"Yeah, just heading back to the city from my parent's house."

"Any plans tonight?" he asked then, and the prospect of her evening turning from the purgatory she was headed toward to anything else, anything with him made her insides vibrate.

"No, nothing," she said, trying to keep her voice light.

"Sarah's at a sleepover, thought we could go out for those drinks we missed out on last weekend."

Ophelia felt her lips inch up into a smile.

"Okay, yeah," she said, trying to dampen down the excitement in her voice and failing.

"Great!" he said, with just as much enthusiasm and she felt her smile grow. "How far out are ya?"

"Maybe twenty-five minutes."

"Wanna meet at my house and then I can drive us somewhere?"

Ophelia nodded, realized he couldn't see her, then felt her cheeks burn as she said yes.

"What're you feelin? Dive bar? Cocktail bar?"

She chewed on her bottom lip as she answered, "Anything is fine."

"Pick one and I'll find a place," he insisted.

"No really, I'm fine with whatever," she assured him.

"Dive or cocktail bar, Ophelia?" he urged again.

No one else in her life cared what she wanted. In fact, she was so used to doing what everyone else wanted that Ophelia didn't really even know what she wanted herself.

"Cocktail," she spat out, without really thinking about it.

"Great," he hummed, and she could hear the smile in his voice, could almost imagine it— the way his eyes would squint, how that dimple burrowed itself into his scruffy right cheek— the image made her stomach flutter. "I'll see you soon, drive safe, alright?"

"I will," she breathed, too blissed out to turn the volume back down on her stereo when his voice was replaced by All Along the Watchtower crooning through her speakers.

No longer headed toward another purgatory, Ophelia found herself humming along to the song, a slight smile on her face as she sped up 280 toward the city.

__________

Ophelia didn't have Joel's address, just knew that he lived on 32nd, between Pacheco and Quintara, but his house wasn't hard to find— a typical beige stucco, with a large bay window and green shutters, his distinct white pickup parked in the driveway.

She parked in an empty spot across the street, taking a deep breath to calm her pounding heart as she sent a quick text to Scott, telling him she would be home later than anticipated. Why she didn't tell him she was getting drinks with a friend rather than still being at her parent's house was not something she was willing to dissect at that moment.

She stuffed her phone back into her purse before she could overthink it, got out of her car and crossed the street, heart fluttering in her chest as she climbed the porch steps and rang his doorbell.

She could hear the heavy thud of his boots hitting the floor, then he was there, tugging open the door, dressed in a plain blue t-shirt and a pair of jeans, his hair damp, like he'd just gotten out of the shower, further confirmed by the flushed skin of his neck, which looked so warm that she trembled at the sight, the irresistible urge to press her face against that flush skin bubbling up in her core.

"Hey," he smiled, that dimple emerging on his cheek as he stepped to the side. "Come on in, just gotta grab a jacket and my wallet."

Ophelia stepped into his house, trying not to be too obvious as she glanced around at the space. What she could see was warm, homey, clean. A big, brown leather couch in the living room, a modest floor rug, a bookshelf, a large television, an acoustic guitar in the corner.

And the place smelled like him, woody and warm and masculine.

"I'll be right back," he said, then disappeared down the hall, and she was left standing there, forcing herself not to move further into the living room— scan those titles on his bookshelf, bury her face in the blanket on the couch and see if his scent clung to that fabric as well.

When he returned, he was wearing a heavy, brown coat, walking toward her while stuffing his wallet in his back pocket.

"Ready?" he asked, with a nod toward the door.

Ophelia nodded, followed him out, waited while his big, deft hands worked to lock his front door then followed him again to his truck, where he—as always— looped around to the passenger's side with her to open the door.

"How was the family?" Joel asked once he was seated, speeding down 32nd toward Ulloa, one giant hand on the steering wheel, his other arm propped up on the door.

Ophelia let out a heavy sigh, sunk down a bit in her seat.

"That bad?" Joel asked, his eyes darting over to her for a moment before he redirected them to the road.

"No, nothing unexpected. My mother and sister took turns complaining while I made dinner. My dad didn't interact with us at all, just sat and watched baseball, he fell asleep before I left," she listed off, purposely leaving out the bit about him.

"You went to your parent's house and made them dinner?" he asked, sounding a little stunned, offended on her behalf.

Ophelia shrugged, "I've always made dinner. Dad can't cook, and my mom was always at work, so..." her voice trailed off.

"But they invited you over for dinner... and then made you cook?"

"They didn't make me, it was just— I don't know, expected, I guess."

Joel shook his head, a muscle in his jaw fluttering beneath his skin as he twisted his hands around the steering wheel. She didn't quite understand why he was seemingly upset; it was the same outrage he'd shown when she'd admitted Scott never cooked for her.

What was with this man and food?

"Where are we going?" she asked, trying to lighten the mood.

Joel's hands still twisted around the steering wheel, but his jaw unclenched as he answered her.

"This place in West Portal, s'called Sherwood."

Ophelia nodded, fiddling with the strap of her purse.

"So, no one cooks for you? Not your husband or your parents?" Joel asked, eyebrows pinched together as he glanced over at her, unable to drop the topic it seemed.

"Why does it matter?" she retorted.

"Because it seems to me that you take care of everyone, but no one takes care of you in return."

A pit opened up in her gut at that, making way for a knot to crawl up her throat. She swallowed hard, blinking as she turned to face the window, determined not to cry in his car again. He was always doing this, always plucking something out of the deepest trenches of her head, all those secrets and resentments she'd buried and denied for so long.

She heard Joel let out a heavy sigh, felt him turning periodically to look over at her.

"M'sorry honey," he breathed out, "If I made you cry again, I'm gonna have to ask you to get out of the truck so I can crash myself into a tree."

Ophelia let out a wet laugh at that.

Joel reached over then, while she was still facing the window, his big, heavy palm cupping the bowl of her skull, then began to pet her hair in a manner that had her tummy clenching tight.

It was so solacing, so comforting that she had to curl her hands into small shaky fists on her lap so she wouldn't turn and lean completely into him.

"Are you cryin', Ophelia?" he asked, still petting her hair, his voice low and brassy as always, but pitched with nerves.

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes tight to ward off the tears that were welling there, all hot and achy. She felt stupid, crying about this again, but sometimes it felt like Joel was the only one who really saw her, who saw the pieces she desperately tried to hide.

And that was a devastating kind of tragic, all things considered.

"Don't believe you," he muttered, as he kept petting her hair, using one hand to turn his truck onto West Portal.

By the time he'd found a spot to park, he'd taken his hand off her head, and her tears had mostly evaporated, but when he shoved his truck into park and hopped out, looping around to open her door, his eyes hurriedly bounced over her face, a knot emerging between his brows, his plush lips pulling down into a frown at the corners.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he cooed, his wide form blocking the outside of the truck from her view. He took up the entirety of the door frame, one hand on the top of it, the other clenching and unclenching at his side.

She couldn't handle his terms of endearment, they were too much in his rumbling baritone, too sweet, not necessarily indicative of their friends label.

"I just— I care about you s'all. I— makes me angry, thinkin' about you taking care of everyone else all the time."

And that made her eyes pinch again, her throat going thick and wet as she stared up at him, trembling a bit in her seat.

Why did no one else in her life see her like this? See how much she did, how heavy a weight she carried? Why was it only him?

"Can't stand seein' you cry," he grunted out, then he was pulling her out of the car seat and into his giant arms, crushing her against the solid wall of his chest. And her reaction was immediate, something between a cry and a whimper bubbled from her chest as her belly twisted tight for a moment before everything went loose and warm, like she was wading— not drowning— in a serene pool. Her hands took fistfuls of his shirt as she pressed her face into his wide shoulder, while his own buried itself in her hair.

He felt like solid ground.

He felt like the only cover in the storm that had become of her life, like if she wasn't clinging to him, she'd be swept up in it all, clawing and thrashing for the surface yet again.

One of his big arms was wrapped tight around her waist, keeping her suspended in the air, the toes of her shoes knocking against his shins, while his other hand held the bowl of her skull against him, keeping her there, while he breathed in deeply against her hair, making her belly squeeze tight, her heart fluttering in her chest before it calmed with the rest of her.

"I'm sorry, honey," he mumbled against her hair, his low voice vibrating through her bones, "last thing I ever wanna do is make you cry."

She clung to him more intensely at that, buried her face deeper into his shoulder, the woody scent of his skin like an aromatic sedative.

He reacted by tightening his arms, crushing her even closer to his chest.

"Do you still wanna get a drink, or should I drive you home?" he asked, low and a little gravel-edged against the top of her head.

"Drink," she mumbled into his shirt, the dread of leaving him, of returning to the hell of her house boiling up in her gut.

"Okay," he whispered, gently setting her down, forcing her to let go of him while his hands stayed on her waist for a moment, his eyes bouncing over her face as he craned his neck to look down at her.

They stayed like that for a bloated moment, his mouth opening, like he was contemplating saying something that he decided against as he flashed her a solemn smile. "Come on," he nodded toward the sidewalk, removing his hands from her waist to close the passenger's side door of his truck, and she grieved the loss of his touch, before her stomach fluttered and flopped as he came up behind her, his heavy, warm hand taking residence on her lower back as he directed her to the sidewalk.

As he was leading her to the restaurant, his hand left her back to come up and pet her hair again, then he gently grasped the nape of her neck, big, calloused hand wrapping more than halfway around it, thick fingers pressing into her pulse point, and the pressure, the casual dominance made a knot of need erupt in her pelvis, her panties flooding with arousal.

God, he was so big, so in control, he commanded so much attention, commanded the space around him, and it was impossible not to feel the weight of him, impossible not to melt into the safety he provoked.

When they stepped inside the bar— a cute, warm lounge with a long bar top along the left wall, several couches and arm chairs in place of tables, Joel let go of her nape, but she felt his hand hovering close by, his big body keeping close, like a shield, a shelter as they approached the bar and he pulled one of the menus toward them.

The cocktails all had fancy names like Mary Ellen and Against the Grain, with flashy prices listed next to them, a long list of all the types of alcohol they carried beneath the cocktail list.

Once again, just like it had at Atwater during their first lunch together, it felt like this was a date. She wasn't in her fraudulent little dress this time, but she had started putting more effort into her appearance since then, and not even necessarily for him. It felt good to do her hair, her makeup, to pick out outfits again. It'd been so long, she'd almost forgotten what it felt like to feel good about how she looked.

"Anythin' look good?" Joel asked, lowering his head so he was closer to her height from where he was standing— close, but just slightly behind her, blocking her off from the rest of the bar.

Ophelia pointed to one of the gin drinks called White Lady.

"I think I'm gonna get this one," Joel said, his thick index finger landing on one of the whiskey drinks called Gold Rush, the ingredients listed beneath it were bourbon, lemon, and honey.

When the bartender greeted them, Joel ordered for her, put his card down when she reached for her purse, carried both his glass and hers to a secluded couch in the corner of the bar. A part of her didn't even know how to react in response. She'd never been around anyone who took charge, who let her relax, who didn't rely on her to do everything, to be everything.

With Joel, she was something else, something less burdened, something less weighed down, and sometimes whatever she was around him almost felt unfamiliar, some version of herself she'd never met before.

She followed him without much cognition, sitting down next to him on the plush sofa as he peeled his jacket off— too close, close enough that her knee dug into his thigh, close enough that she could still smell him, could see the freckles on his neck, the gray that threaded through the brown hair above his temples.

Joel placed her drink on the little table adjacent to the couch.

"Cheers," he said, with a small, slightly crooked grin as he held his glass out between them.

"To what?" Ophelia asked, reaching forward to grab her own cup, clinking it against his before he answered.

"Me not makin' you cry for a third fuckin' time," Joel muttered, then took a sip from his glass, his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip as he reached forward to deposit his drink back on the table.

Ophelia snorted, shook her head as she took a sip from her glass.

It wasn't really him that kept making her cry, but all the things she thought she kept hidden, all those things he somehow saw, like he could peer straight into her head, like he had the ability to pluck out all her fears, everything she buried and swallowed and desperately tried to forget herself. And even still, she found herself wanting to tell him more, wanting to be around him as often as possible, even if he saw those things she'd rather keep buried.

"You sure you're okay?" Joel asked, his eyes bouncing over her face, corners of his lips hinting at a frown as his big hand reached over to cup her knee.

She nodded. She was fine, but she didn't know if she would be if he kept touching her. It made her too weak, too flustered, made the line between what was appropriate and what definitely wasn't blurry and far away.

Still, she did not scoot away from him, did not ask him to stop, because she wanted it— so terribly it felt like a solid weight crushing her core— and because she was a horrible, despicable being.

"If I make you cry again, I give consent for you to punch me in the face," Joel said, while gently squeezing her knee, the pressure causing her tummy to clench and flutter.

A laugh bubbled out of Ophelia's throat as she shook her head. "I'm not gonna punch you."

"Might change your mind," Joel shrugged, letting go of her knee to reach forward and grab his glass, and she ached for his touch as she watched his large hand wrap around the cup, as she watched his tongue dart out to wet his plush bottom lip, as he shifted his hips, settling back further on the couch, shifting his glass to his left hand, which held the thing against his thigh, while his other arm snaked behind her, draping over the top of the couch, so if she leaned back, she would be engulfed by it.

The thought was enough to make her thighs tremble, to make her heart stammer against her ribs as she took a cursory glance around the bar, making sure there were no familiar faces amongst the other patrons.

And that should have been enough to tell her what she was doing was wrong, that the two of them were sitting too close, sharing too many heated glances to be considered friendly, but the thought of moving away from him was devastating.

So she stayed there, holding her breath as she dared to grab her own glass, then leaned back against the sofa, angling herself to face him as her shoulder, her neck brushed against the warm, firm skin of his arm.

He watched her, those warm eyes swimming with something heated, something that buzzed and crackled as he studied her movements, as he waited for her to get comfortable before he scooted even closer, that big arm shifting behind her so he could pet her hair again.

Her tummy somersaulted while that knot in her pelvis twisted tighter.

"This okay?" Joel asked, his voice low and gruff, his molten eyes locked on hers.

She should've said no.

He was giving her an out, letting her set a boundary, but instead of doing what she was supposed to do, Ophelia nodded, her cheeks burning as she bit down on her bottom lip, then took a long sip from her glass to cope.

"I'd like to hear more about your day. I promise not to ask any questions or make any comments that might make you cry, and if I do, offer to punch me still stands."

Ophelia scoffed, twisted her glass around and around from where it was resting on her thigh, glanced down at it to avoid meeting his heated gaze as she began to speak.

"Not much more to say," she started, "drove down there at three, listened to my mother complain about her marriage while my dad sat oblivious in the living room. My sister egged her on. I cooked dinner. Now I'm here."

"What was your mom complaining about?"

She shrugged, lifted her eyes to find him staring at her and then dropped her gaze again. "Same stuff as usual— my dad didn't do the laundry, he's getting fat, all he does is watch baseball, he's completely financially dependent on her."

"Must be tough on your mom."

"I don't know why she's still with him," Ophelia said, mouth muffled around her glass as she took another sip of her drink, the gin starting to swirl and buzz in her gut, making her feel warm, making words flow from her mouth easier, more uninhibited. "She feels bad for him, and I do think she loves him, but... there's always been this animosity there, resentment I guess, that he can't do anything, can't even keep a job."

Joel was still petting her hair, his heavy hand settling into a slow, rhythmic motion, from the crown of her head down to her nape, then back. It felt good, solacing and sedating in a way that increased the warmth in her core, made her lids heavy, made her feel like scooting even closer to him, resting her head on the wide breadth of his chest.

She didn't, though, just stayed there, leaning slightly into his touch.

"Tough on you too, and your sister, I imagine."

Ophelia shrugged. "I guess so. I'm used to it at this point. I don't expect or wish for him to be anything more than what he is."

It was quiet for a moment, the chatter in the rest of the bar filling their comfortable silence, ice cubes clinking against Joel's glass as he lifted it to take a sip of his drink.

"What are your parents like?" Ophelia asked, breaking the silence, lifting her eyes to watch him swallow— thick neck bobbing before he spoke.

"My mom is a retired elementary school teacher, very sweet, she lives back in Texas at a retirement facility. Dad died ten years ago, heart attack. He was an electrician, was a real hardass with me and my brother when we were kids, but he meant well."

"I'm sorry," Ophelia whispered, "about your dad."

Joel shook his head, took a long pull from his glass. "S'fine, was a long time ago now. Wasn't super unexpected, his health had been declining for a while."

"What about your in-laws?" he asked then, his gaze bouncing between her eyes, "what're they like?"

Talking about Scott, talking about anything even slightly related to Scott with him felt wrong and weird, like an even greater betrayal than sitting here too close to him, letting him pet her hair, thinking about resting her head on his chest. But Ophelia had no one else in her life that she could talk about her husband with. All her friends were his friends, her mother was always too busy complaining about her father to listen, and if Ophelia said anything even slightly negative about Scott in front of Juliet, she would run with it, use it as ammo against him, or worse, use it as fuel to try to convince Ophelia to leave him.

Joel was her only friend, her only friend that existed outside of Scott's circle, and there was so much living inside of Ophelia, begging to be expelled.

"They're very rich, like I've said, a surgeon and a lawyer, but they come from generational wealth as well— real estate. They're kind of..." Ophelia searched for the right word while Joel waited patiently, listening to her intently while he kept petting her hair. "They're cold," she settled on, "and a little controlling, but they're— the whole family is stable, which is what I needed, I guess, after moving around so much when I was a kid."

"If you and Scott have so much money, what're you doin' out in the Sunset?" Joel asked, and she did not miss the bite on her husband's name.

"His parents are weird about his trust fund, they pay for all his living expenses, but they're waiting for him to get this company off the ground before they give him full access to it."

"His company isn't making any money?" Joel asked, eyebrows darting toward his hairline.

Ophelia shook her head, took a sip from her glass. "To be honest, I don't know if it ever will, but it's fine... I— I make enough money on my own, plus I'm not getting anything from him either way, with the prenup."

"He made you sign a prenup?" Joel spat out, unable or unwilling to hide the disgust in his voice.

"I mean, it was more his parent's decision than his, but yeah. We have separate bank accounts, I'm not entitled to any of his assets in marriage or—" her words fell off, the unspoken one sitting heavy between them, buzzing.

She took another long sip, letting the alcohol numb her shame.

"So— I— you said the family was stable, and that was important to you, but you're not getting any of their money?"

"It wasn't financial stability I was looking for— just roots I guess."

Joel nodded, but he still looked discontent, a little annoyed, his brows furled together as he chugged from his glass.

"Can I— can I tell you something? Like a secret?" Ophelia asked, the alcohol buzzing in her head, in her core, a part of her feeling lighter now that she was actually talking about these things aloud, rather than letting them rattle around in her head all day, every day, for years on end.

"Of course," Joel said softly, tilting his head slightly to the side, those brown eyes brimming with warmth.

"Sometimes," she started, letting the words run out of her mouth on their own accord, letting them crawl out from the deepest trenches of her mind, where she kept them locked away. "Sometimes, I find myself resenting Scott— just like my mother does with my dad— and that terrifies me. He can't cook and he can't do the laundry and he never makes the bed and he rarely asks how my day was anymore. He's never bought me flowers— not once in ten years— but every day he somehow has the money and the time to buy himself coffee and pastries and I get so tired, so tired of doing everything all the time, but I think I'm— I'm scared of what it would look like if I actually left."

Ophelia's words fell off, and her gaze dropped, so she wouldn't have to see her own pain reflected in Joel's eyes— which looked both sad and furious, a marriage of those two emotions swirling in his irises. And it was strange, the amalgamation of relief and guilt that rose in her gut at her confession. Something in her felt lighter, after finally saying those things aloud, admitting them not only to herself, but to another person, but the guilt that sloshed in response to saying those things to Joel was almost as potent.

"Sometimes," Joel said, his voice low, the rumbling baritone of it making her tummy clench tight, "we don't know how good things could be until we start over, but I get it, I felt the same way when my ex-wife left."

"You did?" Ophelia asked, her eyes snapping up to him.

He nodded, a slow, solemn motion. "I was terrified... of what it would look like without her, of raisin' Sarah on my own, not bein' enough for her, but it— it was better after she left. There were no more fights, no more animosity, no more waitin' around for her to step up and be a mother, be a wife. It was hard, in the beginning, but we're better off now. I haven't talked to her in years, but I— I'm sure she's happier, away from it all."

Ophelia couldn't imagine that. Couldn't imagine being with someone like him, having a daughter with a man who was built to be a father, a man who radiated care and strength, couldn't imagine walking away from that.

But that only made the guilt in her gut more intense, bitter and overwhelming.

Ophelia dropped her gaze to her hand, holding her nearly empty cup, that diamond ring on her finger.

"I'm not— it's not my place to tell you to leave, but I can promise you that there's better things out there. You..." Joel took a deep breath that rattled the both of them, "you deserve more than you're gettin' Ophelia, a hell of a lot more."

Her eyes pinched at that, her guilt-ridden belly cramping, but she refused to cry for a second time tonight, so she blinked hard, swallowed half of what was left in her glass before she allowed herself to look up at him.

And when she did, she found him staring at her, his eyes brimming with some emotion she could not quite decipher, but that made her heart flutter madly in her chest. Then his eyes drifted over, to where his hand was petting her head, and whatever emotion was swimming in those brown eyes darkened as he gently moved the bulk of her hair off her shoulder and began caressing her neck— those warm, thick, calloused fingers trailing up her nape from the collar of her shirt, and back down again. And Ophelia did not possess the restraint in that moment to completely swallow the whimpering sound that tumbled from her throat at the feeling of his fingers on her skin, voltaic and completely overwhelming.

Joel's eyes flashed molten at the sound and Ophelia felt her cheeks blaze while white-hot heat whipped through her pelvis.

She wanted him so badly— despite the guilt and despite the shame of her confession.

It's not my place to tell you to leave, but I can promise you that there's better things out there.

Better things.

Him.

Whatever this was that burned and buzzed between them.

The wedding ring on her left hand felt like a noose around her neck— where Joel was still caressing— his thumb occasionally reaching out to run across the line of her jaw.

"I'm scared," she heard herself whisper. Scared of her confession, scared of the weight that it held now that it was out, scared of this, of wanting him so badly when she shouldn't.

She watched Joel's eyes soften, the corners of his lips hinting at a frown.

"I know, honey," he hummed, so warm she could feel it radiating through her skin, like she was basking in sunlight while being drenched by a storm of her own creation. "I'm a little scared too, to be honest."

And there it was, spoken but unspoken between them.

It felt like Ophelia was dangling over the edge of a cliff.

"Want me to drive us back?" Joel asked and though Ophelia wanted nothing less, she nodded, swallowing the remainder of her drink at the same time as Joel.

"I'll be right back," he said softly, gently squeezing her nape before getting up, taking both their glasses to the bar and waiting to close his tab.

They both wanted this, that's what Joel had meant when he said he was scared too, Ophelia knew, and so where did that leave them?

Surely they couldn't be friends any longer... but the thought of not having lunch with him every day, of not seeing him on the weekends, of not having anyone to confess all those rattling, biting thoughts in her head to, made her feel ill, more terrified even than this dangerous thing between them made her feel.

Joel came back, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket, then slung his coat back on and led her to his truck. They drove back to his house in silence, silence that this time was not comfortable, but which made her core bounce with nerves.

Ten minutes later, when Joel cut the engine in his driveway, neither of them had said a word since exiting the bar. Still, like always, Joel got out and rounded the front of his truck, opening the door for her and waiting until she got out before he closed it. Then, in buzzing, uncomfortable silence, he walked her across the street, to her car and opened that door for her, leaning down once she was seated, so his head was at her level.

"Thanks for gettin' a drink with me," Joel said softly, his eyes flashing hurriedly over her face. "I'm— I'm here— if you ever need to talk about it, any of it."

She knew what he meant by any of it.

Her stifling marriage.

This thing between them.

The impossibility of it all.

"Thank you," she whispered, those nerves still dancing through her gut at the thought of leaving him, of letting this unspoken thing stay wedged between them.

"Drive safe," he hummed, about to stand up and close her door, about to walk away when Ophelia heard herself speak, blurt out an inquiry without much cognition.

"What're you doing next weekend? For the Fourth...?"

Joel leaned back down, those brown eyes staring straight into hers, a knowing quality to them, a relief.

"Sarah's going to some parade thing with her friend down in San Mateo, then I'm taking her to see the fireworks on the pier at nine."

"We're... we have a party every year, at Scott's parent's house, it starts at one and kind of goes all night, but I— you could come, for a bit, if you wanted. It would— it would be nice to have someone to talk to, Scott's always hung up with all his friends."

This was stupid, supremely stupid.

The last thing she should be doing was inviting him to her in-law's house, where her husband would be, and all his friends... including Ashley, who would jump at the chance to flirt with Joel all afternoon. But she wasn't willing to let this night end without securing her next chance to see him outside of the job site.

And she wanted him there.

That party would be so much more bearable with his solacing presence nearby.

Joel searched her face for a moment then nodded.

"Yeah, I could come for a couple hours while Sarah's out."

Ophelia felt herself smile as she said, "Okay, I'll— I can text you the address."

"Sounds good," Joel said, matching her smile with one that brought that dimple out on his scruffy right cheek. "I'll see you Monday," he said then, his eyes flickering down from hers, and for a moment it felt like all the oxygen in her car evaporated, like her breath was stuck somewhere in her trachea as Joel leaned into the car and Ophelia braced herself, her lips parting, her eyes fluttering shut.

But Joel's lips landed on her cheek, kissing her softly there, his mustache tickling her skin, his plush lips so warm and soft she felt her pelvis ache. Then he ducked back out of the car, flashing her a soft smile as he closed her door and began backing away toward his house.

And Ophelia sat there for a minute, her cheek burning, her heart hammering, before she was able to start her car and begin driving up the hill toward her house.

And for a moment the guilt in Ophelia's gut was forgotten.

And she was floating.

Chapter Text

"There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow...the readiness is all."

Joel sat on the couch in his living room, his back sweating through his t-shirt, his eyes continuously flickering over to the clock on the wall.

In fifteen minutes, he was to drive over to Ophelia's husband's parent's house— she'd sent him the address yesterday, it was in Pacific Heights which made sense considering their tax bracket. She told him to wear or bring a swim suit, told him not to worry about bringing food as she was taking care of it all, told him to text her when he arrived so she could bring him to the backyard.

If this was any other situation, if he wasn't going to the home of her in-laws, he would've told her that he would get there early, help her with the food, make sure she wasn't overexerting herself which he knew she was. But as it was, he was stuck, because Scott's parent's house was the last place on Earth he should be.

He didn't know how he was going to cope with seeing him, how he was expected to play nice knowing everything he did now. The fury that had burned through his gut during Ophelia's confession last weekend was still raging, only contained by the pain he'd felt radiating off of her, distress that lived in his own core now.

The things he wanted to do to her husband were not at all appropriate for a party. He wanted to deck him, wanted to grab him and shake, scream at him for hoarding her all to himself, for not taking care of her the way that he should, for not exuding infinite gratitude for having a woman like Ophelia, a woman who he'd been taking advantage of for a fucking decade.

Joel's jaw clicked, his hands curling into fists on his lap.

He needed to calm down before he drove over there, otherwise this was not going to end well, would probably end with him being shoved into the back of a cop car.

He'd never wanted anything the way he wanted her, and that in itself was terrifying.

She was everything he'd ever wanted in a wife— confident and strong and gorgeous, she was great with Sarah, independent by nature which only made him want to take care of her even more.

But she belonged to someone else, someone who did not deserve her, someone who treated her more like a maid than a wife.

It made Joel furious.

He needed Ophelia to leave him, and not just for himself, though he would take great pride and pleasure in showing her what she deserved, but because the thought of her trapped in that marriage made him sick, made the core of him— the very fabric of who he was— ache to pull her out of it, away from it all.

And he was in love with her.

He'd known so for weeks, and as much as he tried to repackage that gravity, that devotion as something else, he could only lie to himself for so long.

In love with a woman who belonged to another man.

What a cliched tragedy he was.

Joel was wearing his trunks, so he packed a bag with a change of clothes, a towel, stared for a moment at his bedside table drawer, where an unopened pack of condoms lived and shook his head at himself.

He couldn't fuck her in her husband's parent's house.

He didn't know if he would ever have the pleasure of taking her to bed.

And that was another tragedy, because he didn't doubt that Scott was just as inattentive in bed as he was in all other aspects. Joel would bet his life savings that Scott wasn't attuned to Ophelia enough to know that she didn't want to be in charge, despite the fact that she was always forced to be. Joel noticed the change in her demeanor when he was around, how her shoulders relaxed, that submissive glint that took over her pretty green eyes that she probably wasn't even aware of herself. When he'd seen her at the park with Scott, all those weeks ago, she'd been tense, head constantly darting around to make sure everyone had everything they needed. She was like that at the job site too, when he wasn't in her direct line of sight.

But he knew— not only from her confession, but from the way she transformed around him— that she didn't want to be that way, had been forced to, conditioned to by her husband and her parents.

And the thought of her transforming fully with him— should she leave the shackles of her marriage, should she allow herself to finally do something for her— made him ache with how badly he wanted it. She would probably come absolutely undone in bed, if he was there, directing her, orchestrating her pleasure, teaching her how to finally let go and relinquish her control.

His cock stirred at the thought and he groaned, palming his half erection through his trunks while heat and need boiled in his core.

He should probably jerk off before he went over there, to avoid sporting a hard-on when he saw Ophelia in a swim suit again, but that was surely inevitable, no matter how many times he took his cock in his hand to thought of her. And some deranged part of him enjoyed edging himself, if only at the slim prospect that one day he might actually be able to have her.

Joel got himself and his bag of clothes into his truck, pulled up the directions for the house on his GPS, then backed out of his driveway and began heading there, trying to push down the cocktail of fury and jealousy that was still boiling away in his gut.

It wasn't very warm in the Sunset, but just outside of his neighborhood the sun was shining, bright and brilliant at the top of the sky. He hoped it would stay clear through the evening, if the fog rolled in too early Sarah wouldn't be able to see the fireworks tonight. That had happened last year and the disappointment that had painted her face had made him sick with guilt for a week.

The houses got bigger, more spread apart as he made his way into Pac Heights. That was expected; however, nothing could have prepared him for the house that matched the address on his GPS. It was huge, bigger than all the other houses on the block. Three stories high— a Georgian Colonial with red brick and a marble staircase that led up to the front door, flanked by two perfectly maintained gardens. There were hedges on either side of the house that worked as a wall to separate the mansion from its less impressive neighbors.

Ophelia hadn't been lying, these people were loaded, yet too stingy, too greedy to share their wealth with their daughter-in-law.

Joel's jaw ticked again as his hands twisted around the steering wheel.

It took him ten minutes to find a parking spot big enough for his truck. It was two blocks up a hill so he had to trek down to get back to that ridiculous house, where he stood for a full minute, craning his neck to look up at it.

Why the fuck would someone with this much money chose to spend it on a house that was not even twenty feet away from their neighbor? Didn't they want some land? A winery or some other Californian rich people shit?

Joel shook his head, then pulled his phone out of his pocket, trying to use the too small keyboard to type a message to Ophelia telling her he was here. After he sent it, he climbed the ridiculous marble staircase, stood at the top of it and waited.

Ophelia burst out of the giant front door only a minute later, her hair falling down from the bun she'd constructed on the top of her head, sweat gleaming on her forehead, her features twisted, contorted with stress he could feel radiating off of her in bitter waves.

Worry twisted at his gut, distracting enough that he didn't immediately take in what she was wearing, but after he hurriedly took in the strained expression on her face it was impossible to keep his eyes from drifting down.

She was wearing a bikini— simple, light blue, strings holding the fabric in place, and on top, a sheer off-white dress that did nothing to obstruct her figure.

Joel's cock twitched and ached as he drank in the view of her shapely hips, her exposed tummy, her plush breasts— pushing at the fabric of her top. God, she was gorgeous, it wasn't fair, he wanted her so badly it felt like he might perish from the intensity of it.

"Hey, sorry, it's— everything is so chaotic. The pool cleaner forgot to come last night, so I had to call him when we got here, and then Lauren said she was bringing the alcohol, but she's hungover so I had to place an order, and then I ran out of time to prep the pasta salad, so I'm doing that right now, but I need to get all the silverware and plates outside too and I'm pretty sure they're all on mushrooms— I saw someone passing a bag around— and—"

Ophelia's rambling snapped Joel's attention back to her eyes, his arms aching to tug her to him, where he would promise her he would do anything to get that look of panic off her face.

"Hey," Joel said softly, interrupting her spiral as he took a step toward her, "Come here, come out here for a second."

"I have to— the pasta salad—" she said, waving back into the house.

Joel shook his head, stepped close enough that he could gently grasp her arm, using that hold to tug her out onto the porch, then he reached out and pulled the door closed behind her.

"I want you to stand here with me for a minute and breathe, okay?" he said, clasping her upper arms in his hands, allowing himself to reach up and tuck one of those wild strands of red hair behind her ear.

"But I have to—" she began again, her features still plagued with panic as she tried to tug against his grip and race back into the house.

"It can wait," he assured her, pulling her back in front of him, "breathe with me for a minute."

Her eyes bounced between his for a moment, still looking panicked before he watched her shoulders drop as she nodded.

Good girl.

"In through your nose, out through your mouth, do it with me," he said, then took a deep breath in through his nose, nodding at her as she did the same. He held it for a few seconds, then let it out through his mouth. "Again, five more times."

Ophelia followed his lead, and by the time they both let out the fifth exhale, she seemed much more calm, her shoulders no longer taut, her features more relaxed than stressed.

"The next time you get all frazzled like that I want you to do that, come find me and I'll do it with you, alright?"

She nodded, that submissive glaze coating her irises, making his cock twitch, making him want to grab her jaw and tug her plush mouth to his.

He didn't, though the need was overwhelming, instead he brushed another piece of hair behind her ear and asked, "What can I do to help?"

He could tell she was about to refuse his offer altogether, because that's what she was conditioned to do, but then her mouth opened and closed, her pretty jade eyes bouncing between his before she finally spoke.

"I— just hang out with me while I finish the pasta salad, and then— maybe— if you could help me carry stuff down to the backyard?"

"Happy to," he said with a soft smile, forcing himself to let go of her arms as she turned to go back inside. Joel followed her into the house, close, but not nearly as close as he wanted to be, as his eyes hurriedly scanned his surroundings.

The place was insane— vaulted ceilings, original hardwood flooring, crown molding— but it didn't feel like a home. Everything was a little sterile, too clean, too pristine, Joel couldn't imagine anyone actually living here. It looked like a model home— one an interior designer would decorate in order to sell.

They walked through the large entry way, past a huge mahogany staircase, through a sitting room with a view of the Golden Gate, and around to a spacious kitchen that looked out on the backyard, where everyone else was gathered around a few tables underneath a gazebo, on the other side of a glittering pool.

Joel felt that rage boiling in his gut again as he glared at them through the window, his eyes quickly magnetizing to Scott's lanky form. He was talking to that Ashley girl, who had her hand on his arm, the two of them standing a little separated from the rest of the group.

They were all just standing out there while Ophelia ran around like their servant.

It made Joel want to scream, hoist her up and carry her out of here, away from all of them.

He turned around then, to where Ophelia had started chopping tomatoes, a big bowl sitting next to the cutting board, already filled with pasta, chopped cucumber, feta, olives.

He wanted to walk over to her, grab her waist from behind, lean down and press a kiss to the soft spot where her shoulder met her neck, let his hands roam down, where that sheer dress was doing nothing to hide her pert backside, that string bikini digging into the plush cheeks of her ass.

Fuck, she was perfect.

His cock was half hard in his trunks again.

He groaned under his breath, tried to will it away before he approached her, not allowing himself to touch her as he took the spot next to her, leaning against the counter as she chopped, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

"Anythin' I can do for you right now?" Joel asked, eyes flicking from her hands to her face.

Ophelia shook her head, keeping her eyes focused on the tomatoes. "Just keep me company," she said, then her cheeks went a little pink, while she chewed more manically on her bottom lip, and he knew she was thinking about something else, something she wanted to ask for but didn't know how.

"What else?" he pushed gently, gaze bouncing over her face, those pretty pink cheeks making her freckles stand out.

"Nothing," she shook her head, but her cheeks were still pink and he could tell there was something she wasn't asking for.

"Tell me," he insisted, "I'll do it, whatever it is."

Ophelia was quiet for a moment, still chopping, sliding the diced tomatoes to one side of the board with her knife, before grabbing another and starting again.

When she did speak it was in a whisper, her eyes still staring down, her gaze not returning to him.

"It— it calms me down when you—" she started, then dropped her head, her cheeks and neck bright with color now.

Joel's chest ached, his heart squeezing as he pushed off the counter and stepped closer to her, lowering his head a bit so he was closer to her height.

"When I do what, honey?" he asked, unable to hold himself back from reaching over and beginning to pet her hair, his hand trailing down to the soft nape of her neck.

"That," she whispered, shooting him a coy glance over her shoulder.

"This?" he asked, slowly running his hand from the crown of her head, just under that chaotic bun, down her nape, stopping where the collar of her dress rested against that thin column.

She nodded, chewing on her bottom lip, cheeks still delightfully pink.

His heart cramped brutally in his chest.

"Should'a just said so, darlin'," he hummed, gently squeezing her nape, feeling her melt beneath his touch, her shoulders sinking even further.

That shouldn't have filled his core with pride, but it did.

"Thank you," she said softly, finishing up the tomatoes and moving on to begin chopping red onion.

"Don't have to thank me," he retorted, "I can keep doin' this, or I can finish chopping that for you."

Ophelia shook her head, letting out a heavy breath. "I'm almost done."

"Pasta looks good," he noted, peering into the bowl while he ran his fingers up into her hair, gently massaging the tense spot where her head met her neck.

"They all demanded it," she said, sounding a little annoyed, but then she melted further into his touch, her body turning to putty in front of him as he continued massaging that stiff spot, her hand slipping around the handle of the knife as she stumbled back into him a bit.

"Careful," he cooed, the hand that wasn't massaging her scalp reached out to steady her waist while an impish smile tugged at his lips.

Ophelia huffed, forced herself back upright, focusing on chopping the onion again even as he could see her eyes fluttering.

"I don't want you to cut yourself, sweetheart."

"I'm fine," she mumbled, but then something between a moan and a whimper echoed from her throat as he moved his hand down her neck, beginning to massage that tense column, and that delightful sound had Joel's cock throbbing. He swallowed his own moan as he angled his hips away from her backside so she wouldn't brush against his growing erection.

Her husband was outside.

But there was nothing Joel wanted to do more than spin her around and devour her mouth, rip that sheer dress off of her and push his hand down the front of those tiny bikini bottoms, force those sounds back out of her with his fingers inside of her and his tongue in her mouth.

He wondered if she was wet, just from his hand on her neck, from his fingers in her hair. He hoped she didn't shave, hoped she kept those curls above her mound intact, he wanted to bury his nose in them, inhale the scent of her arousal, drown in it.

Fuck he was hard.

Ophelia finished chopping the onion, added it and the tomatoes to the bowl while Joel worked to breathe through his erection, trying to focus on anything that wasn't her— the AC blasting from somewhere above him, the stupid fancy knobs on the kitchen cabinets, the muffled sound of music coming from the backyard.

She tossed the salad with a dressing it looked like she'd prepared at home and brought with her— considering mason jars were probably a little too passé for this place— then turned around, forcing Joel's hand to drop from her neck.

"Okay, I need to bring this down, and silverware, plates, everything else is already down there."

"How about I carry that," Joel said, nodding toward the bowl of pasta, "you grab whatever silverware is allowed outside, I'm a little scared to touch anything in here."

Ophelia let out a soft laugh at that.

"I don't touch anything here when his parents are home. One time I got yelled at for starting the dishwasher on the wrong setting."

Joel didn't try to hide his scoff at that, as he picked up the bowl of pasta salad and turned around to watch Ophelia gather silverware from one of the drawers, then get on her toes to grab plates from the cupboard above it.

He followed her back to the extravagant sitting room and through a door that led out onto a deck that looked down on the rest of the backyard.

"It's all the people you met at the park and some of their extended friend group," Ophelia said, glancing over her shoulder as she led him down the stairs and around the glittering pool, down a path carved into the plush grass that led to the gazebo.

He noticed how she said their friend group, which explicitly left her out.

He was once again met with the unquenchable desire to carry her out of here, away from these people who did not appreciate her.

The scattered conversation of the group did not halt as they reached the tables, where Ophelia silently placed the silverware and plates down next to a spread of chips and dips, cut fruit, a charcuterie board.

Joel placed the pasta salad next to the rest of the food, wondering if Ophelia— by herself— had set all this up.

Probably. Most likely.

Another wave of bitter rage rolled through his gut.

"Drinks are in those coolers over there," Ophelia said, nodding over toward the back of the gazebo.

"You want something?" he asked while she dished out spoons into the pasta salad, some of the dips.

Her eyes flicked up to him, a little wide, like she was surprised he'd asked. "One of the hard seltzers, any flavor, thank you so much."

"Don't have to thank me," he hummed, walking past her— letting his hand brush her waist as he did— and over to the coolers. He grabbed a beer for himself, a seltzer for her, then turned around, surveying the scattered group.

They were all still deep in their own conversations, while some poppy music droned from the portable speaker set in the middle of one of the tables. One of the men Joel recognized from the park—though he couldn't recall his name— side stepped Ophelia while she placed knives on the charcuterie board to grab a handful of chips without saying a word to her.

Joel hated them all with an intensity that felt almost intolerable.

And then there was Scott, standing toward the edge of the gazebo with Ashley, the two of them deep in conversation, her hand gently rubbing his arm.

Joel's lip curled up in disgust as his eyes flicked down to that wedding band on his left hand— that physical representation of their marriage, of Ophelia being Scott's not Joel's.

A deranged part of Joel wanted to cut that hand clean off the man's arm.

Instead, he grunted, shaking his head as he returned to Ophelia's side, opening the can of seltzer before holding it out to her.

"Thank you," she breathed out, taking a long sip before finally stepping away from the table, taking a moment to survey her work.

"You did all this yourself?" Joel asked, nodding to the table of food.

Ophelia nodded, letting out a deep sigh.

He wanted to pull her to his chest, wanted to tell her she didn't have to take care of everyone else all the time, that he would take care of her, that he wanted to, so badly it felt like he was ripping himself apart each time he forced himself to rein in his instincts. But her husband was standing less than twenty feet away, and so Joel once again had to restrain himself.

"I could have come earlier and helped," he said instead, cracking open the beer can in his hand.

"I'm— I'm not very good at knowing when to ask for help," Ophelia admitted softly, her gaze locked somewhere beyond the table now, across the glittering pool.

Joel's heart deflated at that.

"How about we start with each time you feel overwhelmed," he said, curling his hand into a fist so he wouldn't reach out and pet her hair again.

"So, all the time," Ophelia said through a sad sounding laugh.

God, if only she were his. If only he could show her that— if she were close enough, if they melted into this thing between them that felt inevitable— he could anticipate her needs, he could provide help before she ever even needed to ask.

He chugged his beer to cope, the cold, foamy liquid making the back of his skull buzz.

ABBA was playing on the portable speaker now, and Joel could hear some members of the group singing along, but his attention was focused entirely on Ophelia— as it always was— as she stared out across the backyard, twisting her seltzer in her petite hands, the sunlight reflecting off her bright, red hair.

"What are you thinkin' about?" he asked softly, desperate to peer into that enigmatic head of hers.

"I thought it would be awkward, with you here, but— Scott is just—" she threw her hand over her shoulder, gesturing over to where he was still in conversation with that Ashley girl. "I anticipated that, he's always ignoring me when we're with our... his friends, but..." she shrugged, a small, slightly sad motion, the words dying on her tongue.

He knew the unspoken ones already.

But, I thought he would notice, notice this thing between us that we're both trying to package as something else.

Joel wanted to do something that would make him notice, make him realize that his wife was slipping away from him, make him realize that Joel was here, that he was capable, capable and more than willing to do all those things Ophelia needed, all those things she'd been deprived of.

"Do you want me to make a scene?" Joel asked, serious, but with a small smile as he craned his neck to look down at her.

Ophelia shook her head, flashed him a small smile of her own. "I'm already making quite the scene by bringing their good china outside."

Joel chuckled at that, curled his hand into a tighter fist at his side so he wouldn't grab her nape.

"I'm gonna put my feet in," Ophelia said then, nodding toward the pool.

Joel dipped his head, about to follow her when a piercing voice stopped them in their tracks.

"Ophelia!" It was that Ashley girl, already bouncing over to them, dressed from head to toe in bubblegum pink. "You didn't tell me your friend had arrived!"

They'd both turned toward her chaotic pink entrance, but Joel's attention drifted past the woman, to where Scott was also shuffling toward them, his eyes bouncing around the group, looking somewhat disinterested as he took a long sip from the beer can in his hand.

"It's so great to see you again, Joel," Ashley crooned, and Joel's attention did not shift back down to her until she reached out to squeeze his arm. She'd plastered on a flirty grin, while the hand that wasn't squeezing his arm flipped her blonde hair off her shoulder.

"Yeah," he said, coughed, then stepped closer to Ophelia's side, "thanks for lettin' me crash."

"Of course!" she squealed, "Effy never invites anyone to these things, we were all so excited when she said you were coming, weren't we, Scotty?" she turned to pet Scott's arm, who had moved between his wife and his friend, still looking disinterested, still slowly sipping his beer.

"Yeah, cool of you to come," Scott said, and Joel imagined stepping forward and punching him in his impassive face.

He didn't like the dynamic between the two of them— Scott and Ashley— it almost seemed like they were husband and wife more than he and Ophelia were.

Not that he wanted Ophelia to be married... unless it was to him.

"Well," Joel muttered, his eyes flicking down to Ophelia, who appeared to be trying to make herself as small as possible at his side, "Ophelia's the best, wouldn't have missed it."

This was the closest he'd been to Scott, back at the park he'd only gotten to study him from a distance, now they were standing directly across from each other, close enough that Joel could make out the condensation on the beer Scott was holding in his hand.

He was a little taller than average, still a good six inches shorter than Joel, though. Lanky— skinny arms and legs jutting from his torso. His face was clean shaven, his hair a dirty, sandy blonde, his eyes were blue.

In all ways he was Joel's opposite.

But she'd married him, so surely she'd found Scott attractive at some point, perhaps she still did. But Joel knew that Ophelia also found him attractive— evident by the way she blushed, the way she stared at him when she thought he wasn't looking.

Strange then, that she could find two men with such vastly different physiques attractive.

Joel had always been attracted to the same type of woman— thick, curly hair, broad hips, plush backside, bitable lips.

He'd also always had an affinity for redheads, though he'd never had the pleasure of dating one.

"She is the best!" Ashley chimed, "and she makes the best pasta salad, did you set it out already, Effy?"

Joel's stomach churned again with rage.

"Yeah, it's with the rest of the food," Ophelia said softly, motioning toward the table behind them.

Ashley squealed and clapped her hands.

Joel reached up to rub at his temples.

Ophelia sunk further into herself at his side.

"I'm gonna go get some of that," Scott said, slinking off and heading toward the table without so much as a goodbye or a thank you to his wife who had prepared everything.

Joel's hand tightened around his beer can.

"Me too, I've been dreaming about it since last month at the park," Ashley said, then darted forward to kiss Ophelia's cheek before she bounded after Scott.

Joel glanced down at her, to find her shoulders taut again, her gaze fixed somewhere across the yard, looking at everything and nothing at the same time.

He didn't stop himself this time, when his hand automatically reached for her nape. Her shoulders sagged at his touch, her pretty green eyes flicking up to his face, her puffy mouth twisted into a half-frown that made him want to kiss it off of her.

"C'mon," Joel said, nodding toward the pool.

Ophelia let him lead her to the furthest corner of the pool, where they both sat, discarded their shoes and let their feet slide into the shimmering water.

"I hate your husband," Joel admitted, breaking the silence that had settled between them.

Ophelia scoffed.

"I hate him sometimes too, but most of the time I think I'm just indifferent, which might be worse."

She was staring down at the pool, her feet swaying back and forth, pretty toes slightly distorted under the water.

"You love him, though?" Joel dared to ask, staring down at her, his heart thudding against his ribs.

She glanced up at him at that, her gaze bouncing between his eyes.

"I do," she said, after a moment, letting her attention slide back to the water, and Joel's heart sank, his stomach bubbling with jealousy. "But," she started and he dared to let a small seed of hope plant itself in his core, "I don't think I'm in love with him... if there's a difference."

"There is," he answered, immediately. Because he loved his daughter and he loved his brother and he even loved some of the men he worked with, but he was in love with Ophelia.

So in love with her it fucking burned, ached like there was a screaming void in his chest shaped like her, like it'd always been there, biding its time, waiting for her to crash into his life.

Ophelia nodded solemnly, eyes still fixed on the water, feet still swaying.

There was something crude, but unexpectedly wise his brother had once said to him— back when he was still married to Scarlett, when everything was falling apart before she left for good. One night, after he'd gotten Sarah down for bed, they were sitting on Joel's back porch nursing a couple beers. Scarlett was out, wherever she disappeared to when everything became a little too much. Tommy had turned to him and said, "Don't let your wife keep you from finding the love of your life."

At the time, Joel had scoffed, shook his head, muttered something about it being impossible to find a woman who would ever want to be with a single dad, one who was close to also being a divorcee.

But now, it made sense, because if he'd met Ophelia while he was still with Scarlett, nothing would've stopped him from pursuing her. Not his marriage, not hers.

He wanted to tell her that, or some more ornate version of it, but he couldn't get the words right in his head, couldn't arrange them to sound unselfish, less crude.

So he said something else, something just as poignant.

"Sometimes the people we thought would be our whole book, end up just being a chapter."

Ophelia let out a sharp giggle and Joel's eyebrows pinched together.

"Wasn't supposed to be funny," he muttered.

"It's not," she shook her head, a smile pulling at her lips now— so even if she thought he was an idiot, at least he had that. "It was just unexpectedly cliche."

Joel huffed, set his beer down next to him and leaned back on his hands.

Ophelia giggled again and the sound pulled a smile out of him against his will.

"I'm sorry for laughing," Ophelia said softly, reaching out and touching his arm with her delicate hand, the touch sending a bolt of electricity through his veins. "I— it's nice having someone to talk about this with, it's— it's all just lived in my head for so long."

"You can always talk to me," he said, pushing himself back up, "about anything."

Sometimes he felt a little desperate around her, like he would do anything, be anything if it meant he got to see her smile, if he got to stay orbiting within her gravitating presence.

Ophelia's cheeks went pink and he felt like he was floating.

Joel's gaze drifted back over to the gazebo. More people were arriving, coming down the stairs of the deck to join the group surrounding the tables. They all greeted each other with squeals and hugs, a much different reception than Ophelia and himself had received. The rage in his gut continued to boil.

"What's up with them," Joel asked, nodding toward Ashley and Ophelia's husband, who were still joined at the hip, the two of them talking to some newcomers— two men dressed in outfits that looked stifling for the warm temperature outside.

"Hmm?" she lifted her head, seeming to snap back to the present at his question. "Ashley and Scott?"

Joel nodded.

Ophelia shrugged, "They've been best friends since elementary school— they've known each other longer than anyone else in the group."

He made a low sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat.

"They also fucked in high school," Ophelia added, the statement nearly causing Joel to choke on the beer he'd been in the middle of swallowing.

"What?" he spat out, turning to look down at her, studying the apathetic expression on her face. "Did he tell you that?"

"She did," Ophelia said, then let out a tired sounding laugh, "wanted to clear the air before our wedding, I guess."

Baffled didn't even begin to encompass the confusion swirling through Joel's head. He could never imagine being married and parading a woman he used to fuck around his wife. That was sick, demented, wildly disrespectful.

"That doesn't bother you?" Joel asked.

Ophelia shrugged, a small motion of her little shoulders, she took a sip of her drink before she spoke. "Maybe it did at first, but I can't seem to find the energy to care anymore."

Because she wasn't getting anything out of her relationship, because no matter how much of herself— her energy, her time, her care— she devoted, she was receiving absolutely nothing in return.

The bitter wave that crashed through his gut this time was a marriage of that ever-boiling fury and anguish, something deep and biting, something stronger than empathy.

He wanted to pull her into his arms so badly the want burned and thrashed, clawed at him, but instead he reached out and pet the back of her head, down the thin, soft column of her neck.

She glanced up at him at that, flashed a small, sad smile, like she knew he wanted to do more, but couldn't.

He was glad that she'd begun opening up to him more, ever since her confession last weekend, but the more he learned about her life, about her marriage, the harder it was for him to stand idly by, to let her get mistreated, the more impossible it became to convince himself that she wasn't his, meant to be his to find and pull out of this disparaging relationship, show her how she was supposed to be treated, cared for.

And it all became more and more impossible the more his love for her took root in his core, blossomed and spread into something overwhelming and forceful, an entity in and of itself— one far too explosive and potent to ignore or even control.

"Effy!"

Her husband called to her, from across the backyard, and Joel dropped his hand from her neck.

Ophelia turned her attention to him, but did not answer aloud.

"Where's the sunscreen?" he called out.

Joel heard her take a sharp breath in and his spine tensed in response to the strained sound.

"It's in that tote on the chair, I showed you before I went inside to finish the salad."

Scott looked around, but did not take any great effort to pull chairs out or to move from where he was standing. "What chair?"

Joel's hands curled into fists from where they rested on his thighs.

"That one," Ophelia yelled, jabbing her finger in the air, "at the table behind the one with all the food."

Scott spun around, shuffled over to the table she'd pointed at, bent over and dug around in that tote before he held up the bottle of sunscreen triumphantly. But that was it, no thank you, once again.

"I'll kill him," Joel heard himself mutter aloud, even though he'd meant to keep the threat hidden inside his head.

Ophelia let a puff of air out her nose. "Please don't, I don't want to have to visit a prison every time I want to have a real conversation."

Joel's stomach clenched brutally, the beer he'd drank sloshing around, making him feel a little nauseous.

"Why can't you have real conversations with your husband?" he asked, then quickly backpedaled, "not that I don't want to have conversations with you, I do— trust me, I do."

She let out a soft laugh, shook her head, then her expression turned a little pained. "I don't know," she whispered, "we used to talk, I think, but then... I don't know— the years went by and we got too comfortable in what we're both doing, how our relationship operates. He's so busy with his website, and I guess— maybe I'm too tired to try anymore."

"It's supposed to be fun, ya know," Joel said softly, "bein' married."

Ophelia glanced up at him, her eyes a little glossy as they met his, making his heart cramp in his chest.

"You're supposed to look forward to doing things with them, like mundane shit— grocery shopping and watchin' television, brushing your teeth together."

"You don't think that's overly idealistic?" she asked softly, her foot brushing against his leg as she continued swaying them back and forth in the water. "Like maybe it's like that in the beginning, but surely after years..." her voice fell off, and her eyes drifted back down to the water while she took a sip from her can.

"No," he breathed out, because the thought of doing those things with her, for an eternity, sounded like bliss. "I think with the right person, it's not overly idealistic at all."

"But you didn't feel like that in your marriage?" She asked softly, plucking the tab on her can.

"I didn't," he admitted, "but she wasn't the right person. People do that all the time, marry the wrong person, s'why divorce rates are so fuckin' high."

"Yeah," Ophelia breathed out, nodding slowly, taking a long sip from her can, then shaking the empty thing with a frown. "I'm gonna go get another, and my phone."

"I'll get it," Joel said, pushing himself to his feet before she could maneuver her legs out of the water. "Where's your phone?"

"In the tote bag, it's on the—"

"Chair at the table behind the one with the food, I know, I heard you."

Ophelia flashed him an impish smile, and he gave her a full one, before walking over toward the gazebo.

__________

She watched him walk, the muscles in his back rolling beneath his t-shirt, his tan skin glowing under the sunlight, the way he commanded the space around him, people moving out of his way before he fully approached them.

He made her feel insane and grounded at the same time.

Grounded when she was near him, solely because of the safety that radiated off of him, even though the things he'd said to her made her feel like she was crawling out of her skin.

"It's supposed to be fun, ya know, bein' married."

Had it ever been fun with Scott?

Maybe before they got married, back when everything was new and taking care of him hadn't felt like a chore. But not during their marriage, not even in the year leading up to it, leading up to that afternoon in Italy, when she locked herself in the bathroom and sobbed, her dress pooled up around her, the makeup artist and Juliet banging on the door.

Surely it wasn't realistic, to have mundane moments become something more, not after a decade, not after two, not after you knew all the rotten, gross parts of your partner.

But then Ophelia thought about doing those things with Joel— grocery shopping and picking out a TV show to watch and brushing her teeth next to his wide form, giggling in the mirror as toothpaste foamed up at the corners of his mouth.

And it made her chest ache brutally.

God, this was all wrong.

She shook her head at herself, reached up to rub at the sore space between her eyebrows, her gaze tracking Joel as he grabbed her phone from the tote, another seltzer already in his hand. He was on his way back to her when Ashely intercepted him, her hand landing on his arm, her coverup strewn over one of the chairs so she was standing in front of him in nothing but her bright, pink bikini.

And the jealousy that rocked through Ophelia's core was nothing short of excruciating, thick and sloshing, like acid on the back of her tongue.

Ashley was beautiful, gorgeous really, perfectly manicured fingernails at all times, long, blonde hair, winkle-free face.

And she was single.

Ophelia had known this would happen should she invite Joel over today, but she'd still done it, because she couldn't stomach the idea of going a weekend without seeing him, because the notion of this unbearable party seemed so much lighter in his presence.

But now, Ashley was throwing her head back to laugh at something one of them had said, her hand squeezing his bicep, her body moving closer to his side, and it felt like Ophelia's head might explode, like that green, viscous jealousy might spew from her eyes, her nose, every orifice of her body.

She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, her jaw aching with how tight she was clenching it as she burrowed her eyes into Ashley's profile, juvenilely imagining she could make her spontaneously combust by channeling all her anger, her jealousy, her unwarranted possessiveness into her glare.

After what felt like a millennium, Joel side-stepped Ashley, saying something she couldn't make out from the distance, then continued his trek back over to where Ophelia was sitting, still fuming.

When he got closer, his eyebrows tugged together, his lips pulling down at the corners.

"Everythin' alright?" he asked when he sat down, handing her the seltzer— which he'd already opened— and her phone.

It was concerning, that her emotions seemed to be written clear enough on her face for him to decipher that something was wrong.

And maybe it was stupid and immature and pathetic of her, but that bitter, sloshing thing was still occupying too much of her gut. So she shook her head at his inquiry, then wiggled her butt to tug her coverup out from underneath her, pulling the entire thing off and tossing it onto the grass behind them.

Joel let out a shallow breath next to her and she worked up enough courage to glance over at him, to find his eyes nearly black, brimming with something hot and hungry as his gaze drank in her figure, long, languid strokes she could almost feel, over her hips, her chest, her stomach, her thighs.

And then she dared to let her own eyes drift down to his lap, where she could see the thick, heavy shape of his cock through his trunks— snaking down the leg of them, pushing defiantly against the seam— and the sight made warmth pool in her pelvis, sending a shooting wave of need down through her pussy, which clenched, flooding wet, sticky arousal onto the gusset of her bikini bottoms.

Her thighs trembled in response, and she squeezed them together to try to alleviate some of the want, the aching desire she'd never felt as potently ever in her life.

When his eyes returned to her face, they were molten, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as his chest heaved a little more rapidly than before.

"You're gorgeous, Ophelia," he husked, his voice so low it made her hair stand on end. "You have no idea how badly I want to—" he stopped himself, shook his head, let it hang on his neck as a pained expression swept over his face.

Her heart was hammering in her chest, everything that comprised her was hanging on that unfinished sentence.

"Want to what?" she heard herself ask, no louder than a whisper. She could feel a bead of sweat rolling down her chest, between her breasts.

He let out a sharp breath, his big ribs quivering, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

"I want to fuckin' devour you," he growled, his eyes black when he lifted his head, his words shooting straight into her core, tugging a gasp out of her chest, an achy flutter erupting deep in her pelvis, like she might come, might come solely from the way he was looking at her, from the grumbled declaration that was still buzzing between them, from how stiff and huge his cock looked in his shorts.

There was no one else in the backyard anymore, the sound of the music, the chatter, everything had melted away, it was just them, staring at each other, trembling and breathing heavily, their desire one giant, thrashing thing between them.

"I'll— I'll be right back," she heard herself whisper, then she was pushing herself up to her feet, running on wobbly, unsteady legs around the pool, up the steps of the deck, into the house, her wet feet dripping all over the hardwood, her head heavy and buzzing like it was too weighty for her neck. She nearly slipped into the guest bathroom, shoving the door shut, turning the lock and falling back against it, her heart hammering, her cunt aching brutally as she pressed herself back against the door and shoved her hand into her bikini bottoms.

She was soaking wet, she'd never felt herself so wet before, sticky and dripping, her clit swollen and aching as she started frantically circling it with the index and middle finger of her right hand, while her left hand clamped over her mouth so she could muffle the moans that she couldn't seem to swallow.

I want to fuckin' devour you.

She couldn't get the rumbling sound of his voice out of her head, or the way his eyes had gone dark and starving, how huge his cock looked, how good she knew it would feel splitting her open.

She whimpered, shoving one, two, three of her fingers into her entrance, trying to reach that spongy part at the end of her that she couldn't reach without one of her toys.

I want to fuckin' devour you.

She was dizzy, breathing hard through her nose, drooling into the palm of her hand as she pulled her sticky, wet fingers out of her cunt where they squelched before she used them to rub her clit again.

His name was on her tongue as that flutter began to turn into something buzzing and hot, she whispered it, chanted it into her palm.

Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel.

I want to fuckin' devour you.

Her orgasm crashed into her like a tidal wave, pulling her under, her cunt spasming, pulsing long and slow, her balance wavering as she nearly hit the floor before the hand that had been clamped over her mouth sprang out to catch the edge of the counter.

She struggled to catch her breath, hunched over the counter, her sticky hand hanging at her side.

She felt insane, she was insane— running into the bathroom to masturbate like her life depended on it.

Her marriage depended on it.

Because if she would have sat there with Joel for another minute, with that need coiled tight in her pelvis, his dark eyes on her, that rumbling declaration snapping like electricity between them, she would have let him fuck her right there next to the pool, in front of everyone.

She took another moment to compose herself, scrubbed her hands in the sink, fixed her hair in the mirror, then took a deep, clarifying breath before she opened the door, and nearly walked straight into a wide, towering chest.

Ophelia let out a sharp scream, stumbling back, her eyes snapping up to find Joel staring down at her, nostrils flaring, his eyes bouncing over her face, then down, irises growing darker with each inch that his gaze dipped.

How long had he been standing there? The whole time? Had he heard her? Did he know that she'd run away like an insane person to rub one out in the bathroom because his voice alone made her wetter than her husband did when he was inside of her?

He coughed, cleared his throat, reached up with one big hand to scratch the stubble on his cheek, then he forced his eyes back to her face.

"Wanted to make sure you were okay," he said, voice still a pitch too low, too gravely to be normal. "M'sorry, if I— I shouldn't have said that."

"I'm the one who asked," she breathed out, her heart still hammering, wild and offbeat in her chest.

Joel's head dipped down, eyes still black and hungry, his wide, towering body stiff as a board.

She felt stripped bare, new heat pooling in her lower belly, her heart fluttering madly, head a little too heavy on her neck.

Joel's eyes dropped and zeroed in on her mouth and it felt like all the oxygen in the room had evaporated as the last of the air in her lungs whooshed out.

He was about to take a step toward her, his foot lifting, his giant body closing in on her, her heart fluttering like a small, wild animal was trapped in her chest.

But the sound of the front door slamming open interrupted him, and then her sister's voice was screaming her name, dousing the heated moment between them with a rush of reality.

What the fuck was Juliet doing here?

Joel let out a sharp breath, then stepped backward, letting Ophelia exit the bathroom, her arm brushing against his solid torso, making electricity zap down her spine.

"Juliet?" she called out, padding around to the entryway, Joel's warm, tugging presence behind her.

"Effy?" Juliet answered, finally coming into view, her features twisted with confusion as her gaze danced over her sister, then up to Joel, who she could feel standing close behind her. Juliet's hair was down, brown waves bouncing over her shoulders, she had on a pair of sandals and a colorful, silk coverup that slightly obscured her curvy figure.

"What are you doing here?"

"I texted and called like a thousand times, my plans fell through, the dude I was seeing fucking ghosted me, jackass, so I wanted to come over here and drown my sorrows in alcohol and that amazing pool in the backyard."

As she spoke, Juliet's gaze kept flicking over to Joel, who had moved to Ophelia's side.

"Sorry— my phone was in my bag, and—" Ophelia started, but her sister interrupted her.

"I don't think we've met," she said, trying on a flirty smile that would have annoyed Ophelia if it was anyone other than her sister, "I'm Juliet, Ophelia's sister," she said, stepping forward to hold out her hand for Joel to shake.

"Joel," he answered, gently shaking her hand with his giant one, "Ophelia and I work together."

Juliet's eyebrows perked up, her gaze shifting from flirty to conspiring.

This was going to be a fucking nightmare.

"Oh Joel," she cooed, stepping backward, her eyes now dancing between the two of them, like she was seeing if she liked how they fit together, by the twitch of her lips, Ophelia knew she was pleased. "I've heard so much about you."

Ophelia felt Joel glance down at her and her cheeks flamed with color.

"All good things, I hope," he said, voice lilting with jest.

"Great things!" Juliet beamed.

He'd been about to kiss her... at least that's where she thought it had been going before Juliet burst into the house, but this situation was somehow worse, more dangerous, because her sister was conniving, and by the scheming glint in her eyes, she knew she was already devising some kind of fucked up plan to humiliate her, jeopardize her shitty marriage, or both— probably both.

"Joel," she said turning toward him, "I'll meet you back outside in a minute, I just need to show my sister something."

Joel nodded, though he didn't look too convinced, he still brushed past her, his hand caressing her waist— sending a new crashing wave of need through her— as he walked through the sitting room and out the back door.

"Oh, you're down bad," Juliet spat out, with a delighted chuckle, "you're wearing a fucking bikini, I didn't even know you owned one of those."

Ophelia shot her sister a stern look, then stepped forward and grabbed her arm, pulling her into the guest bathroom and shutting the door behind them.

"If you're going to stay here, you cannot do any of your schemes, and you have to be nice to Scott," she ordered, staring her sister down even as Juliet rolled her eyes and leaned back against the counter, beginning to pick at her cuticle with palpable boredom.

"He's hot, by the way, happy to know you've finally developed a good taste in men."

"Juliet," she spat out, even as her cheeks burned against her will.

Her sister groaned, throwing her body off the counter in a dramatic whirl.

"I'll play nice," she grumbled, then her lips quirked as she glanced up at Ophelia through her lashes. "Have you slept with him yet?"

"Jesus," Ophelia muttered, spinning around to face the door, willing her cheeks to return to a normal temperature. "No, Juliet, I haven't slept with him. I'm married," she said to the door.

Would have though, would have slept with him if she hadn't run into this very bathroom to relieve the ache in her pelvis, would have slept with him if he had instead dragged her inside and locked them in one of the guest rooms.

Everything felt like it was spinning out of control, like Ophelia was trapped on some demented carnival ride that didn't have an exit.

"You want to, though," her sister said, voice lilting into a taunt, "just tell me, I'm your sister, I tell you about all of my stupid, embarrassing hookups."

"This is different!" Ophelia snapped as she spun back around.

She shouldn't have said that, it had just clawed itself out of her, like it had been biding its time, slowly crawling up her throat.

Juliet's eyebrows flicked up toward her hairline.

"Why?" Juliet asked, softer now, no longer taunting, "because of Scott or because... shit, Effy, are you in love with this guy?"

Her heart was threatening to burst from her chest while her gut twisted into a tight knot that was soaked in dread.

In love with him.

In love with Joel.

Not Scott.

She hadn't even admitted that to herself yet, how could she admit it to her sister?

"I can't do this right now," Ophelia muttered, turning back around, her hand closing over the door knob before her sister caught her arm and she glanced over her shoulder, to find Juliet staring at her with more concern than she'd ever seen plague her little sister's eyes.

It made guilt swirl around that dread-soaked knot in her gut.

"I know I'm a brat sometimes, but you also know that I care about you," Juliet started, her gaze bouncing between Ophelia's eyes. "Scott is just like dad, Effy, they're like the same person, and you see how mom is, how trapped she feels. I— I just think if you have a chance to get out, to find something better, you should."

Ophelia's eyes pinched, her throat going hot and thick.

"When the hell did you grow up?" she choked out.

Juliet laughed, then shrugged, "Mom told me I was getting wise when I talked to her on the phone yesterday, so I guess it's a new development."

__________

Juliet stayed on her best behavior— though that did include sending a few jabs Scott's way, but certainly nothing worse than usual.

More people flooded into the backyard, friends bringing friends and those friends bringing friends until the backyard was bustling with strangers and Ophelia started making a plan to retreat into one of the guest bedrooms just as soon as Joel left.

And Joel— Joel acted like they hadn't almost kissed in the bathroom, like he hadn't told her he wanted to devour her, he stayed close to her side, but he kept their conversation light, casual, talked about the plans he had with Sarah later that evening, about work, about his younger brother Tommy. And while that should have been a relief, instead it just worked to make Ophelia's gut bounce with nerves, like there was something lodged between them that neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

When it was time for him to leave, Ophelia tugged back on her coverup, walked with him through the house and out to the front porch, those nerves still bouncing in her gut, dread flooding through her chest at his departure.

"Thanks for coming," she said as she closed the door behind them, "I— it was much more bearable with you here."

Joel flashed her a soft smile, that dimple burrowing itself into his scruffy cheek. "Thanks for invitin' me."

She nodded, swallowed hard, shuffled a bit on her feet.

"Listen," he said suddenly, with a sharp breath, his giant form taking a small step toward her, "'Bout what I said earlier—"

Ophelia shook her head, interrupting him before he could take it back or try to package it as something else. She couldn't handle that, not when it was still vibrating in her head. "It's fine," she said softly.

"I wasn't goin' to apologize," he mumbled and her eyes snapped up to his face, to find those warm eyes gone dark and ravenous again.

Her belly cramped tight, throat suddenly too arid, tongue too big in her mouth, like she might choke on it.

"I'm—"he shook his head, let out a breathless laugh, "I want to be your friend, Ophelia, I love bein' your friend, but I also want you to know that if you ever want this to be something else, somethin' more than that, all you've gotta do is say so, okay?"

A breath or a gasp, something choked and sudden worked its way out of her throat.

How did he have the confidence to just come out with it like that? To put himself on the line, to bare himself to her so willingly?

If Juliet hadn't barged into the house, would he have kissed her? Would she have let him?

She wanted to kiss him, had been wanting to so badly for so long it felt like the want was its own creature, taking up too big a residence in her core.

And maybe he could read her mind, or maybe she'd unknowingly glanced down at his lips, but before Ophelia could really comprehend what was happening, Joel was right there, so close she had to crane her neck to keep looking up at him, his gaze heated as it flicked from her eyes to her mouth and back, as his big, warm hands gathered her face in his palms, and the towering length of him bent down, until she could feel his warm breath against her cheek.

It was a second that felt like a million, that suspended moment in time where his lips were close enough that she could almost taste them, where she tried to breathe only to find the air completely devoid of oxygen, her heart jackhammering in anticipation, her stomach tight, her hands somehow on his arms, twisted into the sleeves of his shirt.

She wanted to kiss him, so badly it burned, but not here, not like this, maybe not ever.

Because she was married, this was her husband's parent's porch. Scott was right there, in the backyard, anyone could come barging out the front door right now and see them, see her cheating on her husband in his childhood home.

Before Joel's lips could brush hers, Ophelia managed a breath, forced herself to push away from him as she slammed her eyes closed.

"I'm sorry— I can't— Joel, I can't," she spat out, manically shaking her head, her stomach twisting with an amalgamation of disappointment and guilt and heavy, sinking dread.

Joel let her go, immediately took a step back, but she couldn't garner the courage to look up at him again.

"It's okay," he breathed out, "it's okay," even softer.

She kept shaking her head, couldn't stop as tears of frustration crawled up her throat to choke her.

Why did it have to be like this? Why did everything have to be so complicated and convoluted? Why couldn't she be someone else, someone not so tied down and twisted and broken?

"I'm gonna go," Joel said, so soft it made her cry even harder, "I wanna hold you, but I— I should go, I'll call you."

Ophelia didn't respond, she felt like her ribs were about to explode, like she was about to cave in on herself. She hadn't cried like this in ages, not since that afternoon in Italy, holed up in the bathroom. The day of her wedding.

The happiest day of her life— at least that's what it was supposed to be— that's what all the bridal advertisements said, all the photographers that Scott's parents hired, that's what Ashley said, as she hopped around their extravagant bridal party suite. There'd been a knot in Ophelia's gut for months, a year, ever since they'd begun planning the wedding, and that afternoon, as she slipped into her dress, as she stared at herself in the mirror, wide-eyed and terrified, that knot exploded.

She was marrying Scott, marrying him because he was stable and unchanging, marrying him because she loved him, because he was safe— safe in the way that she always knew exactly what to expect, who to be with him, the same person she'd always been, the provider, the caretaker, the mom. But in marrying him she was also forcing herself to always be that, to always be the one in charge, to always be the one booking trips and grabbing sunscreen and loading the dishwasher. She was condemning herself to a sex life that had once been mediocre, but that now verged on dismal. She was signing her life away to this, she was agreeing to forever.

And she could have walked away then, but she didn't. She wiped her eyes and she unlocked the door, she let the makeup artist fix the mess that had become of her face, then she walked down the aisle, while something in her chest screamed for her to turn around and run, and she said I do. Because the thought of starting over, of being cast back out into the unknown, was just as horrifying as the life she'd agreed to when she signed that marriage certificate.

Joel's footsteps echoed down the stairs, disappeared up the hill, and Ophelia didn't lift her head until she knew he was gone, her teary eyes making the street all blurry and misshapen, a mix of strange colors and shapes with no end or beginning.

And it felt like she was underwater.

And her life raft was nowhere in sight.

Chapter Text

Hamlet:  Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?

Ophelia:  Tis brief, my lord.

Hamlet:  As woman's love.

Joel did call.

The next day— a foggy and breezy Sunday that she spent holed up in her bedroom, watching the fog whip and whirl on the wind from out the window next to her bed.

He didn't apologize— he had no reason to— instead he said that nothing would change between them, if she still wanted to be friends then that's what they would be.

Friends.

But things did change. There was something wedged between them now, something that may have only been a whisper before, was now a piercing, crying scream, a desperation so palpable that it carved and bit into her, created this gaping cavern in her core that she couldn't seem to fill with his presence alone.

And he didn't touch her— not anymore— not to tuck her hair behind her ear when the wind whipped through the piers during their lunch break, not a small caress of her waist when he walked past her in the portable, he didn't pet her hair anymore or hold her or hug her and it was a brutal kind of want, a painful one, one that she knew could not be satiated by the platonic, borderline nefarious touches of their past.

She needed something more, something profound and life-shattering, otherwise that canyon in her core was going to absorb her entirely.

But more wasn't allowed, more was greedy and wicked and wrong.

But she was so desperate that wanting was all she knew now.

On the Friday after the Fourth of July party, Ophelia lugged herself into her car, letting out an annoyed groan as ABC blasted through her speakers. She cranked the volume down and slumped back into her seat. It'd been a grueling week, and not just because it had been devoid of Joel's touch, because they'd spent it with that screaming thing lodged between them, but also because the framing of the Canyon was going to take three to four months alone, and it required a lot more of her oversight than the foundation did. Because of that her emails had started to pile up, which meant she had to work into the evening when she returned home, in between making dinner and doing all of the household chores that Scott evaded as he kept up his residence on the couch.

She was tired, the kind of tired that sinks into your bones. She wanted to sleep for an extended period of time— a week, a month— but she was cursed by her circadian rhythm, which forced her out of bed every day at six on the dot.

Ophelia parked in the lot, paid the exorbitant amount required to not get an even more expensive ticket, then lugged herself and her bag across the blazing asphalt and through the dirt to the portable.

When she entered, Joel wasn't in his usual spot, propped up against the table that held the coffee maker, but there was coffee in the pot, which meant he'd been here already, had left before she arrived. Perhaps to get a head start with his team, or perhaps to avoid her, and the strange, jittering energy between them.

Her heart sank into the bottom of her gut as she shuffled over to the table to get her own coffee. After she poured in the cream, the sugar, Frankie's voice squeaked out from behind her laptop, causing Ophelia's heart to jump back into her chest as she jolted at the sudden noise.

"You got flowers, they were here when I arrived."

Ophelia spun around. She hadn't even realized Frankie was in, hadn't noticed anything besides the lack of Joel's presence. But as her eyes slid, from Frankie over to her desk, landing on the big bouquet of pink lilies and sunflowers and bright white daisies, she had no idea how she missed it when she walked into the portable.

She floated to her desk in a daze, plucking the little card from inside the bouquet, beginning to read the neat, blocky handwriting that was scrawled there.

ALL PRETTY GIRLS DESERVE FLOWERS —J

Her heart was thudding in her head now, her tummy cramping tight as she read those words once, twice, three times, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Are they from your husband?" Frankie's voice echoed next to her.

Ophelia nodded, because she didn't want to speak the lie aloud, tucking that little card safely into her bag.

No one had ever bought her flowers before.

Not for her birthday, not for any graduation or anniversary or career accomplishment. But Joel had bought her flowers, just because. Because he wanted to, because he thought she deserved them.

Ophelia let her bag slide off her shoulder onto the desk, placed her coffee cup down and just stared at the bouquet for a moment, heart pounding sorely in her chest, then she was rushing out the door, down the loud, creaky steel ramp, and through the dirt to the site, where her eyes bounced around the scattered construction workers until they landed on Joel, standing with his hands on his hips near the skeletal frame of the Canyon, directing a couple men as they loaded some of the beams onto one of the crane trucks.

He was wearing his hard hat, his vest, a white t-shirt that stretched to cover the broad plane of his shoulders, and just the sight of him made her tremble with need.

She shouted his name, perhaps not loud enough to hear over the loud drone of the crane truck backing up, but he somehow heard her, his gaze snapping over, his warm eyes softening.

He said something to the men standing next to him that she couldn't make out with the distance and the construction noise, but then he was walking toward her, the towering length of him taking up her entire field of view until he was standing close enough that she had to crane her neck to keep looking up at him.

"Thank you," she breathed out, "for the flowers."

Joel smiled, that dimple burrowing itself in his scruffy cheek, her heart fluttering madly at the vision.

She wanted him to touch her, to step even closer, to take her waist in his big, sturdy hands, to brush her hair back behind her ear, anything, everything. But he just stood there, his hands opening and closing at his sides, like he wanted to, but wouldn't let himself.

It was a strange limbo they were in— both knowing they wanted each other— that crash feeling inevitable, but being held at a standstill, a frozen moment that stretched too long.

"Would you want to come over tonight, for dinner? Sarah's out at a slumber party with her soccer team," Joel asked, reaching up to scratch the back of his tan neck.

"Yes," she spat out, too fast, too desperate, her stomach sloshing with embarrassment as she heard her high-pitched voice ring back through her head.

But Joel just smiled softly, his gaze drifting down to her mouth before he seemed forced to lift his eyes back to hers.

Her tummy cramped, her heart fluttering against her ribs.

Touch me, touch me, touch me.

"Did you drive?" he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets now.

Ophelia nodded.

"Can meet you there, then," he said, and she watched his hands curl into fists inside the confines of his pockets, as his big body wavered, like he might step toward her, before he chose to step backward instead.

A little breath of disappointment, intense yearning tumbled past her lips.

"I gotta get back," he nodded toward the men milling about without his direction, "I'll see you at lunch, okay?"

"Okay," she whispered, swallowing the urge to crash into him, bury her face in his wide chest, cling to him even if he wouldn't touch her ever again.

She stood there and watched him walk away, didn't return to the portable until he was back at the foot of the crane, the need in her core palpable and agonizing as she let out a deep breath and walked away from him, clinging to a tiny sliver of hope, that perhaps tonight, at his house, when they were alone, he would touch her again.

__________

He didn't touch her at lunch.

They got Thai food at a little place on Brannan, but he didn't touch her. Not even a small brush of his leg against hers under the table.

And she wanted to scream. She'd spent so many weeks convincing herself that their relationship was platonic, and now that it was, now that the only thing heated between them was unspoken and jammed into the too large space that separated them, she wanted to rip her hair out.

After work wrapped, she drove to his house, buzzing and aching, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her joints throbbed.

She pulled into a parking spot across the street just as Joel pulled into his driveway. It looked like he was thinking about crossing the street, opening her car door for her, but he just wavered in place, then waited for her to get out herself.

Her heart sunk lower into her gut.

He smiled at her when she reached him, led her into his house, which was just as warm and homey as she remembered from the small glimpse she'd gotten of it a few weeks ago.

"Can put your stuff on the couch," Joel said, nodding toward it as he kicked off his boots, "can I get you wine? Beer? Water?"

"Wine would be great, thanks," she said, letting her bag slide off her shoulder onto the worn leather couch, her eyes pinging around the room, trying to absorb as much of it as possible while he wasn't looking directly at her.

"Red or white?" he called out from the kitchen.

"White please," she said, squinting her eyes to read the spines on his bookshelf from across the room— White Fang, Moby-Dick, The Canterbury Tales, almost all of John Steinbeck's collection, quite a few non-fiction books on parenting and woodworking and construction.

When Joel walked out of the kitchen holding the wine glass, she tore her gaze away from the shelf, went to meet him back in the entryway.

"I'm gonna hop in the shower really quick," he said as he handed her the glass, not even his fingers brushing hers in the transfer, "make yourself at home, I put the wine in the fridge if you want more."

"Thanks," she breathed out, that new mantra screaming in her head as his warm eyes locked on hers.

Touch me, touch me, touch me.

Joel coughed, reached up to rub the back of his neck, then seemed to force himself to step away, toward the hall, his wide shoulders held in a taut line.

"I'll just be a minute," he called out as he disappeared down the hallway, a door shutting a moment later, the drone of the water beginning to hum through the pipes.

Ophelia tried to think about anything else, anything other than the fact that he was right there, thirty feet away, naked, but the vision her mind created of that image had warmth pooling in her pelvis, the need, the weighty desire that had been puppeteering her all week reaching a white-hot crescendo.

She groaned, swallowed a good portion of her wine, letting the alcohol buzz through her blood stream as she finally allowed herself to clear the room and run her index finger over the worn spines of his books.

He had an affinity for the classics, it seemed, with White Fang appearing to be his favorite by the dog-eared corners, the harsh creases that were carved into its spine.

Scott never read, unless it was some business article on the screen of his phone, and that had never really bothered her before, but now— as she took in the cramped shelves of Joel's bookshelf— it did.

She was always comparing the two of them, sometimes unknowingly, stacking up all the things Joel had that Scott didn't, all the ways they differed. It was a cruel thing to do, because when they were boiled down to traits, to habits, to all the tiny intricacies that make up a person, Scott stood no chance.

Ophelia drifted around his living room in a daze, her fingernail clinking against the wine glass in her hand as she ran a finger across the fretboard of the guitar propped up in the corner of the room, as she craned her neck to take in the pictures on his mantle. There was one of him and Sarah— quite a number of years back by how much younger the girl looked, by the lack of gray in Joel's hair and beard— they were both smiling wide, Joel on his knees so he was closer to the girl's height, a soccer ball tucked under Sarah's arm. There was another photo of Joel and a younger man who looked like him— his brother Tommy, most likely— their arms slung over each other's shoulders. There was one of an older couple— probably his parents. The last one was of a baby Sarah— toothless and giggling in a cute, pink dress.

She tried to imagine what a photo of her— her and Joel— would look like on his mantle, among all his other photos, but the ache was too brutal, and she forced herself to turn around, to walk back over to his big, leather couch, where she sat down with a huff, cursing herself as she grabbed the throw blanket from the arm of the sofa and buried her face in it. It smelled like him— warm and woody and masculine— and so she sat there, with her face buried in it because he wouldn't touch her anymore, until she heard the water turn off.

By the time Joel walked back into the room she'd already thrown the blanket back to its former position, and was sitting there in the middle of the sofa twisting her wine glass around and around. He'd changed into a clean pair of jeans, a navy-blue t-shirt, but his feet were bare now, and his hair was damp, combed back and out of his face, his thick neck flush from the hot water.

He was so devastatingly handsome it made her chest hurt.

"Was gonna make steak, with some potatoes and broccolini, how's that sound?" Joel asked, reaching up to brush a rogue curl off his forehead.

When he'd asked her over for dinner she hadn't considered he would be cooking for them. She couldn't even remember the last time someone had cooked her dinner.

"That sounds amazing," she breathed out.

"Good," he beamed, the vision making her heart flutter against her ribs. "Can stay sittin' out here or join me in the kitchen," he said, nodding that way.

Ophelia stood and followed him, standing idly near his kitchen table, twisting her wine glass in her hand as he took a beer out of the fridge, cracking it and taking a long sip before he grabbed the steak and a bag of broccolini.

"Can I help?" she asked, not knowing what to do with herself as she stood there watching him.

"Yes," Joel nodded, and Ophelia was about to step forward before he spoke again, "you can help by sitting down and relaxing," he said, flashing her a soft smile.

Her cheeks flared with warmth as she let out a breath, stepping backward and forcing herself to sit at his small kitchen table while he grabbed a bag of potatoes and began rinsing them in the sink.

He moved around the kitchen with as much confidence as he moved around the construction site, and maybe it was a little sad, just how attractive she found that, but Scott couldn't barely use the microwave, and here Joel was— chopping and seasoning potatoes, placing them on a baking sheet, rinsing the broccolini, prepping a pan for the steak which already looked marinated.

Still, it wasn't easy for her to just sit there. She'd never been allowed to sit and watch someone else cook, and she kept catching herself trying to stand up, step in, and take over. She chugged her wine to cope instead and when her glass was empty, Joel grabbed the bottle from the fridge and filled it for her before she could do it herself.

"Are you sure I can't help with anything?" Ophelia asked, twitching on the seat as Joel put the steaks on the pan, the sizzling and snapping of them filling the silent kitchen.

"Positive," he said over one big shoulder, the muscles in his back rolling deliciously as he leaned over to pull open the oven and put the potatoes in. "Just relax, honey."

But even that rumbling term of endearment couldn't get her to relax. She thought his touch might, but he didn't do that anymore.

Because they were friends.

That need in her gut crashed and sloshed in heavy waves, making her feel dizzy and off-balance.

But she just sat there and watched him cook, listened to him hum something she couldn't make out over the sound of the steak sizzling, while the desire to be wrapped up against him ransacked more and more of her form.

When he finished, he plated their food, brought it to the table and sat down across from her, the chair creaking under his bulky form. The smell wafting from her plate was mouth-watering, and she resisted the urge to immediately begin shoveling it all into her mouth.

"Thank you," she said softly, as she picked up her fork and knife, "I can't remember the last time someone made me dinner."

Joel flashed her a solemn smile, a pained smile that made his eyes look glossy.

"I'll make ya food whenever you want," he said, his eyes hurriedly bouncing over her face before his gaze fell to his plate.

She wanted him to reach across the table and squeeze her hand, wanted his leg to brush against hers beneath it, wanted him to scoot closer to her, pet her hair, caress the back of her neck between eating, but he did none of that, just picked up his fork and knife and began cutting his steak.

Ophelia let out a small breath of disappointment, then followed suit.

That first bite of steak had her slumping in her seat, a groan involuntarily bubbling from her mouth as she chewed. It was perfect— buttery, still pink in the middle, tender and rich.

"Good?" Joel asked, his own fork paused halfway to his mouth.

Ophelia nodded urgently.

He grinned, a devastating one that had that dimple burrowing into his cheek, his eyes going all squinty and soft before he popped a piece of steak into his mouth, his big jaw working to chew.

"What did you marinade this in?" she asked, already shoving another piece into her mouth.

"Some olive oil, soy sauce, lemon, Worcestershire," he listed off, "basil, a little parsley, white pepper and garlic, tiny bit of hot pepper sauce."

"It's incredible," she said, covering her mouth while she chewed.

"I'm glad you like it, honey," he hummed, making her cheeks flush while that echoing mantra screamed in her head.

Touch me, touch me, touch me.

He didn't, and she worried that he might never touch her again.

She should have kissed him when she had the chance, even if it was on her in-laws' front porch, getting caught cheating didn't feel as paramount, as horrible as this. And perhaps that made her a terrible person, a despicable creature, but she could not get the need in her gut to adhere to logic, it was too potent, even, to drown out the guilt.

The potatoes and broccolini were just as delicious as the steak. It was almost infuriating how good he was at everything. He was competent at anything he did— construction, parenting, cooking, driving.

Scott wasn't good at anything.

That thought should have spun more guilt into her gut but it just made her more needy.

They finished eating, mostly in silence, with a few interjections about work, then Joel told her to go sit on the couch while he took their plates to the sink.

She was halfway there, her body trembling with all the unquenched need in her gut, with all those things that remained unspoken between them, then she spun back around, her eyes glued to his wide back as he leaned over the sink.

"Why won't you touch me anymore?" she blurted out, her heart hammering against her ribs, that need in her core so intense she felt like she might keel over at the force of it.

Joel paused his motion of rinsing off their plates, the water humming as he just stood there for a moment, the muscles in his back tense, his shoulders taut. Then he turned off the tap, dried his hands on a tea towel that he promptly threw onto the counter, and when he finally turned to face her, his features were unreadable, but his eyes were dark, molten, causing the air in the room to go static with electricity.

He cleared the space between them in four ground-eating strides, the air punching out of her lungs as he stopped right in front of her, a mere foot of distance separating the two of them, forcing her neck to crane as his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Touch me, touch me, touch me.

"I told you," he started, his voice low, masquerading as calm even though she could see his wide chest beginning to heave, "I'm happy to be your friend, Ophelia, but the moment you want something more than that, you have to tell me."

Something more than that wasn't allowed, but desire did not adhere to logic, to morals, it was a clawing, animalistic thing, something primal and base. Something she didn't know if she'd ever truly experienced before him.

"I— you used to touch me; were we not friends a week ago?"

She watched him swallow, watched his throat work, Adam's apple bobbing in his neck as his dark eyes drilled into hers.

"I can't anymore," he whispered, "my restraint is dead, Ophelia. If I touch you now, I'm not going to be able to stop at this falsely constructed platonic line we've drawn," he said, his voice laced with pain, like the will he'd had to conjure to hold himself back was agonizing.

She wondered if it was as agonizing as the unquenched need swirling in her core.

"If you ask me to touch you again, Ophelia, I'm not going to be able to stop," he repeated, more detrimentally this time, his eyebrows pinched together, his hands trembling at his sides.

She should've left then, should've turned and walked out of his house, because the man standing in front of her was not her husband, but he existed as everything she'd ever wanted, everything she never knew she could have.

But Ophelia didn't leave, she didn't walk away, instead she stood there in front of him, visibly shaking, her heart in her throat, her core comprised of one yawning cavern of need.

"Touch me," she whispered.

And Joel broke, his spine springing loose, a breath shuddering out of his chest as he cleared that miniscule space between them faster than she could blink, his big, warm hands gathering her face, his towering form crowding her as he leaned down and roughly parted his lips over hers.

She hiccupped into his mouth, electricity snapping and swirling at each point of contact— their lips, his hands on her cheeks, hers fisted into the sleeves of his shirt. He was commanding and desperate, kissing her with force, tilting her head further back so he could lick into her mouth with his wide, warm tongue. He tasted like beer and man and unfiltered desire.

No one had ever kissed her like this— with so much urgency. He was dominating and hungry, groaning into the cavern of her mouth, the low, rumbling echo of it making her belly swoop and clench, fisting that knot in her pelvis until it ached.

"Fuck, Ophelia," he mumbled against her mouth, her name dripping with want as it slipped past his lips, and the sound cracked something open inside of her, that base part of her flooding the rest of her form as she keened into his mouth, her hands clawing at his wide shoulders, his warm neck.

He grunted, letting go of her face to wrap those big arms around her waist, lifting her up, still kissing her dizzy as he walked over and collapsed onto the couch, keeping her on his lap, big hands closing over her thighs to tug her legs into a straddling position, which put her weepy, aching cunt flesh with the thick length trapped in his jeans.

She gasped as he moaned, the sound reaching into her and unraveling that knot in her pelvis, so that need was no longer congregated in that one spot, but everywhere now. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, through his t-shirt as he licked a hot claim over her palate, his big, calloused hands trailing up her thighs, beneath the hem of her dress, thick fingers curling around her hips as his own bucked beneath her, the motion seeming a little involuntary.

Ophelia felt drunk, and not from the two glasses of wine she'd drank, but from him, the woody scent of his skin, his wide form eclipsing her, his mouth now moving against hers in long, languid motions, so sensual and heated it made her grind against the thick length beneath her in a desperate attempt to relieve the throbbing in her cunt.

"Shit," he spat out, his lips leaving hers for a moment, damp forehead falling against hers as he used the grip he had on her hips to aid her motion, dragging her wet cunt over his twitching length. She could feel new arousal pooling up in her panties, hot, sticky, wet as the friction relieved some of the aching.

"That's it," he crooned, his eyes all dark, black pupil as he slid his forehead off of hers, dipping his head to kiss the side of her neck before sucking that skin between his teeth, the pain dull and exquisite in combination with his rumbling voice, his hot mouth, the much needed friction against her pussy. "Keep movin' like that, baby," he hummed, his lips trailing up her neck to her ear, his baritone like a lightning bolt down her spine.

Scott never talked to her when they had sex, never moaned, never gave any kind of indication that he was enjoying himself as she laid there and pretended she was aroused. She'd tried, asked so many times, but it never felt authentic, it never felt real, always a little like she was forcing him to be something he couldn't.

But Joel had taken control immediately, even though she was the one on top of him, he was aiding her movements, his ministrations were coiling white-hot heat through her veins, bringing her closer to orgasm than Scott ever had while he was inside of her.

"I've gotta have you in my bed," he grunted, hips bucking beneath her, "dreamt about it for too long."

Ophelia nodded urgently and then he was hoisting her up again, one thick arm wrapped around her waist, his other hand claiming her jaw in his firm grip as he tugged her mouth back to his in a hot, biting kiss.

He carried her down the hall, into his bedroom, laid her down on his big bed as he crawled over her, one thick thigh pushing between her legs as he kept licking into her mouth. She was dizzy and disoriented and captive by his giant form and her boiling desire. She was not thinking about how wrong and demented this was, what a horrible creature she was for finally giving into this buzzing thing between them, she couldn't think about anything that wasn't him.

His thigh grinded up against her while he ate at her mouth like a man starved, one hand gripping the nape of her neck, the other pushing under her dress to grab her breasts, the calloused pads of his fingers pinching her nipples, rolling them between his first finger and his thumb while she dug her own fingers into the taut muscles of his wide back.

"Joel," she heard herself gasp, and he hummed, the low sound a vibration through her bones as he moved his mouth back to her neck.

"I know," he crooned, nuzzling his face into her neck, making her belly swoop and flutter, "God, I've wanted you like this for so fuckin' long," he muttered, between harsh, biting kisses to the sensitive skin just above her clavicle. "Since that first day I met you, Ophelia, I've wanted you since then."

"Me too," she admitted in a breath, digging her fingers into his arms, grinding down on his thigh to relieve the intensity of that ache.

He made a pleased sound that rumbled through her bones, then lifted his head, his dark eyes locked on hers for a moment before they snapped down to her mouth and he was kissing her hard and dire again. She'd never felt like this— not once in her life— so drunk on him, so dizzy with desire she couldn't think about anything else.

"I have to see, I have to taste you," he was mumbling into her mouth, then his hands were curling around the hem of her dress while he pulled back just enough to begin pulling it off of her. She lifted her arms to allow him to tug it all the way off, where he threw it unceremoniously onto the floor, his eyes like two black holes carved from his skull as they ricocheted down her chest, her waist, her hips.

"Fuck, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he growled, then he was caging her hips with his thighs, one of his hands sliding under her back to lift her up toward his mouth as the other took a strong grip of her hip, his fingers curling into the fabric of her panties. Her fingers sprang into his curls— damp and warm at the roots, the ends cool against her palm— as his mouth closed over her left nipple, the flicking, circular motion of his tongue sending a shooting wave of wicked desire down her spine.

Her head fell back on her neck, a wild moan escaping her lips, echoing back into her head as a foreign sound of unbridled need.

"I love that sound," he growled against her breast, tugging at her nipple with his dull front teeth, watching in awe as it sprang back, all twisted and puckered. "I heard you last weekend, after you locked yourself in the bathroom," Joel said, his voice impossibly low, gravel-edged as those dark eyes flicked up to her face, his words causing her tummy to twist with embarrassment, her cheeks flooding with warmth. "What were you thinkin' about when you made yourself come in there, baby?"

Her eyes went wide, her mouth opening and closing while a choked sound worked its way up her throat.

"Tell me," he grumbled, his lips lowering to her breast again, dark eyes flicking up to her while he sucked as much of it as he could into his hot, wet mouth.

"You," she blurted out, because she couldn't swallow the truth while his big, commanding form was coiling so much heat within her core, because it was one less thing left unsaid between them.

He moaned, eyes fluttered, his hips bucking, pressing the thick, hard length trapped in his jeans against the sodden fabric of her underwear.

"M'gonna make you come this time," he said, after letting her breast pop out of his mouth, "I can't fuckin' wait to make you come."

She whimpered as he set her back down on the bed, kissing her hard on the mouth before beginning to trail kisses down her torso, paying special mind to her hips before he settled between her legs, his eyes glued to the drenched gusset of her panties.

She wanted to squirm, hide her face, run away, but his eyes were molten and his hands were gripping her thighs tight enough to bruise as he pushed them apart to make room for his wide shoulders.

"You're soaked for me, honey," he grunted, his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip. "Has he ever made you this wet?" Joel asked, his black eyes darting up to her face.

He— her husband.

Ophelia shook her head.

Joel made a pleased sound in the back of his throat.

"That's because you're supposed to be mine," he growled, the word mine darker and lower than the rest of his statement. And Ophelia's stomach clenched tight as he pressed his prominent nose into the soaked gusset of her panties and inhaled sharply.

She should have been embarrassed— the act was lewd and vulgar, but the moan that rocketed out of him had her keening, her hands springing again into his hair as he dragged his nose up, putting delicious pressure on her clit that already had something deep in her pelvis fluttering.

"You smell like fuckin' heaven," he groaned, then let his tongue out to drag over the wet fabric, a choked sound echoing out of him as his head dropped onto her thigh, and he nuzzled his scruffy face into her skin like a big, oversized, horny cat.

"Told you I was gonna fuckin' devour you," he muttered, then began pulling her panties down, sitting up a bit so he could grab each leg and tug them off, throwing them onto the ground with her dress.

Ophelia resisted the urge to cover up with her hands, to shield her unshaven mound from his gaze, but his eyes flared with heat as they locked on her, a muttered, broken curse choking out of him.

"I literally prayed that you would be unshaven," he grunted, then dove back down, his mouth magnetizing to her cunt as he buried his nose in her curls with a groan that vibrated her core. And his tongue felt so good, heavy and warm, lapping up the mess she'd made with pleased moans while the broad tip of his nose circled her swollen clit. But even though this was better than anything she'd ever experienced with Scott— who hadn't eaten her out in years— she still felt panic beginning to slosh away in her gut.

He wanted to make her come, but Ophelia had never come during sex, she didn't think she could, not even with him.

Her nerves clouded her desire as Joel began circling her clit with his tongue, and that panic reached a bubbling, nauseating crescendo as she pulsed her floor muscles and put on a moan that she hoped would satiate him.

But when she opened her eyes to look down at him, he'd stopped what he was doing, lifted his head, his lips and scruff glistening with her arousal, his eyebrows furled together.

"What the hell was that?" Joel muttered.

Warmth spread up Ophelia's chest, neck, to congregate on her cheeks.

"I— I came," she whispered, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue.

"No, you didn't," he punched out, looking both confused and slightly hurt, his twisted features making those nerves in her gut increase tenfold.

"I did— I—" she stammered.

"Ophelia, I know what a woman's cunt feels like when she comes."

His words echoed through the room, while her cheeks continued to burn, and embarrassment sloshed around with the nerves in her gut. She felt too exposed, suddenly hyper-aware of her nakedness, overwhelmed with the abrupt need to cover up, she hid her face beneath her hands.

She felt Joel crawl over her, his big form eclipsing her as his fingers wrapped around her wrists and tugged her hands from her face. His gaze was softer now, but that knot was still etched between his brows.

"Talk to me, was I doing something wrong? I'm extremely open to feedback," he said, with a soft smile that made warmth push away some of the anxiety in her gut.

"No— it's not you— I just—" she bit down hard on her bottom lip, her eyes bouncing between his before the next few words pushed their way out of her, "I don't— I've never come during sex, I don't think that I— I'm not sure that I can."

Something dark flashed over his eyes at that, and he slowly released his grip on her wrists in favor of gathering her face in his hands, forcing her to remain looking at him when she desperately wanted to look anywhere else.

"He's never made you come?" he asked, his voice low and biting.

"It's not his fault; I just can't during sex."

"It's absolutely his fault," Joel growled, features overcome by anger now, waves of it rolling off his wide form.

"He doesn't know— I fake it every time," she admitted, for the first time aloud.

"You're not gonna fake it this time," he grumbled, letting go of her face and moving back between her legs. "I'll stay down here for a fuckin' hour if it makes you come," he said, then dove back in, his hot mouth closing over her pussy, licking a hot, firm stripe from her entrance to her clit, where he focused his attention, lapping at it, then sucking it into his mouth.

Scott had never done that— sucked her clit like that— and the motion had white-hot heat whipping through her pelvis as something choked and keening broke out of her, her hips involuntarily bucking up before Joel used his grip on her thighs to pin her back onto the bed.

He made a pleased sound, continued the pattern of long, firm strokes of his tongue, then sucking, taking small breaks to bury his nose in the curls above her mound.

Her fingers were back in his hair, tugging at the roots as her breath picked up to something frantic, the dripping need in her pelvis wound into a heavy, aching knot. She felt dizzy and untethered, like she was floating above herself, like he was pulling her consciousness completely out of her physical form as he continued that overwhelming rhythm.

"You're gettin' close, baby," he hummed, "can feel how wet you're gettin'."

She could barely hear him, but his words only pushed her closer to detonation. Then he removed his right hand from her thigh and began curling her entrance with his thick, rough index finger, and that had her crying with desperation, for something to bear down on while she was completely untethered from anything that wasn't that thick, coiled desire.

"Please," she heard herself gasp out.

"Want something to come on, honey?" he crooned against her clit.

She nodded urgently, tears beginning to stream down her temples, nestling into the hair behind her ears.

"S'okay," he hummed, "you're so close, I'm gonna get you there."

Then one thick finger was pushing into her, curling and hammering into that soft, spongy spot she could never reach on her own, and Ophelia screamed, hips bucking again, pressing her pussy further into his face.

Joel grunted, slamming her hips back down with one big hand spread out over her pelvis, his mouth never leaving her clit as he wedged another finger inside of her, the two of them hammering into her as he sucked and lapped and Ophelia's pelvis began to buzz with something voltaic, syrupy pleasure spreading through her extremities.

"So fuckin' tight," he groaned, "I can feel you startin' to flutter, baby, give into it."

This was different than any time she had come by herself, this was earth-shattering, mind-numbing pleasure that was pooling up and beginning to overflow. Her orgasm came in a rolling swell, not a sharp punch, a building crescendo, a growing tidal wave.

She was breathing fast and short as it started to build, her fingers digging into his hair as she felt sweat pooling between her breasts. She could barely hear Joel, her hearing was muffled and staticky, but somewhere below her he was humming out words of encouragement.

"That's it, you're right there, baby. Squeezin' my fingers so tight, so fuckin' wet for me, you look so beautiful, Ophelia."

The height of her orgasm was like jumping from a cliff into a hot pool of relief and pleasure, so potent she felt like she was blacking out. Her cunt pulsed hard and slow around his fingers, flooding his palm with arousal as her spine arched and a cry burst from her chest.

Joel's voice was somewhere in the haze, low and gruff, awestruck.

"Good girl, fuck Ophelia, that's a good fuckin' girl."

He kept his mouth on her, his fingers inside of her through the last rolling waves, until she melted into the mattress, her chest heaving, her hair soaked with tears, her torso drenched in sweat. Then he was over her, kissing her mouth with fervor, his scruff wet, his tongue tasting like her.

And that— she knew— was like nothing she'd ever experienced, nothing she ever would without him again— and he hadn't even fucked her yet.

Ophelia's eyes fluttered open when he pulled back, to watch him tug his shirt off, his wide, towering torso flushed, the hair on his chest glistening with sweat. He smelled so good, a little more musky than usual, masculine, all man.

He still had his jeans on, his cock snaking down his leg as he pulled her up onto his lap, one of his big arms wrapping tight around her waist, while the other cupped the bowl of her skull. Her nipples brushed against the coarse hair on his chest while her bare pussy could feel his hard, twitching length beneath her, and those things along with the hungry look on his face, his broad shoulders and big arms, made a new crashing wave of need whip through her core.

"Tell me what else you need, baby," he crooned, lowering his head to press a wet, opened mouthed kiss to her neck. "Tell me what he doesn't do, what he doesn't give you so I can."

Her hands were on his wide shoulders, his skin was hot and damp and she let her palms slide down until they were resting on his firm, hairy pecs.

"Tell me what he doesn't do, what he doesn't give you so I can."

There was so much, so many things bouncing in her head, all of them buried for so long, most of them almost too embarrassing to utter aloud. But he looked so earnest, and he'd just made her come, and so she found herself speaking without much cognition, those caged thoughts flowing freely with him, just like they always did.

"You're— you're already doing most of it," she said coyly, "he— he never talks to me, or takes charge."

Joel's eyes remained locked on hers while she spoke, his big, heavy hand running through her hair, his head tilted slightly to the side.

"What else?" Joel pressed, gently squeezing her nape.

"Maybe you could— grab my neck, or— pin me to the bed, spank me..." she uttered softly, her gaze dropping down, where their bodies were pressed together, his cock twitching beneath her.

"What else?" he urged again, like he could see that daunting secret buried deep in her head, locked away behind something stronger than steel. Something she'd wanted for so long, something she knew Scott couldn't give her, something she'd never even asked for because he could not embody what she needed.

"It's embarrassing," she whispered, chewing on her bottom lip, her cheeks blazing with warmth.

Joel's hand left her nape to grab her chin between his first finger and his thumb, tilting her head back up and forcing her to face him, to face her desires that she'd buried for so long she'd come to think of them as rotten.

"Nothing about what you want or need is embarrassing, Ophelia," he uttered, stern and commanding, his brows furled together as his dark, pupil-blown eyes drilled into hers.

He had this way of reframing things, of plucking things out of her head and her life and showing her them in a new light.

"They're like... kinks," she whispered, chewing more rabidly on her bottom lip.

"I would like to hear them," he said, letting go of her chin to cup the side of her face in his warm, rough palm.

"I've never told anyone."

"Then tell me," he said, his eyes flicking down to her lips, where he leaned forward to press a soft kiss.

And that gesture— so sweet and soft in juxtaposition to this weighty, baseline desire between them was what had the words drifting from that cage and out her mouth.

"I guess— I mean, I don't know if you can have a kink if you've never experienced it before, but I— breeding? And I— I've always wanted to call a man daddy, but Scott just isn't— he doesn't—"

"He doesn't fit that label," Joel finished for her, his voice gravel-edged, a muscle in his jaw fluttering beneath his skin.

Ophelia nodded, lip still captive in her teeth's grip.

"Is that— do you think I'm weird or—" she started, nerves beginning to bounce in her gut now that her confession was out.

"No," Joel uttered, gathering her face in his hands and parting his lips roughly over hers, a whimper bubbling out of her when his tongue swept over hers, his hips rutting beneath her as she dug her fingers into his firm chest.

He groaned as he pulled his lips from hers, letting them sweep across her cheek to her ear. "I'll be your daddy, baby," he purred, his voice rumbling through her skull, his words pulling a new knot of desire tight in her pelvis while something between a whine and a whimper flooded from her lips.

He was kissing her again, then, hard and rough, sucking her bottom lip between his teeth, licking into her mouth as he began lowering her back onto the bed with his hands firm on her waist.

"I'm so fuckin' hard, Ophelia," he grunted into her mouth, "I can't wait to be inside of you."

Her belly flopped, then clenched, her fingers digging into the taut muscles in his upper arms.

"Please," she heard herself gasp.

She'd never begged before, but with him it felt dire, impossible not to.

"Please, what?" he said, pulling away from her lips, "call me what you want to call me, baby."

Her cheeks pooled with color, and she fought the urge to hide her face again.

"Please daddy," she breathed out, chewing on the inside of her lip as she watched his eyes blaze.

"Fuck, I like that," he rasped, "good girl."

The praise had her cunt squeezing tight.

No one praised her, not during sex, not outside of the bedroom. Not for any of her career accomplishments, not for stepping up to help raise her little sister, not for any of her graduations. She'd been such a good, well-behaved kid, but she'd never received praise for that.

For anything.

And it made her want it, crave it like a drug, but receiving it felt so foreign, that Ophelia didn't know how to respond, how to claim it.

Joel kissed her hard once more, then pushed the bulk of his body to his feet, his eyes staying locked on her as he began unbuttoning his pants, pulling down the zipper, beginning to tug his jeans and his boxers down his hips.

Her heart was hammering in her chest, her pelvis coiled tight and white-hot as the trimmed, dark hair on his pelvis revealed itself, as the first few fat inches of his cock came into view. When it completely sprang free, she swallowed a gasp.

He was thick and long, the girth of his shaft never tapering off, not even at the end, where the fat, bulbous head was flushed, coated in sticky, shiny pre-come. So heavy, that even though he was fully erect, his cock still hung a bit between his legs rather than jutting straight out. The dark hair on his chest and stomach reached all the way down to his cock, and the sight of it had her pussy flooding with a new wave of arousal, clenching around nothing as she tried to prepare herself for taking all of that.

Joel's big hand wrapped around his cock— doing nothing to dwarf the size of it— as he jacked it in a twisting motion a couple times, his dark eyes drinking in her form, a groan tumbling from his mouth.

"Turn around for me, baby," he commanded, taking a step toward the bed, "want you on your hands and knees for me first."

Ophelia sat there for a minute, heart still drumming, so unaccustomed to not having to take the lead, but she finally scrambled to comply when Joel's eyebrows darted toward his hairline and he clicked his tongue at her.

He went to kneel behind her as she arched her back for him, his big hands grabbing her hips, warm, rough palms beginning to roam over her ass.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful, baby. Pretty pussy's still cryin' for me."

She keened, pressing back against his hands, her cunt aching to be filled by him.

"I know," he cooed, "gonna give it to you, fuck— she's dripping. You want daddy's cock don't you, baby?"

Just his words were pushing her to the edge, a flutter starting deep in her pelvis as she nodded urgently, tears pricking her eyes again.

"Say it, tell me, honey."

"I want it," she blurted out, wiggling her ass, her cunt aching and clenching as she pressed her face into his mattress.

"You want what?" he urged, his thick fingers digging into her backside.

"I want your cock," she muttered into the sheets, her cheeks flaming with color, she was almost embarrassed by her own words, by how good it felt to say them aloud.

"Whose cock do you want, baby?"

"Your cock, daddy," she spat out, turning her face so she wasn't speaking into the mattress.

"Good girl," he hummed, then his thick finger was parting her folds, running them through the sticky, slippery mess she'd made. "Fuck, that got you wet," he gruffed.

She felt slightly out of her head, like she'd slipped into a part of herself she'd kept buried, removed from what she let anyone else see. Joel had seen more of her in the past couple months than anyone else had. He'd seen more of her than her husband had.

She was too deep in the moment to let the guilt of that consume her.

"Gotta make room," he grunted, then he was shoving two of his thick fingers into her without warning, scissoring them while she squelched around him.

She wailed, jolting forward, then pushing back against him, aching for more, more, more.

When his fingers pulled out of her, he groaned, then ran his wet hand over her ass, before bringing his hand back and spanking her, the dull pain shooting straight into her cunt.

"So fuckin' pretty," he muttered, "one second, baby, gotta get a condom."

A deranged part of her wanted to tell him not to get one, she wanted to feel him, wanted him to fill her up, wanted to feel him dripping out of her when she was forced to leave this haven where she didn't have to be everything she'd always been forced to be.

Joel leaned over, pulled open the drawer on his bedside table and tore open a box of condoms, fishing one out and tearing the foil open with his teeth. She didn't want to think about the fact that he had a brand new box of condoms, which probably meant he'd just gone through the last one, sleeping with whatever women weren't tied down and broken and mangled by their past.

She watched him over her shoulder, roll the condom onto his thick length, then his eyes met hers and flashed with unfiltered want.

"M'gonna go slow, baby," he hummed, taking her hip in one hand, his cock in the other, "you tell me if it's too much," he said, with the confidence of a man who knew he was well-endowed.

She didn't care if it was too much, she'd never wanted anything as badly as she wanted him.

Ophelia nodded and he began directing the head of his cock to her entrance, pushing into her slowly, stretching her open with just the first fat inch of his cockhead.

He let out a rattling moan, both his hands tightly gripping her hips now as he stayed there, trembling behind her while her breath picked up to something frantic. The stretch was intense, a little painful, already so much she didn't know how she could possibly take him all.

"Breathe baby," he gritted out, thick fingers digging into the plush of her hips. "Gotta relax or m'not gonna fit."

He began petting her spine then, calloused fingers running up and down her back in a manner that had her breath slowing down, her cunt loosening its vise grip on him.

"That's it, s'a good girl," he cooed, leaning down to press a kiss to her shoulder, and she felt herself flood around him at the praise.

She'd always thought Scott had a big dick, not that she'd ever seen another dick in person, but Joel made him look miniature. Scott had length, but no girth, nothing that had ever stretched her wide like this.

Joel pushed in another inch, let her settle, kept cooing praises and adoration, another inch, repeating that cycle until he was fully seated within her, his wide head pressing against her cervix in a manner that had her head spinning, hands white-knuckling the sheets beneath her.

"You feel so good, baby," he groaned, "fuck you're perfect."

She whimpered, cunt involuntarily clenching around him, causing a rumbling moan to tumble from his mouth. Then he was pulling out, so agonizingly slow, and she cried at the loss, craning her neck to look over her shoulder at him— he was breathing heavily, curls plastered to his forehead, eyes eaten away by hunger, wide torso flush, damp with sweat, his muscles in his arms bulging as he kept his grip on her hips tight.

He was the most gorgeous man she'd ever seen in her life.

"Shit," he spat out when it was just his cockhead buried in her again, "keep lookin' at me, baby, keep those pretty eyes on me."

She did, because she didn't know where else to look when he was everywhere.

Then he pushed all the way back into her, just as slow as he'd pulled out, and they both let out a married moan, his rumbling below the keening sound of hers.

"Swear to god you were fuckin' made for me," he grunted, then he was pulling out again, pushing back in, repeating that process until they were both trembling, until she needed more, pressing her backside against his hips in a silent plea.

"Tell me what you want, baby," he gritted out, grinding his cock into the end of her, making her cry out, the hot, coiled need in her pelvis spreading through the entirety of her core.

"More, I want more, please," she heard herself gasp.

She felt his cock jolt inside of her while his fingers dug into her hips, his teeth gritting, dark eyes boring into hers.

"More what, honey, tell me."

She whined in frustration, trying to push back against him as he kept her hips locked in place with his big hands.

"More of your cock, faster, more, please daddy."

"Fuck," he moaned, then he was pulling out of her and slamming back in, causing the air to punch out of her lungs, her ability to breathe, to think, to speak evaporating as the thick, devastating length of him pounded into her. Her vision cut out as he set a brutal pace, slamming into her cervix, stretching her so wide it felt like he was everywhere, in her tummy, in her throat, in her head, in her bones.

"You feel so good, baby," Joel husked, voice bouncing as he thrust in and out of her, a moan breaking the middle of his sentence. "Wish I didn't have this fuckin' condom on, wanna fuck you full of me."

His words had her breath rushing back into her, a choked moan finally erupting from her throat as she felt herself beginning to pulse sorely around him, so close to another cliff, already dangling off the edge.

"Can feel you, you're gonna come again, aren't you, pretty girl?"

"Jo-el," she heard herself cry out, tears wetting the sheet beneath her, her entire body wound so tight it felt like she might explode.

"I know," he crooned, slowing down his thrusts, "I gotta see that beautiful face when you come," he rasped, then he was pulling out of her with a groan, and she let out a rattling cry at the loss, her sore, stretched cunt clenching tight around nothing.

"C'mere," he muttered, grabbing her waist and flipping her onto her back, causing her head and vision to spin, the room and his face a whirl of colors as he dragged her further up the bed, situating himself between her legs, tugging one of them up onto his wide shoulder as he situated his cock back at her entrance.

She knew— even in her drunk, dizzy state— that this, being with him, was life-altering, that nothing would ever— could ever— compare. This was the beginning and end of everything. Nothing would ever be the same now that she'd been with him like this.

When he pushed back into her his mouth collided with hers in a wet, urgent kiss, only breaking as they both moaned into each other's mouths.

"Fuck, Ophelia, I'm never gonna get enough of you," he groaned, fucking into her in long, hard strokes, one hand fisted in her hair, the other tight on her waist, his big, warm body pressed against hers.

Her fingers dug into the taut muscles in his back, raking her nails down his spine, crying into his mouth as he kept kissing her, tugging at her bottom lip with his teeth, licking into her mouth. She was so close, her cunt tight around him, the pressure in her pelvis otherworldly.

Then his big hand left her waist and wrapped around the column of her neck, putting delicious pressure on the sides, and that act alone had her back arching, a moan rumbling from her constricted throat as she felt that knot of heat and pleasure in her pelvis explode.

"Fuck yes," Joel grunted out, fucking her even harder through her climax, "that's my girl, you're so fuckin' pretty when you come, baby."

She was outside her body, floating on some other plane of existence as his rhythm broke, his thrusts going desperate and sloppy, then his head fell onto her neck as his cock jolted inside of her, a rumbling moan echoing against her ear.

Reality didn't crash down onto Ophelia's shoulders until Joel pulled out a couple minutes later, and the loss sent an unexpected lump surging up her throat.

She was bawling by the time he discarded the condom, heaving cries that rattled through her ribs, that hurt the back of her overworked throat.

"Baby, hey, baby, baby, c'mere," Joel crooned, his voice tight with worry as he lifted her into his arms, onto his lap, crushing her to his damp, flushed chest, letting her bury her face against his hairy pecs as he cradled the back of her head.

He rocked her, hushing her softly, petting her hair, kissing her head, dragging his warm, solacing hand up and down her back, but she couldn't stop crying, couldn't halt the dread, the marriage of guilt and remorse and need that had bludgeoned her gut the moment he pulled out of her and the reality of what she'd done had torn through her like a storm.

"Did I hurt you? Talk to me, honey," Joel was saying, his voice tight with concern.

Ophelia shook her head urgently.

He'd done the opposite. He'd shown her— in one tumbling avalanche of mutual desire— everything she'd been missing, everything that could have been, everything she couldn't have because she was married.

She was married.

She'd cheated on her husband.

She was just like those horrible men with mistresses, who lied to their wives, who booked hotel rooms to sleep with women they weren't married to, who went home smelling like someone else's perfume.

A cheater, she was a cheater.

"I'm a horrible person," she blubbered against his chest.

"No," Joel said sternly, still rocking her, his big arms keeping her sheltered when she should have been thrown out into the storm. "No, you're not."

"I am!" she spat out, trying to push away from the solace of his chest, pushing her palms into the hard plane of his torso. "I cheated on my husband, Joel— I'm— that's like an unforgivable act, I'm gross and rotten and—"

Joel gathered her face in his palms, wiping her tears away with his thumbs as he tried to catch her gaze, but his eyes were too warm, too understanding, too soft for someone as horrible as her.

"Ophelia, sometimes terrible people cheat, but that's not what this is. You're not a bad person; you're trapped in a marriage where you aren't getting anything you need."

She heard his words but couldn't digest them, all she could feel was immeasurable guilt.

"I have to go," she whispered, shaking her head, tears ricocheting from her chin, the room spinning around her as she tried to get up.

"Don't," Joel pleaded, tugging her back to him, "don't go, let me take care of you, calm you down first at least."

"No," she spat out, pushing herself from him, nearly falling onto her face as she tried to gather her clothes while her tears made everything fuzzy and out of focus.

Joel stood up, tugged on his discarded boxers, and she tried to ignore his gravitating form, his pinched brows, the frown tugging down the corners of his lips.

She stumbled trying to get her dress back on, her panties, using the edge of the bed to keep balance while Joel stood nearby, his hands clenched at his sides, like he wanted to tug her back to him but wouldn't let himself.

"I'm sorry," she breathed out, unable to look back up at him before she turned and forced herself out of his room, out of his shelter, back into the storm. 

Chapter Text

"This above all: to thine own self be true.

And it must follow, as the night the day,

thou canst not then be false to any man."

Joel took a deep breath that rattled his ribs, his eyes going blurry and unfocused as he stared across the length of his living room.

He didn't know how to stop thinking about it, about her, what it had felt like to have her if only for that brief moment in time.

She was everything.

The forty-eight-hour mark was approaching, since she'd left his bed, those agonizing tears streaming down her face. She hadn't called or texted him, hadn't answered when he'd garnered the strength to call her last night. He tried not to— he really did— but he couldn't stop himself from mulling over what Monday would look like. Would she refuse to come out to lunch with him now? Would she ask Tishman to force Swinerton to get a new foreman? Would she act like nothing had happened between them? Continue to suffer in her suffocating marriage.

He'd never wanted to pull her out more. He could hardly think about anything else anymore, just how desperately he wanted to show her what life could be like, with him.

Sarah bounded into the room, her phone pressed to her ear, a frantic expression on her face.

"Dad, can we go to Barnes and Noble? Kelsey said they have the new Harry Styles magazine there and I need to get it before soccer camp."

Joel shook himself back to the present, reaching up to run a hand through his hair.

He doubted Sarah needed the magazine, but maybe it would be good for him to get out of here for a bit. There were too many reminders of her here now. Where he kissed her in the living room, how she trembled for him on the couch. His bed was the worst. He could still smell her floral scent on the sheets, kept getting hit with crashing memories of camping between her legs, of how perfect she felt when he pushed into her.

"Sure kiddo," Joel breathed out, hoisting himself to his feet.

"Yes!" she squealed, dashing back down the stairs to her room, phone still pressed to her ear.

Joel grabbed a coat from the closet in his bedroom, doing everything he could not to stare at his bed while he did, then shoved his feet into a pair of boots.

There wasn't a Barnes and Noble in San Francisco, the closest one was down past the airport, so Joel got himself and Sarah into his truck then headed toward 280 South.

What if Ophelia never left Scott. What if she stayed trapped in that marriage, never allowing herself to receive anything she wanted, anything she needed, condemning Joel to watch from the sidelines, forever hung up on the woman he could feel in the depths of his core was supposed to be his.

"Dad... Dad!" Sarah's voice broke through Joel's spiraling thoughts and he snapped his attention over to his daughter before looking back at the road.

"Sorry baby girl, didn't hear you."

"What is up with you lately?" she scoffed, putting her phone down on her lap to turn toward him in her seat.

Was his dread, his need that obvious? That his daughter had noticed?

"Nothin'," he said, with a shake of his head, because there was no right way to explain to a twelve-year-old that her father was in love with a married woman.

"You've been quiet and sad all weekend."

That made his gut twist with guilt. It wasn't Sarah's job to notice or carry his emotions, that was his job; his job to bury those emotions so they wouldn't burden her.

"I'm fine," he hummed, trying on a smile, reaching over to gently squeeze her shoulder.

She scoffed again, rolled her eyes— that was a new development, she never used to roll her eyes at him.

"Is it your friend, Ophelia?" she asked, and Joel felt his heart pick up to drum rapidly in his chest.

She was too damn clever, too smart. Who had she gotten that from? Certainly not him.

"You like her," his daughter said, matter-of-factly, her eyes that looked too much like his own eyes drilling into the side of his head as he sped onto 280.

This was not a conversation he wanted to have with her. He suddenly wished she was yapping about that Harry kid again. He would willingly dissect his sparkly outfits with her if it meant she would drop the topic of Ophelia.

"We're just friends, baby," he said, hands twisting around the steering wheel. Just friends who had slept together, just friends when he was so disgustingly, hopelessly in love with her she was all he could think about, just friends even though she wouldn't answer his calls anymore.

"She likes you too," Sarah said, ignoring his statement entirely, "I can tell."

"When did you become a relationship expert?"

"I read Cosmo."

Joel snorted, "Real life is a little more complicated than those magazines, kiddo."

A hell of a lot more complicated.

"You should just ask her out. I like her, she's nice."

His heart ached brutally at that, because Ophelia was everything he'd ever wanted— not only for himself— but also for his daughter. Life was cruel and unfair, to both of them.

"It ain't that simple," he breathed out, wishing that it was, actually, that simple. If only he'd found her before she married Scott, if only he could have shown her what it was like to be loved and cherished and taken care of before she believed herself to be in charge of every facet of her life and everyone else's around her.

He was trying to do that now, but she'd shut him out again.

His stomach sloshed with dread at the thought.

"Old people always make everything complicated," Sarah huffed.

Joel chuckled, "You got that right, kiddo" he exhaled, "you ain't wrong about that."

__________

Ophelia twitched on the expensive mahogany chair that probably cost more than her rent as Alfonso— Scott's family chef— placed a bowl of Gazpacho in front of her.

"Thank you," she whispered, hoping Lisa and Robert wouldn't hear her from the other side of the table. They always reprimanded her for thanking the help.

Alfonso flashed her a soft smile, then went back to the kitchen to begin prepping the main course.

"Your father and I got addicted to this Gazpacho when we were touring Spain and Portugal," Lisa gloated— everything she said felt like a brag— as she picked up her spoon and carefully dipped it into her soup, sipping from the side of her utensil.

Ophelia had been in the motion of shoving the whole spoon in her mouth, but adjusted her grip in time to mimic Lisa, sipping quietly from the edge of her spoon instead.

It was of constant and great effort not to offend them.

"Of course it's much better in Spain, but Alfonso has almost got this recipe down," Robert chimed, folding his napkin on his lap.

"It's hard for me to get behind a cold soup," Scott said, mouth muffled around his spoon. He wasn't expected to adhere to their posh mannerisms— just Ophelia.

"Oh, they're very popular in Europe and Asia, Scott dear, you need to travel more."

"Once I get MyPage up and running," Scott said, an orange droplet of Gazpacho trailing down his chin before he grabbed his napkin from the table and wiped his face, discarding the crumpled thing next to his bowl before digging back in.

Ophelia resisted the urge to curl her lip up in disgust.

"How's that going, you went to that meeting with Francis that I set up, didn't you?" Robert asked, spoon paused halfway to his mouth.

Scott nodded, swallowed his soup before answering, his body hunched over his bowl. "He's not willing to invest until the site is completely finished and we have user models tested."

"Do you need more money for a larger team?" Lisa asked, gingerly setting her spoon back next to her bowl, "I know how busy you are."

Scott nodded, but that was it.

"I'll put a deposit into your account tomorrow morning," Robert said.

"Thanks," Scott murmured around his spoon.

Ever since Friday evening— when Ophelia had sprinted from Joel's house, her gut overcome with guilt— she'd been trying, desperately, to see Scott as she once did, to find something inside of him that had made her marry him, something beyond his unchanging stability. And so far, she'd come up empty, all she could see in him was what was lacking, all she could do now was compare.

It made that guilt in her gut an even heavier burden to carry.

And it certainly didn't help that each time she sat down, each time she was forced to walk, the space between her legs ached— a sore reminder of the crime she had committed. If she had been born into a different country, she could have been stoned to death for what she'd done with Joel.

Instead, her punishment was secrecy, and that heavy, sloshing shame.

It was worse that she missed him, missed him so terribly that the weight of it was almost heavier than the guilt. The memory of being with him was not something she could fight off, it was a constant sloshing wave crashing into her with every motion she made, every thought, every word she spoke. She'd never experienced anything so altering, so consuming. And not running back to him almost felt like defying fate, like trying to rewrite history.

But she was a cheater.

"Alfonso," Lisa called out, snapping her fingers like he was a dog.

The man popped his head back into the dining room.

"More pepper," she said pointing to her bowl.

Alfonso nodded, disappeared, then came back with a mill, grinding pepper onto her soup until she held her hand up for him to stop.

Ophelia twitched uncomfortably on her chair again, her cunt still aching sorely two days after Joel was inside her.

Cheater.

It felt like she had that word carved into her forehead for everyone to see, like her infidelity was as clear and plain as the nose on her face. She'd never envisioned this for herself, never imagined she would turn into someone who would cheat on their spouse. That wasn't her— she'd always followed the rules, always squeezed herself into the orderly and well-behaved box she was expected to fit inside.

But what had that done for her? Trapped her in this marriage... forced her to play the caretaker role no matter where she was or who she was around...

What had once felt like stability now felt like a snare.

Ophelia finished her soup, then flashed a grateful smile at the family's maid— Maria— as she cleared her bowl and brought it into the kitchen.

Alfonso brought out the main course— some kind of paella— with saffron rice, peas, tomatoes, clams, and shrimp. She thanked him again quietly when he placed the dish down in front of her. He winked in acknowledgement.

Sometimes she felt closer with Scott's family's help than she did with them.

Scott dug into his meal just as soon as it was set down in front of him.

Ophelia waited to see how Lisa would eat before she picked up her fork.

"We're thinking of doing Hawaii for Christmas this year," Lisa said as she carefully scooped up some rice, "you two should join us. I know it's far off, but I wanted to extend the invite before other plans might arise," she shot Ophelia a stern look at the word plans.

She was talking about the one time Scott had come with her to visit her family for Christmas. Her parents had been living in Idaho at the time— while her father worked at some farm before he got laid off at the end of the season. It was the only time in their ten-year relationship that they'd spent Christmas together with her family. They usually spent it apart— Scott with his family and Ophelia with hers— or they spent it with Lisa and Robert, in whatever tropical location they ventured to for the winter to escape the cold. Christmas never felt quite like Christmas when it was eighty degrees outside and they were all lounging on a beach with Mai Tais.

Ophelia lowered her head and focused on her plate instead of meeting Lisa's harsh stare.

"Which island?" Scott asked around a mouthful of rice.

"Maui most likely," his father answered.

Scott nodded, "That's the best one."

"I do enjoy Kauai," Lisa chimed.

"Everything closes at like eight there."

"It's much more chic."

Ophelia swallowed a scoff.

She knew her place within this family dynamic. She was not meant to voice her opinion, or chime in during their conversations. She was simply an accessory. Scott's accessory.

"How's Ashley?" Lisa asked then, fork clinking against the china. "I saw her mother briefly at the Bay Club last Tuesday."

"She's good," Scott shrugged.

"Still doing marketing for that startup, I assume?"

Scott nodded, shoveling more rice into his mouth.

They never asked how Ophelia was doing, or about her work, or about her family, though maybe those conversations were reserved for when she was not present.

"She really is quite impressive," Robert said with a nod.

"Such a good influence on you, Scott," Lisa agreed.

Ophelia rolled her eyes into her plate, took a large bite of rice, no longer caring if she wasn't adhering to their posh manners.

It'd always felt a bit like Scott's parents had wanted him to end up with Ashley, like they'd always expected that to be his future before Ophelia had shown up and spoiled their plans. If only his parents could see what their relationship actually looked like, how much their son depended on Ophelia, how much she did just to keep him fed and functioning. But reality didn't matter to people like Lisa and Robert, they lived in their own world of money and maids and extravagant trips. They were too self-absorbed to ever realize just how much their privilege had stunted their son, and what a weight that put on their daughter-in-law. What it had pushed her to do.

__________

Ophelia surprised herself by initiating sex when they returned home.

Maybe it was that sloshing guilt in her gut that made her kiss her husband after they walked through their front door, that drove her to begin unbuttoning his shirt after she discarded hers on their trek to the bedroom. Or maybe it was something more self-involved, an effort to prove to herself that she could enjoy sex with her husband, that she didn't need to cheat again, that she had everything she needed right here.

But as they both discarded their pants, their underwear, as Scott crawled over her in their bed, Ophelia felt like she was manufacturing passion, like she was constructing it, like she was trying on an ill-fitting garment as he skipped any sort of foreplay and pushed straight into her.

Her cunt was still sore, but Scott wasn't thick enough for the stretch to do more than elicit a dull burn as he slipped into her. She wasn't wet, even with the manufactured moans she was forcing out of her throat, even as she tugged his head down to kiss him roughly on the mouth. He tasted like Gazpacho and saffron rice and she quickly pulled away before could slide his tongue into her mouth.

He settled into a dull, silent rhythm, his face twisted into something focused and ugly above her while she held onto his arms and grimaced as his cock scraped along the dry walls of her pussy.

This wasn't working— if anything it was only working to mangle that guilt in her gut into something else, something bitter and angry, something that tasted like resentment on the back of her tongue.

They reached the point in which Ophelia would normally plaster on a moan, let her back arch and clench her pelvic muscles. But she couldn't do it, she found herself lying there motionless, staring up at her husband's twisted features, feeling that animosity growing larger and larger in her core, disappointment weighing heavy on her chest. Guilt was singing somewhere in the background, but it no longer had a front seat, not now, not as he kept hammering into her silently, not as he worked toward his own pleasure with absolutely no regard for hers.

She wanted to scream, she wanted to push him off of her, she wanted to run away and never turn back around. She'd never wanted to run before. She'd spent her entire life being ripped from one place to another, all she'd ever wanted was to stay still, to stay in one place long enough to breathe.

Now, all she wanted to do was run.

That mangled, ugly, biting thing ripped through her as Scott finished inside her with a choked sigh and she immediately pushed him off of her, rolling out from under him and yanking her robe off the hook on their closet door.

"Something wrong?" Scott astutely asked, as she shrugged the thing on and cinched the tie around her waist.

There was a screaming in Ophelia's head, a deafening sound that reached a crescendo at Scott's inquiry.

"I didn't come," she spat out, whirling around to face him, trying not to stare at his wet dick as it began to shrivel up in his lap.

"Okay?" Scott breathed out, "you usually do."

"No, Scott, I don't."

She watched her husband's eyebrows pinch together.

Nothing about what you want or need is embarrassing, Ophelia.

Joel's words echoed in Ophelia's screaming head, urging her to speak.

"I've never come when we have sex, not once, I always fake it," she heard herself bite, that ravaging thing in her gut had taken hold of her now. It was forcing words out of her chest; it was pushing a heavy lump up her throat that she was desperately trying to swallow.

"What?" he choked out.

"I fake it, Scott. You've never made me come. You've never even tried to make me come."

"Okay," he breathed out, reaching up to push a hand through his sandy hair, "Is there something I should be doing differently— or—"

"I've asked you so many times to— to talk to me, to give me any kind of indication that you're enjoying yourself, to do something besides fucking me in missionary for a grand total of three minutes before you blow your load and go back to working on your stupid laptop!"

Scott gaped.

She'd never spoken to him like this, never spoken to anyone like this, had never stood up for herself, for what she wanted, for what she needed. And it felt foreign, but that growing entity inside of her was calling the shots now.

The room was silent for a moment. Ophelia's chest heaved, that resentment still swirling around her core as Scott sat there, dick shriveled and limp in his lap, his hands running through his mussed hair.

"I'm— where do we go from here?" he asked, breaking the silence with a question, as always. It was Ophelia's job to call the shots, to guide their relationship, to tell him how to be a better husband.

And she was exhausted.

Where do we go from here?

Where was there to go, when she'd cheated on him, when she couldn't fuck him without wanting to crawl out of her skin, when the sight of him filled her with remorse and anger and regret.

"I think we should take a break," Ophelia heard herself breathe out, the words hanging between them like a noose, that screaming in her head louder now, so intense she felt dizzy and off-balance.

Scott nodded slowly, then let his head hang on his neck. "Is this just about the sex?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I'm exhausted, Scott. I'm sick of having to do everything. I'm sick of being the only one who cooks, the only one who cleans, the only who drives us anywhere or plans anything. I'm just sick of this."

She felt drunk, inebriated as she said the words she'd kept caged aloud for the first time. What had pushed them out of her? Their uncomfortable dinner with his parents? Their unsatisfying sex? The memories of being with Joel that were still crowding her head?

Or all of it, everything, years of burying it all and forcing herself to remain chained to everything she was supposed to be, everything she'd always been.

Scott picked his head up, his blue eyes bouncing over her face. And perhaps she should have felt guilty at that moment, but all she felt was a kind of bone-deep exhaustion, emotionally and physically drained, like she might keel over, might crumple into a heap on the floor.

"I can do better," he said softly.

"Then try," she breathed out.

"Okay," he nodded, sitting up a little straighter, "how can I do better?"

The question sent a surge of bitter fury back through her gut.

"Oh my fucking god," she muttered, spinning around and letting her head fall into her hands.

"I'll— I'll figure it out," she heard him say, but that lump was working its way up her throat too fast, too thick, and she choked on it, tears sputtering into her palms.

She heard Scott get up, walk over to her, place a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off, wrapping her arms around her ribs to keep herself in one piece.

"I'm— I guess I'll go to my parents' house for a few weeks."

Ophelia nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks now, her ribs feeling like they were a moment away from exploding.

"I'm just gonna pack some stuff," he breathed out, then she heard him rummaging around in the dresser, in his nightstand, while she stood there, motionless. He left the room after a few minutes, but Ophelia did not move for what felt like hours, until she heard the front door open and close, heard their car rumble down the driveway.

There was some relief in the tears, in the words she'd finally said aloud, in his absence from their house, but there was also dread, an anguishing kind of sadness. Scott hadn't tried to stay, hadn't tried to fight for her, for their marriage, he'd just left.

Ophelia collapsed into their bed and sobbed into her pillow, her robe bunched up around her waist, her husband's come leaking down her thighs. It felt like she was being carried away in a flood of her own creation. She could've kept her mouth shut, she could have faked an orgasm like she always did. If she had, Scott would be getting dressed now, sitting back down on the couch with his laptop, and Ophelia would be finishing the dishes she hadn't gotten to this morning, changing the sheets, showering and getting ready to crawl into bed alone.

But those words would have clawed their way out of her at some point. Maybe not before she met Joel, but now that she had, now that she'd seen a glimpse of what she could have... with him, those words had just been biding time, waiting for their detonation.

And now Ophelia had to live in their wake, while still scrambling for the surface.

Chapter Text

"So full of artless jealousy is guilt,

It spills itself in fearing to be spilt."

Ophelia woke on Monday with a great pounding in her head.

She'd fallen asleep in her robe, on her dirty sheets, salty tears still wet on her cheeks, and for a moment, when she awoke, she'd forgotten what happened, had thought it a nightmare, but then the left side of the bed was empty, and her eyes burned, and her cheeks felt dry and taut from her tears, and it all came crashing back.

She felt dizzy and disoriented as she showered and got dressed, as she begrudgingly changed her sheets, as she blotted concealer over the dark bags under her eyes.

Scott was gone.

They were taking a break.

She didn't even know what that meant. What was a break when everything was broken? What was the point when she didn't know if it would ever be mendable? But even the word divorce raised alarm bells in her head. Divorce was final and permanent and terrifying. Divorce meant throwing away ten years of her life. Divorce meant she may never be stable again.

But is that what she was— was she stable? Or was she trapped.

It had all started to feel the same.

She popped a couple Advil on her way out the door, hoping it would alleviate the pounding in her head, the scratchy ache in the back of her throat. She was exhausted, a kind of bone-deep tired she'd never felt as potently before. The tiredness seemed to live inside her, spreading out to encompass every inch of her being, every vein was muddy with it, every muscle in her body felt like it was trudging through something thick and dense.

The walk to the bus stop was unbearable. She almost fell asleep on the train, her head drifting down to hang on her neck before she snapped it back up, the cycle causing that pounding in her skull to increase to something nearly blinding.

She didn't even contain the energy to find herself anxious at seeing Joel again. She could think of nothing beyond getting through this day so she could return home and sleep. Sleep for a week, a month, a year, whatever amount of time was needed for this all to dissolve and for her to awake as something new, as someone who might be able to pick up the pieces and figure out what the hell she was doing with her life, with her marriage, with him.

Joel wasn't in the portable when she dragged herself the two blocks from the bus stop to the job site and up that rickety steel ramp, but that was because she was late.

Ophelia was never late.

If she wasn't so tired, perhaps she would've had the energy to worry about that, but as it was, she simply dragged herself over to her desk and plopped down in her chair.

"Effy— are you— are you okay?" she heard Frankie ask, her voice soft and concerned. "You look... exhausted."

Good to know that she looked as bad as she felt.

"I think I'm getting sick," Ophelia said, and maybe that was true, her throat did feel sore and dry, but that could have been from crying herself to sleep last night.

"Do you want to go back home? I could call Vicinity for you, see if Brandon or someone else could fill in today."

Ophelia shook her head, her muscles aching as she pulled her laptop from her bag. "I'm fine, I think it's just a head cold."

Or she was dying, dying from guilt and dread and that ache in her core that had never been alleviated unless she was with him.

She tried to focus on all the emails that had piled up in her inbox over the weekend, but her vision was shaky, blurry and warped. She kept almost falling asleep at her desk, eventually growing so tired of her head lolling on her neck that she propped her chin up on her hand just to stay upright.

By the time noon rolled around, she'd only managed to read one email in full, spent the rest of the time dissociating or nearly falling asleep while she stared at her screen. Frankie asked her once more if she wanted to go home, or if she wanted anything from Whole Foods, Ophelia declined both, watched her walk out of the portable while her vision doubled and warped.

She didn't know how much time had passed, it could have been a minute, it could have been an hour, but then the portable door was opening again, but instead of Frankie whirling into the room, it was Joel, his big shoulders squeezing through the doorframe, his eyebrows pinched together as his gaze snapped over to her and a frown tugged at his plush mouth.

And even though she was sick or dying of guilt, Ophelia's stomach still fluttered at the sight of him.

"Sweetheart," he cooed, and the sound made her want to melt into a puddle on the floor. He cleared the space between them too fast, faster than she could track with her pounding head and her fuzzy vision, but then he was in front of her, kneeling so they were the same height, his brown eyes hurriedly bouncing over her face. "What's goin' on?"

He didn't say what was obvious— that she looked horrendous— but she could tell by the worry that was twisting his features that it was true.

"I think I'm sick," she spat out without much cognition.

"Okay," he whispered, nodding and then pushing himself to his feet. "M'gonna take you home."

"No," she shook her head, which only made her more dizzy, his concerned face spinning around the room, making her belly swirl with nausea. "I have to stay— the framing—"

"I've got it, we'll be fine without ya today, I promise," he said, already stuffing her laptop into her bag, slinging the thing over his shoulder, then gently taking her arm in his grip, the small touch so much, so vital that she melted into his side when he got her to her feet, some little choked, needy sound tumbling from her lips at the feeling of his warm, solid body against hers.

Oh, she'd missed him. It'd only been three days since she'd run away, since he'd been inside of her, but it felt a millennium, any amount of time away from him felt too long.

"I got ya, baby," he hummed, sliding one of those big, solid arms around her waist, supplementing her balance with his wide form as he began leading her from the portable.

She clung to the back of his shirt, let her head loll against his chest as he brought her into the parking lot, his big hand gently rubbing her side as they walked. When they stopped at his truck, he opened the passenger's side door for her, lifting her into the seat with two big hands on her waist, causing her tummy to clench and flutter despite how intensely her head was still pounding.

He put her bag by her feet, then leaned into the truck— his tousled curls so close to her head, smelling all woody and masculine, smelling like something so familiar and vital it made her ache. Joel tugged her seatbelt across her chest and clicked it into place for her, and the action made her feel so small, so cared for, that she felt tears welling in her eyes as he ducked out and closed the door, looping around and getting into the driver's seat.

The cabin of his truck was silent as Joel started his car, as he pulled out of the lot and began driving toward the freeway entrance, but despite her cloudy head, she still felt something hot and voltaic buzzing between them.

"I missed you," he said once they'd made it onto 280's wide expense, then coughed, reached up to scratch the scruff on his cheek, "ya didn't— I called, but—"

"Scott and I are on a break," Ophelia blurted out, turning toward him even as her vision whirled, beginning to gnaw on her bottom lip. "We— I told him I wanted to take a break last night. He's staying with his parents for a few weeks while we— I don't know— while I figure stuff out."

Joel's spine snapped straight at that, his eyes flicking over to hers before he forced them back to the road.

"That— I— I'm proud of you, Ophelia," he said softly, "I know that wasn't easy."

Her tummy clenched sorely.

She couldn't remember the last time someone had told them they were proud of her. Never maybe. But Joel was proud of her... for telling Scott she wanted to take a break. It was all horribly wrong.

"We can— we'll talk about this more when you're feeling better," he said, his big hands twisting around the steering wheel. She wanted to lean over and rest her head against his arm, or curl up on his lap, wanted him to pet her hair until she fell asleep. She felt weak and vulnerable and broken open in his presence again. She wanted to call him daddy; she wanted to cling to him until everything started to make sense.

"My head feels like it's going to explode," she breathed out instead of saying anything she wanted to, anything she needed to, her eyes going droopy as she let her head fall against the window instead of him.

"We'll be there soon, honey," he crooned, then his big hand left the steering wheel and closed over her nape, and for once his palm felt cool against her skin, and she whimpered at the contact, which had his hips shifting forward in his seat.

"Do you want—" Joel started, his voice breaking in a sigh, "Sarah's at soccer camp this week, I could take you to my house, if you wanted."

Ophelia was still married, this break was not a divorce, it was not a pass for her to shack up with Joel and be absolved of all the guilt she owed. But the thought of going back to her empty house, the anticipation of having all those reminders of her husband lying around while her head pounded and spun, made her feel even more sick, while the thought of going to Joel's house, the thought of being wrapped up by the scent of him made her ache with need.

"Okay," she heard herself say, head too sore for any shame to take residence there.

"Okay," he repeated in a whisper, his big, calloused hand gently squeezing her neck, then sliding up to begin petting her hair.

Ophelia fell into something similar to sleep, her head resting against the cold window, Joel's solacing touch keeping her there. She dreamt she was suspended in the air, drifting on a fluffy white cloud, cradled in something warm and solid.

When she awoke, she was in Joel's arms, being carried into his bedroom, her head nestled under his chin, his soothing voice humming something she couldn't quite make out in her groggy state.

He laid her down, his big, comfortable bed molding around her as he tucked her hair behind her ears, as he gently grasped each of her ankles and tugged her shoes off for her.

"I'll be right back," he whispered, before placing a soft kiss to her forehead that she could feel even as he left the room. She was in and out of sleep, dreams swirling around her, taking the muddled shape of reality. It was hard to tell what was real and what was imagined, but through it all she could smell him, his woody, masculine scent clinging to the sheets beneath her, driving away any anxiety she should've been feeling in that fitful state.

At one point she dreamt there was a large dog, a wolf maybe, curled up next to her, and she was stroking its fur, burying her fingers in his downy undercoat, but when she came into a dazed state of consciousness, Joel was there, sitting at the edge of the bed where she'd thought the wolf was, urging her to sit up with a soft voice that only made her want to keep sleeping.

"What?" she heard herself spit out.

"Have you taken any medicine?"

"200mg of Advil," she somehow managed to remember, let alone answer.

"I want you to take this DayQuil," Joel said, one of his big arms sliding under her back, helping lift her into a sitting position. "After that you can sleep, I promise."

Instead of taking the medicine from his hand, Ophelia opened her mouth, sticking out her tongue and letting Joel deposit the pills there. He'd set a cup of water on the table next to his bed at some point, and he grabbed it then, bringing it to her lips, the glass cool against her mouth as she swallowed enough water to get the pills down.

"Good girl," he hummed, petting her hair, pressing another kiss to her forehead.

Ophelia's stomach fluttered even as her head lolled and her eyelids sank with exhaustion.

He laid her back down, tugged the duvet up to her shoulders, then disappeared again as she slipped into another dazed dream. She dreamt she was on a boat; it was a small, rowing boat, out in the middle of the ocean. The waves were choppy and violent, but somehow her boat stayed afloat, did not take in any water as she drifted closer and closer to the fuzzy shoreline.

Her boat dream dissolved into her sitting in Golden Gate Park, on a big handmade quilt, the sun warm on the back of her neck, birds swooping and cawing as they darted from tree to tree.

Then she dreamt there was a bug burrowing into her ear, and that ripped her awake, but it was just Joel, hushing her softly as he took her temperature with an ear thermometer.

"101, baby," he said, his voice tight with nerves. "M'gonna call Tishman, cancel construction for the rest of the day. Wanna stay here and keep an eye on your temperature."

If Ophelia were in a more stable state of consciousness she would have fought him on that, but all she could do was drift back to sleep.

__________

Joel checked her temperature every hour, and whenever she woke up enough to be slightly coherent, he also made her drink water. As the afternoon faded into the evening, Ophelia's temperature drifted back down to normal, and Joel's nerves dissolved enough that he was able to leave her alone in his bedroom long enough for him to start making soup in the kitchen.

Still, he checked on her between chopping carrots and onion, between tearing chicken from the bone, and when he finished prepping the soup, had it simmering on the stove, he returned to the bedroom and sat there on the edge of the bed next to her, his eyes glued to her serene features, his hand gently stroking her silky hair.

He loved her so much it fucking hurt.

He didn't know yet what she meant when she said her and Scott were taking a break, but he hoped it meant what he wanted it to mean, he hoped it meant that she was considering leaving him, because he didn't know how he was supposed to let her go when she existed as everything he'd ever wanted, when taking care of her felt like his life's purpose more than anything else ever had, second only to caring for his daughter.

Ophelia roused, but stayed asleep, her lashes fluttering against her flushed, freckled cheeks, her plump lips just slightly parted, bright red hair spread around her head like a halo.

She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life, and the affection that was cloying his gut was almost too much to bear, too much to hold without crushing her to his chest, without devouring her mouth or sinking into her again.

But he just kept petting her hair, watching her sleep like it was the most engaging vision he'd ever seen in his life.

When Ophelia's eyes fluttered open, the sun had already started her descent, painting his bedroom walls a creamy orange. Her irises were pure jade when her eyes met his, and his stomach flopped in response, his lips inching into a smile.

"What time is it?" Was the first thing she muttered as her gaze drifted toward the window.

"Little after seven," he said softly, "your fever broke about an hour ago."

She didn't say anything, just reached over and grasped his wrist, weakly tugging at his arm in a motion that sent a wave of tenderness through his core, wrapped around something completely instinctual that had him scooting further onto the bed so he could hoist her into his arms, bringing her limp body onto his lap.

They still hadn't talked, not about her break with Scott or about what that meant for them or about what had happened between them last weekend, but he felt Ophelia melt against his chest, a little keening sound bubbling from her lips as he wrapped one arm around her waist, used his other hand to cradle her skull, keep her head nestled against him.

"Thank you," her voice buzzed against him.

"Don't have to thank me, baby," he whispered, ducking his head to place a kiss on the top of hers.

"No one ever takes care of me when I'm sick."

And that made Joel's chest throb.

"I'll always take care of you," he whispered against her head, "let me take care of you." And it almost sounded like he was begging, it felt like he was begging. "You take care of everyone else, baby, let me be the one to take care of you."

Joel felt Ophelia burrow herself further into his chest, her hands taking a tight hold of the fabric of his shirt, a small, agonizing, sniffling sound beginning to churn out of her.

"I don't need anyone to take care of me," she whispered, voice pitched and wet.

Joel picked her face up at that, his heart throbbing in his chest as he took in the red rimming her irises, her clumped lashes, the tears painting her freckled cheeks.

"I know you don't," he whispered, wiping those tears away with his thumbs, "but I want to."

Ophelia's wet eyes drifted down to his mouth, and that was all the invitation he needed to lower his head, his hands cradling her cheeks tilting her face toward him, the need in his gut clawing to have her again.

"I'll get you sick!" Ophelia spat out, just before his lips closed over hers.

"I don't give a shit," Joel muttered, then his mouth was engulfing hers as a groan rumbled his chest. She tasted like salty tears and salvation, soft lips pliant as he tugged her closer with one arm wrapped around her waist, the other hand taking hold of her jaw and urging it open further, with his thumb wedged in the hinge of it.

I love you, I love you, I love you, his mind sang as she tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging at the roots, her lower body desperately trying to gain friction as she rolled her hips in his lap.

"I've gotta be inside you again, baby," he breathed into her mouth, his cock achingly hard already, twitching against the seam of his jeans.

"Daddy please," she whimpered and he felt his cock jolt, a growl punching out of him as he tugged at her bottom lip with his teeth before pushing her hair off her shoulder and latching his mouth to the soft, fragrant spot above her collarbone. He wanted to leave a mark, it was juvenile and pathetic, but he wanted to leave something physical, something noticeable, something that said Ophelia was his.

Not Scott's— his.

Joel lifted his head to begin tugging her shirt off, then his own, his hand sliding around her back to unclasp her bra and throw it onto the floor with the rest of their clothes. Her breasts were heavy— nipples a shade darker than her lips, puckered tight, so pretty his mouth watered as he lowered his head to tug one of them between his teeth.

Ophelia moaned, the sound like lightning down his spine as he matched it with a groan, burying his face in the plush of her tits, licking and nipping and sucking at her nipples, his hips bucking beneath her as he wrapped his hand around the nape of her neck.

Her hands were on his chest, his shoulders, clawing down his back, and her touch made him feel drunk, completely out of his mind. She was everything, she was perfect, she was supposed to be his.

Joel hoisted her back onto the bed, standing up and discarding his jeans, his boxers, his cock heavy and throbbing and leaking between his thighs. He tugged her jeans off then, her panties, her pussy red and swollen and soaking wet, pretty copper curls damp with need.

He moved to lie down between her thighs and Ophelia shook her head manically, "I want you inside me now, please now," she cried, sitting up to tug at his arm, while more pre-come rolled down the head of his cock.

"Okay baby, okay," he cooed softly, sitting at the edge of the bed again, guiding her so she was kneeling over his lap, one of his hands on her hip, the other on his twitching cock.

"Lower yourself onto me, honey," he breathed out, catching her lips in a rough kiss as her hands came to rest on his shoulders. "S'gonna be a tight fit in this position but it's gonna feel so good, I promise."

Ophelia nodded her head urgently, then started lowering herself down while Joel directed his cockhead to her entrance, his hands taking a tight hold of her waist just as soon as the head was notched inside her warm, wet, perfect cunt.

He let out a rattling moan as her heat engulfed his cockhead, so fuckin' tight it made him grit his teeth so he wouldn't come right there, immediately.

Her fingernails dug into the meat of his shoulders as she kept lowering herself down, down, down, each inch pulling a married moan out of the both of them. When he was fully seated inside of her, the head of his cock pushing against the end of her, he crashed his mouth into hers, licking into her, wrapping one of his arms tight around her waist so her plush breasts were pressed up against his chest.

"You feel so good, baby," he muttered into her mouth, "how does it feel?"

"So full—" she hiccuped, clawing at the back of his neck, "I can feel you in my tummy."

Joel's hips bucked beneath her and Ophelia let out a cry, her head falling back on her neck, exposing that thin, white column that Joel immediately latched his mouth to.

"I'm gonna fuck you so full of me, Ophelia," he growled against her neck, "fuck you full of my come, is that what you want?"

She nodded urgently, lowering her head, her eyes wild, the pretty green completely consumed by her pupils.

When Ophelia had told Joel about her kinks, he'd been more than happy to oblige. He'd never been on the receiving end of a daddy kink, despite always preferring the dominant role in bed, and he'd never necessarily thought he would like it, but when Ophelia cried it out, when Ophelia whimpered it, when Ophelia said it with that submissive glint in her eyes, Joel found himself going feral.

But the breeding kink.

He hadn't needed to adjust to that one, because from the moment he met Ophelia, he'd dreamt about fucking her full of him, fucking his come into her, getting her all pretty and round and swollen with him. He wanted to make her his wife, make her the mother of his children, as many as she wanted, he would give her anything, everything.

He'd never wanted anything as terribly as he wanted that.

It made something base and carnal swirl in his belly, something that existed only to claim and protect and provide.

Joel started thrusting into her, using the leverage he had with his feet planted on the ground to buck his hips while he moved her using his grip on her waist at the same time, meeting his thrusts, sending pleasure shooting through his pelvis and all the way up his spine.

He kept his motion slow and steady, letting her roll her hips while he ate at her mouth each time he lowered her all the way down onto his cock. They were both damp with sweat, chests heaving each time his cock pressed into the end of her, into that spot he wanted to fill and mark.

"Can you feel me in your womb, baby?" Joel whispered into her ear, a moan breaking through his lips as he felt her pussy clench around him at his words, soaking his dick in her arousal.

She let out a keening cry, clawing at his chest as she nodded while he ground into the end of her, his eyes fluttering at the sensation, a bead of sweat ticking his skin as it trailed down his neck.

"Is that where you want me to fill you up?" he gritted out, fingers digging into the plush of her waist.

"Please daddy," she wailed, rolling her hips, trying to gain friction as he kept his cock pushing into the end of her.

"You want me to fuck my baby into you, honey, is that what you want? You want me to make you all pretty and swollen with me?"

Ophelia gushed around him at that, her pussy beginning to flutter, her head thrown back in a wild moan that had him immediately fucking into her again.

"Shit— yeah you do— comin' on my cock at just the thought of me fucking a baby into you, huh? S'a good girl, my good fuckin' girl," his voice bounced with each thrust, words coming out of his throat gravel-edged as he wrapped his arm around her waist to keep leverage that way as he used his other hand to grab her jaw and force her mouth back to his.

He kissed her hard, all teeth and lips clashing as she continued fluttering around him.

"Daddy, daddy, daddy—" she wailed, broken, tears streaming down her cheeks, eyes dark with need, hands clawing at his shoulders, his chest.

Joel licked the salty tears from her cheeks, then nodded urgently, setting a more brutal pace, "Daddy's here, you're full of me, little one," he growled.

He let go of her jaw, to push his hand between their sweaty bodies, his thumb finding her swollen, wet clit and beginning to circle it as he bounced her on his cock.

"Oh my god," she gasped, a choked sound echoing out of her throat, her head falling down onto his chest as a beautiful moan rocked through her core.

He matched the sound; their bodies so slick he had to dig his fingers into her waist to keep his grip.

"Does that feel good, baby?"

Ophelia had gone non-verbal, her eyes wide, her cunt clamping so tight around his cock he could barely breathe.

"Shit, you're squeezin' me tight, you're gonna come hard, I can feel it, give it to me, come on Daddy's cock and I'll fill you up like my good little girl."

Ophelia whimpered, her pussy going even tighter before he felt a pulse starting deep in her pelvis. Her body went slack in his arms as she cried out, her head falling onto his chest as she started coming in slow, pulsing waves around his cock.

"That's it," he gritted out, bucking his hips beneath her, "good girl, Ophelia, gonna fill you up now, baby."

Joel came then, with a rumbling moan as his cock jolted inside of her, his balls going achy and tight before everything went loose and warm, like a spring snapping.

And for a moment, as Joel held her to his chest, his cock still inside of her, both their come leaking onto his lap, a thick, biting fear erupted in him, that she might pull away again, that she might leave. But Ophelia just stayed nestled to his chest, her body quivering in his arms, her face trying to burrow into him like a small, sleepy kitten.

Joel crushed her to him tighter, burying his face in her floral scented hair, his being overflowing with affection, his brain chanting a mantra of I love you, I love you, I love you.

After Joel caught his breath, he couldn't get the vision of him leaking out of her from his mind. He needed to see like it was something detrimental, the urge clawing at him like an uncaged animal.

"I've gotta see, baby," he heard himself mutter, carefully lifting her from his cock, a groan falling from his lips as a little whimpered cry bubbled from hers. "I'm sorry, honey, m'sorry," he muttered, kissing her hair as he set her on the edge of the bed, then fell to his knees, moving her thighs apart so he could watch as his come leaked from her entrance, rolling down her plush thighs, beads of sticky white that made his cock ache like he could fuck her again, his head screaming mine, mine, mine.

"So fuckin' pretty," he crooned, his voice plagued with awe as he gathered his rolling spend from her thigh and shoved it back inside of her. Ophelia let out a wet cry, her thighs trying to close around him.

"Hurts," she whimpered, those green eyes big and wet when he finally lifted his gaze to her face.

"M'sorry, sweetheart," he cooed, standing up and immediately gathering her in his arms, lifting her up as he began walking them out of his bedroom, down the hall to the bathroom.

"Where are we going?" she asked softly, voice muffled against his shoulder.

"Gonna give you a bath," he hummed, pressing his lips to her temple.

That's what he'd wanted to do, the last time, bathe her, dress her in his clothes, feed her again, then bring her to bed, hold her in his arms until she fell asleep. He hadn't been able to last time, but now, now he could take care of her the way he wanted to, the way she needed him to.

He kept Ophelia on his lap as he sat down next to the bathtub, filling it with warm soapy water, testing the temperature of it with his palm while his other hand pet the crown of her head. Then he lifted her up, set her in the tub, leaning forward to press a kiss to her forehead, the corner of her eye, the tip of her nose.

"I'll be right back," he whispered when he pushed himself to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Ophelia croaked out, and his heart ached brutally in his chest.

"Just gonna go get something, I'll be back in a second, I promise," he said softly, looking back at her little form sitting in the tub, her nipples puckered, her pretty red hair strewn around her shoulders.

Joel walked faster than necessary, down the stairs to the other bathroom, where he gathered a hairbrush and a hair tie, then returned to Ophelia, whose eyes were heavy lidded— still glimmering with that submissive twinkle when he entered the room.

Pieces of her fell away when she was with him like this, calloused pieces, this armor she'd donned to protect herself when no one else would, and what was underneath was needy and pliant and submissive, it made Joel's core ache to take care of her, take care of that part of her she hid from everyone else.

"Turn around for me, baby," he urged softly as he took a seat on the edge of the tub.

Ophelia listened, and Joel hummed out a good girl as he took the bulk of her hair in his hand and began carefully brushing through it, working out the knots before separating it into three sections and beginning to braid those pieces together. He tied the end with an elastic, then carefully moved the braid over her shoulder.

"So pretty," he hummed when she turned back around.

Ophelia's cheeks flushed, her eyes dropping to her lap.

"I wanted to do this last time," he said softly, reaching over to run his thumb over the pink apple of her cheek. "It killed me that I couldn't take care of you afterward."

Ophelia didn't say anything, but her eyes lifted to his, looking a little pained, the vision reaching into his chest and squeezing brutally at his heart.

"Will you come in here with me?" Ophelia asked then, a soft little inquiry as her wet soapy hand emerged from the tub to grab at his wrist.

"'Course," he nodded, standing up and carefully moving into the tub, sitting with his back to the wall, his legs stretched out around her as he tugged her back against his chest, wrapping his arms around her waist as she let herself sink against him.

"Can I tell you a secret?" she asked after a moment, squirming in his arms so she could turn and bury her face against his chest.

Joel's heart picked up to drum against his ribs as he remembered the last time she had told him a secret.

"You can tell me anything, baby," he said, tugging her further up his torso so he could press a kiss to the top of her head.

Ophelia didn't say anything for a minute, and Joel thought maybe she'd changed her mind, but then she began speaking into his chest, her voice muffled and buzzing against him.

"I always wanted kids, growing up, I think— part of me— I think I was always built to be a mom, but I— maybe it's awful of me, but I don't want kids with Scott. I can't imagine him being a father, he— he can barely take care of himself, and so I've just— I've just tried to convince myself that I don't want them, but it feels like, it feels like I'm ripping myself apart every time I think about it."

Joel's body froze, while his heart pounded sorely in his chest.

Scarlett had become a mother when she'd never wanted to be one, but Ophelia— his dear Ophelia— wanted to be a mother, but was trapped in a marriage that wouldn't let her become one.

"That doesn't make you awful, Ophelia," he said sternly, tugging her even further up his body so he could see her face, so he could look into those pretty eyes while he spoke. "It wouldn't be fair to you, or your— your kids—" he'd wanted to say our, our kids, because the thought of her having children with anyone but him, the thought of her carrying another man's child made him sick with fury.

"If you want children and you're with someone you can't imagine havin' them with, that should be a sign." A sign to leave, but he wouldn't say the words aloud, because they were already there, wedged between them.

Ophelia nodded, a slow, sad motion, then let her head drop back onto his chest.

The most deranged part of Joel wanted to ask her if she'd ever thought about having children with him, but he couldn't get the words to come out right. And he thought he already knew the answer, and it made his core ache with need.

Joel reached over after he held her for another few minutes, grabbing a washcloth from under the sink. He soaked it with warm, soapy water then began cleaning her back, her arms, her chest, her tummy, her legs and the sore space between them. Then he got them out of the tub, where he wrapped her in a towel before drying himself off. He brought her back into his room, dressed her in one of his t-shirts, a pair of boxers, his chest aching at the vision of his clothes drowning her petite form. He got dressed himself, in an almost matching outfit, then hoisted her back into his arms, carrying her down the hall into the living room.

"Stay here," he hummed against her head, tugging a throw blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over her legs.

__________

How had she ended up here? In his house, on his couch, in his clothes, his come still leaking out of her.

She was still married, this was still cheating, regardless of their break.

Maybe her fever had made her delusional, perhaps she'd been too weak to resist, or maybe she was too tired of trying to combat him, of trying to shove away this monumental thing between them. Maybe it was inevitable, maybe she was doomed.

And what did it matter anyway— she'd already cheated, she was already condemned— her damnation was imminent whether or not she slept with him once or twice or twenty times.

Joel returned with a bowl in his hand, sat down next to her and held it out for her to take.

It was chicken noodle soup— homemade chicken noodle soup.

Her tummy clenched tight as she glanced up at his expectant face, brown eyes so warm she could feel heat radiating off of him.

No one had ever taken care of her the way he did, and while it was foreign, she could feel it mending something broken inside of her, something that had existed since she was a child. And so then, how was she ever expected to resist him?

"Thank you," she breathed out.

"Don't thank me before you try it, it could taste like shit."

A laugh bubbled out of her as she shook her head, then she grabbed the spoon, scooping up a carrot, a piece of celery, a piece of chicken, before shoving the entire thing into her mouth. Lisa would've been horrified.

"Is it alright?" Joel asked, tilting his head to the side.

Ophelia nodded urgently. It was perhaps the best soup she'd ever put in her mouth— poor Alfonso.

His lips pulled into a smile, and he leaned back on the couch, his heavy, warm hand beginning to pet the crown of her head as she ate.

"How're you feelin', better than this afternoon?" Joel asked, pinching her braid between his fingers, running them gently down the plait.

She nodded, swallowed a mouthful of soup before she spoke, "Much better."

She should've felt worse, the guilt should have swallowed her whole, but in a way, Ophelia felt numb to it all, like here with Joel she was suspended in time, free from obligation and anxiety and guilt, like this was some other timeline, a life she could have had.

When she finished her soup, Joel took the bowl, asked if she wanted more, when she shook her head, he just placed the bowl in the sink, came back and led her into the bathroom. He got her a brand new toothbrush out of a pack of ten, and the two of them stood there in front of the mirror brushing their teeth together, Joel's wide form towering over her, one of his big hands rubbing her back, shooting her foamy toothpaste smiles in the mirror. It all felt very domestic, it all felt too easy, like something warm and soft she could slip into without trying to tug and yank and force it to fit.

Joel pulled his shirt off before they got into his bed, brought her to his bare chest, big arms wrapped around her, chin resting on the top of her head. And Ophelia wanted to melt into that moment, wanted to burn it into her brain. He was so warm, and solid, and safe, an anchor to cling onto when everything else felt choppy and terrifying and completely out of her control.

But Ophelia fell asleep too fast to memorize what it felt like to be wrapped up against him like that.

And she dreamt she was out at sea, in that life boat again, dry and safe, slowly drifting toward the shore.

Chapter Text

"Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting

That would not let me sleep."

Ophelia did not leave Joel's house until the end of the work week, she existed there in a kind of floating limbo, a safe haven from her empty house, from her standstill with Scott. She grew accustomed to the knot of guilt that had taken residence in the bottom of her gut, it was never absolved, it was never absent, but sometimes she could forget about it for a few minutes, a few hours, while she pretended that this was her life— waking up to breakfast that Joel made her each morning, Joel driving her to the job site, Joel taking her back to his house, Joel making them dinner, Joel bringing her to orgasm over and over again, falling asleep in Joel's arms. Something about his solacing presence completely disrupted her circadian rhythm. She no longer woke up before her alarm, most times she slept through it entirely, only waking when Joel brought her coffee in bed, his big hand gently rubbing her back, his low voice urging her up. She felt like a different person with him— someone less anxious, someone less controlling, someone she'd always wanted to embody but could never quite grasp.

They didn't talk about Scott, not really, they didn't talk about what their break meant, they just existed in that limbo, while Ophelia worked to ignore the cliff she was hanging off of.

She did not want to leave when Friday rolled around, and Joel made it clear that he didn't want her to leave either, with his cock buried inside of her, his hand wrapped around her neck, his low, gruff voice chanting in her ear.

Stay, just stay here with me, baby.

But Sarah was coming back from soccer camp that evening, and they both begrudgingly agreed it would probably be best if she didn't come home to Ophelia living in her house before Joel had the chance to speak to her about any of this.

So, that evening Joel dropped her off at her own house after work, with the duffle bag full of clothes and toiletries she'd been living out of, his big hand closing over her jaw and tugging her mouth to his as the center console dug into her ribs.

"Call me, if you need anything," he grumbled into the cavern of her mouth, his calloused palm sliding from her jaw to the nape of her neck.

Ophelia nodded, but she didn't know how to tell him what she needed— it was a clawing, biting thing in her core, it was guilt and need and confusion, it was the necessity for solid ground beneath her feet while everything felt like it was spinning out of control.

Joel pulled away from her lips with a groan, pushed his hand through his hair in a frustrated motion before he got out and grabbed her duffle bag from the back of his truck, meeting her on the sidewalk and walking up her porch steps with her. He waited until she got the front door open, sliding the duffle bag off his shoulder and onto the ground inside. Then his hand was closing around her nape, using that hold to tug her to his solid chest.

"You've got a place with me, Ophelia," he said, his voice rumbling against the top of her head. "I want to be with you, whenever you're ready, alright?"

Ophelia nodded against him, clinging to his shirt, trying to absorb as much of his warmth as she could before she was forced back inside her desolate house.

"And you call me," he said, picking her face up then, cupping her cheeks in his big hands, his warm eyes bouncing between hers, "for anything, I mean it. You're too tired to cook, you call me, you can't sleep, you call me, you need someone to talk to, what do you do?"

"I call you."

"Good girl," he hummed, his lips inching into a smile, burrowing that dimple into his cheek, making her belly cramp and flutter as he leaned down to press one last rough kiss against her mouth.

"I'll pick you up for work on Monday, alright?" he said once he'd forced himself to pull back.

Ophelia nodded.

He kissed her once more on the forehead, then retreated down her porch steps, waving to her before he got in his truck and she forced herself inside.

It smelled different in her house, stale almost, the ever-present smell of coffee that always permeated from Scott's mass of to-go cups was noticeably absent. He wasn't on the couch, face buried in his laptop, the pile of dishes she hadn't gotten to on Sunday were still in the sink, food crusted on the ceramic bowls, the silverware. Their bed was made, for once, because no one had gotten in it since she changed the sheets during her fevered daze Monday morning.

There was a text from Scott sitting in her messages that she hadn't mustered the strength to respond to yet, but the Red Devils group chat was abnormally silent. Scott had probably told all his friends about their break, and they'd retreated to another group chat without her. She wondered what story he was spinning, how he was portraying this break to his friends, whether or not he was demonizing her.

She deserved to be demonized; he just didn't know that yet.

There was no scenario in which she came out of this unscathed. She had to tell Scott about Joel, which meant they were getting divorced, whether she actually wanted to or not. She couldn't imagine Scott wanting to stay with her after he found out what a lying, cheating monster she was.

Divorce.

The word made her stomach churn.

She didn't know what her life looked like without Scott in it, she hadn't lived without him since she was twenty-one, she'd gone through the last year of her undergrad with him, all of her master's program, her internship, her first role at Vicinity, her promotion. And while their relationship was exhausting and unbalanced, and while she wasn't in love with him, she still loved him, she still cared about him, she didn't know how not to after ten years of sharing a life together.

Divorce.

This thing with Joel didn't feel like a backup plan, it felt like salvation, but how long would it take before the glamour of it faded? How long before they were bickering and sneering at each other? Surely it couldn't— he couldn't— remain this perfect forever. Their relationship would fade into resentments and remorse just like hers and Scott's had, just like her parents' relationship had, just like everyone's. Maybe all relationships were doomed, maybe everyone expected too much of their partner, gave too much of themselves until there was nothing left but bitterness and apathy.

And when that happened, where would that leave Ophelia?

Without Scott, without Joel, without solid ground, condemned to drown for the rest of her life. Alone.

Every avenue, every path laid out in front of her felt like a trap, and so Ophelia stood there, at the precipice, frozen in place.

__________

She couldn't sleep that night. She'd already grown too accustomed to falling asleep in Joel's crushing embrace. She didn't call him, though, instead she stared at the message from Scott that'd been sitting in her inbox since Wednesday afternoon.

Hey Effy. I think maybe we should plan a time to talk. When do you think we should do that? Next week? Let me know. I love you.

Her eyes kept lingering on those last three words.

Scott did love her, she knew that, but had he also realized that he wasn't in love with her? Did that happen to all couples after a decade of being together? Was this just the natural progression of a relationship? Ophelia didn't have the answers. She just knew that the way she felt with Joel had never existed with Scott, not even in the beginning. But that didn't mean that they too couldn't fall victim to time and bitterness.

Ophelia typed out a response three times before she hit send.

I still need time to think and process. I'll text you when I'm ready to talk.

She typed out her own I love you but deleted it before she hit send. It didn't feel fair, she didn't feel worthy of saying those words to him after what she'd done.

Scott didn't respond to her message, just reacted with a thumbs up.

The only other messages in her inbox were from Juliet, who was in Cancún with some of her friends for a week before their fall semester started. There were about ten pictures of her in various bikinis— smiling with a margarita, smiling on a boat, smiling next to two very attractive men without shirts on in some dimly lit club.

She reacted with a heart then sent Juliet a message telling her to be safe, to remember protection, to not get robbed by the cartel.

Not that Ophelia herself had been safe over the past week. Joel had only fucked her with a condom that first time, after that they'd silently abandoned them. He'd come inside of her at least eight times since Monday, and while she had an IUD, she knew that behavior was still reckless and stupid. She'd never asked Joel to get tested, never made him recount his most recent list of sexual partners because the thought alone made her sick with jealousy, and people could still get pregnant with an IUD... nothing was ever one-hundred percent effective.

The thought of being pregnant with Joel's baby made her core ache.

Further proof of her horridness.

She locked her phone, placed it on her bedside table and stared up at the ceiling. Joel was exactly five blocks away from her, probably doing the same thing. Scott was on the other side of the city, his face buried in his laptop, probably sitting in the extravagant living room of his parents' house, unable to appreciate the view they had of the Golden Gate because he'd grown up with it.

And she only missed one of those men.

And maybe that was as much of an answer as she needed.

Before Ophelia turned onto her side to try to chase sleep, she slipped that diamond ring off her finger and placed it on her bedside table.

__________

Joel didn't know where he went wrong.

He'd picked Sarah up from soccer camp yesterday evening, he took her out to pizza, he thought about bringing up the topic of Ophelia but she was too excited, hurriedly recounting the events of the past week to him over a medium pepperoni that they split between the two of them. It was the longest she'd gone without picking up her phone or talking about that Harry kid or rolling her eyes at him in ages.

They watched a movie— Legally Blonde, Sarah's choice of course— when they got back home, his daughter curled up next to him under a blanket, and not once did she pull out her phone to text Kelsey or scroll through glossy photos of whatever concert Harry played the night prior.

It felt like one of their old evenings together, before she started caring about the lives of pop stars, back when she wanted to hang out with him over her friends.

Then this morning, over breakfast, she asked if they could go to the mall, so she could pick out an outfit for the concert that was still over a month away. Joel said yes and she'd immediately bolted downstairs to get ready. He figured that time alone at the mall would be the perfect opportunity for him to bring up Ophelia, for him to open his daughter up to the idea of her staying with them for a bit— or forever— hopefully in the near future.

But now Sarah had locked herself in the bathroom, and refused to come out.

"Go away!" she yelled, her voice wet and pinched as Joel knocked on the door for the fifth time in the last thirty minutes, his gut cramping with nerves at the sound of her distraught voice.

"Just talk to me, baby girl," he pleaded, resting the side of his face against the cool wood, "tell me what's goin' on, you're scaring me."

"I'm fine, just leave me alone," she spat out, that muffled demand making his heart sink into his stomach.

"Sarah, honey," he breathed out, turning and resting his forehead against the door, "I want to help, but I need you to tell me what the problem is. Do you not wanna go shoppin' anymore? We could go to the park, or a museum, whatever you want today, baby, I—"

"I got my stupid period, okay," she blurted out, "now leave me alone!"

Joel's spine snapped straight at that, a sharp breath punching itself out of his chest.

Her period?

Fuck.

Was that normal? She was still so young— a kid— how could she have her period already?

He was supposed to be prepared for this, supposed to have tampons and pads on hand, he was supposed to have some kind of pep talk prepared, a more serious talk about sex rehearsed.

But she was twelve. He didn't think he had to worry about this for at least another year.

These were the moments where the stark absence of a woman in their lives worked to carve Joel open. As much as he wanted to be there for her during this, during all the female milestones, he knew it wasn't the same. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could be that would make up for the absence of a mother. It made guilt gnaw at his gut; it made his heart ache brutally in his chest.

And there was only one woman in his life, only one woman he could call and ask for advice, and she was dealing with her own— far more momentous— problems.

But Joel had no other option.

And so he quietly went back upstairs, leaving Sarah locked behind her bathroom door, and pulled his phone out of his pocket just as soon as he was in the safety of his bedroom.

The line rang only twice before she answered, her sweet voice drifting through the phone.

"Hi."

"Hey baby," he breathed out, his heart still pounding sorely against his ribs. "I— I actually need your help with something."

"What is it?" she asked, and Joel could hear the concern in her voice, it only worked to make his heart hurt even more brutally.

"Sarah got her period," he said through a heavy exhale, "and I— isn't that young? I mean, should I take her to the doctor or somethin'?"

Ophelia let out a soft laugh, "She's fine," she said, voice radiating with warmth that Joel wanted to drown in. "I got my period when I was nine."

"Nine?!" he spat out.

"Yup, it was brutal and definitely early, but twelve is perfectly normal, Juliet got hers on her twelfth birthday, ruined her party dress. I had to send all her friends home early and taunt her with ice cream until she finally let me into the bathroom to help her after she locked herself in there."

Some of the nerves in Joel's chest dissolved at that.

"Sarah locked herself in the bathroom too, won't come out for anythin', I was supposed to take her to get an outfit for that fuckin'— Harry Styles concert today," he muttered, running his fingers through his hair.

"Do you want me to come over? I can bring pads and tampons if you don't have any."

"You don't have to do that, darlin'," he breathed out, even as every molecule in his being screamed for her presence.

"I really don't mind, unless you— unless you don't want me to—"

"No," he spat out before she could spiral into thinking he didn't want her with him every chance he could get. "I would— I would really appreciate it, honey."

"Okay," she breathed out, "I'll walk over, it should only take me fifteen minutes."

I love you, I love you, I love you.

"Thank you," he said softly.

"I'll see you in a bit."

Joel hung up, shoved his phone back into his pocket, then spent the next fifteen minutes pacing his living room.

He shouldn't be asking Ophelia for anything right now. He was supposed to be the one taking care of her, showing her how badly he wanted to fill that role that no one else had ever occupied. But he wanted something real with her, something permanent. He wanted to make her his wife. And if that was what he wanted, then he needed to admit when he needed help too.

And right now, he'd never needed her more.

When Ophelia knocked on his door, he nearly leapt to it, tugging her to his chest before she even managed to utter a greeting.

"Thank you for comin'," he breathed into her floral scented hair, his body immediately losing tension just as soon as he had her in his arms.

"Of course," she said, voice muffled against his chest, "I brought a lot of options," opening up the tote hanging on her shoulder when Joel let her go, showing him the array of bright, colorful period products stuffed inside her bag.

I love you.

"I should'a had some on hand— I— I just didn't expect this to happen so early," he said, embarrassment twisting in his gut as he reached up to scratch the back of his hot, prickly neck.

"It's a perfectly normal age," Ophelia repeated with a soft smile that made his core ache.

"I should'a known that too..." he murmured.

Ophelia placed a soft hand on his arm, and the buzzing contact made his stomach clench.

"You're fine," she said with a reassuring smile, "my parents didn't even know when I got my period, I just started stealing pads out of my mom's bathroom."

Joel's brows pinched together at that, slightly misdirected instincts surging up in his chest. She deserved so much more than what she'd ever been given.

"Here," Ophelia said, holding the tote bag out to him, "I can walk back home, or—"

"Could you stay?" he blurted out, "just until I either get these into the bathroom or get her out?" he asked, taking the tote from her and holding it up between them.

Ophelia nodded, then followed him as he ushered her toward the hall, down the stairs, where she stayed hovering while Joel walked over to Sarah's bathroom door again.

He knocked, his heart squeezing as he heard his daughter sniffling on the other side of the door. "Hey baby girl, I've got pads, tampons," he started, glancing into the tote to make sure he wasn't lying about the contents, but Ophelia had packed three different types of each. God, he loved her. "Can you open up so I can give 'em to you?"

"Ew! Shut up!" she spat out, "Dad, don't ever say the word tampon!"

Joel let out an exhausted sigh, glancing back over his shoulder to Ophelia with a desperation he could feel tainting his features.

"Do you want me to try?" she whispered.

Joel nodded urgently, walking to meet her halfway between the stairs, transferring the tote to her hand, then turning to watch as she cleared the space to the bathroom door, knocking gently, speaking in a voice so soft it made him twitch.

"Hey Sarah, it's your dad's friend, Ophelia. Can I show you what I brought over, I— I promise I'll leave your dad outside."

Sarah didn't respond, for what felt like a minute, but then a miracle happened. The lock clicked and Ophelia flashed him a soft smile before turning the knob and disappearing inside the room.

__________

When Ophelia stepped into the bathroom, Sarah was working to curl herself back into the corner by the bathtub, her knees drawn to her chest, her eyes red and puffy. She was wearing pajamas, but there was another set of bottoms and underwear crumpled up in the other corner of the room.

Her heart ached brutally for the girl as she came to crouch beside her.

"Rough morning?" Ophelia asked softly.

Sarah nodded urgently, but refused to meet her gaze, reaching up to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I get it," Ophelia breathed out, "when I first got mine," Ophelia was careful not to use the p word yet, "I was so scared that I threw my underwear away so my parents wouldn't see."

Sarah didn't say anything, but her eyes— the same warm eyes as Joel's— flicked up for a brief moment.

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about, though. But I get not wanting to talk to your dad about it, I think my dad still doesn't even know I have my period."

A tiny, wet laugh sputtered out of the girl at that and Ophelia felt herself smile.

"I brought you some options," Ophelia said, placing the tote between the two of them. "There's directions on the side of the boxes, but if you need any help, just shout, okay?"

Sarah nodded, a small thank you squeaking out of her as she slowly pulled the tote toward her.

"Of course," Ophelia hummed, pushing herself back to her feet, about to leave the room before Sarah's small voice stopped her again.

"Could you— could you take these so my dad doesn't see?" Sarah asked, as she crawled across the room far enough to grab the clothes she'd stuffed into the corner.

"Absolutely," Ophelia said, leaning over to grab the clothes from the girl, bunching them in one hand as she carefully slipped out of the room and shut the door behind her. The lock clicked again as her eyes met Joel's worried gaze.

"She's fine," Ophelia whispered as she cleared the space between them, "just shaken up, embarrassed, it's normal."

Joel nodded urgently, then his eyes drifted down to the clothes in her hand.

"I can go throw those in the wash," he said, gesturing to them with his chin.

She shook her head, "I'll do it," she said, not wanting to break her promise to his daughter, "laundry is that door?" she asked, nodding to the one at the end of the hall.

Joel confirmed with a bob of his head.

"Be right back," she whispered, then went into the laundry room, threw the girl's clothes into the washer and started a cycle, slipping back out and meeting Joel in the hall again. "We should give her some space," Ophelia said, her eyes flicking up the stairs.

"Okay," Joel breathed out, his gaze drifting to the bathroom door before he placed his hand on her back and led her up the stairs, into the living room.

"Thank you," he said again, tugging her toward him by her waist, those warm brown eyes bouncing between hers with so much gratitude in his gaze she could feel it radiating through to her chest.

She wanted to tell him he had no reason to thank her when he'd saved her from a Saturday alone in her house, missing him terribly, drowning in guilt that never felt as potent when she was in his solacing presence.

"I wanted to help," she said instead, finding that it was true. Joel asking for help did not exhaust her in the same way it did when Scott needed help. Why was that?

Joel smiled, that dimple burrowing itself into his scruffy cheek, his eyes going all soft and squinty, then he was tugging her to his chest, one of his arms tight around her waist, the other sliding up to cradle her skull, his face burying itself in her hair.

"I missed you," he mumbled, his low voice buzzing through her head. "Know it's only been a day, but I missed havin' you in my bed last night, missed wakin' up with you."

Ophelia buried her face further into his solid chest, breathing in the woody scent of his skin, her hands coming up to cling onto the soft material of his t-shirt while her tummy swooped at his words, his gruff voice.

"I missed you too," she admitted.

Joel let out a low hum, then lifted her up, holding her entirely in his arms for a moment before he set her back down, letting go of her waist to cup her face in his big, rough palms. His eyes were filled with emotion, something she couldn't necessarily place, but so intense, so warm it made her belly glow.

"C'mere," he grunted, then he was lowering himself down to part his lips over hers, rough and urgent, one of his hands leaving her face to tug her closer with his arm wrapped around her waist.

A whine bubbled out of her chest, into the hot cavern of his mouth as he crowded her with his wide, towering form, his tongue licking into her mouth, making her dizzy and off-balance as she clung to his thick arms.

"Come back, stay here tonight, stay for the weekend," he mumbled into her mouth, "please," and it sounded like he was begging.

She needed to be using this time— this break— to think about her marriage, to try to piece together what she wanted her life to look like, but he was begging her to stay, and in the very core of her there was nothing she wanted to do more than hide within the haven he provided for as long as she was allowed.

"Okay," she breathed out, further solidifying her damnation.

"Okay," he echoed, tugging at her bottom lip with his dull front teeth, emitting a rumbling groan into her mouth before he seemed forced to pull back, leaning even further down so he could bury his face against the side of her neck, scruff tickling her skin, prominent nose pressing into her pulse point.

The muffled sound of a lock clicking echoed from downstairs, followed by a door squeaking open, Joel lifted his head from her neck, but did not let go of her waist. He glanced, expectantly, hopefully toward the stairs, but Sarah's footsteps only echoed across the hall, then another door creaked shut.

She watched his shoulders slump, her heart dropping at the same time.

"You okay?" she asked softly, reaching up to drag her nails through his scruff.

Joel's eyes fluttered, a low, masculine sound churning out of him, making her tummy clench as he took her wrist in his big hand, splaying her palm out across his cheek, leaning into her touch like an oversized house cat.

"M'fine, just worried about her," he said, eyes fluttering back open, warm gaze locked on her, "you're makin' it better, though."

"Really?" she squeaked out, heart fluttering against her ribs.

He nodded, turning his face into her palm, placing a kiss there before letting her hand drop back onto his chest. There existed a yawning cavern within her, one that screamed for him, one that hadn't stopped since she crashed into him in that portable over a month ago. But to think that Joel— competent, strong, valiant Joel might need her too did not work to exhaust her in the way that the rest of the people in her life did, it only made that cavern crack open further.

"Can use my truck to go get your things from your house for the weekend, I would drive you but I don't want to leave Sarah alone while—"

Joel's statement was interrupted by the sound of another squeaking door, then Sarah called Ophelia's name.

"I'll be right back," Ophelia said coyly, feeling a little strange as she pulled away from Joel to go speak to his daughter. But he just flashed her a grateful smile, something so warm she could feel it radiating off of him as she turned to go down the stairs.

Sarah was waiting for her in the doorway of her bedroom, eyes still puffy, but no longer wet with tears.

"What's up," she whispered when she reached the girl, "did any of the stuff I brought work out?"

Sarah nodded, cheeks gaining a bit of color as she cast her eyes to her feet, covered by a pair of bright pink socks. "Yeah, thank you, I was just— maybe you could tell my dad not to talk about this today. I just— I just want to go to the mall and forget about it."

Ophelia nodded, "Of course."

"Are you going to come?" Sarah asked, her eyes finally lifting from where she'd still been staring at her feet.

"If you want me to, I'd love to come," Ophelia said, with a small smile.

Sarah nodded urgently.

Ophelia felt her smile grow, "Okay," she said softly, "I'm gonna go talk to your dad."

Sarah slipped back into the room and Ophelia climbed the stairs, finding Joel waiting for her where she'd left him in the living room, a concerned look plaguing his face.

"She's fine," Ophelia assured him, "she just doesn't want to talk about it today, but she still wants to go to the mall."

"Okay," Joel breathed out, nodding albeit in a slightly distracted motion as his eyes flicked toward the stairs.

"She— she asked if I could come, is that alright?"

Joel's gaze flicked to her then, a knot emerging between his brows, "Of course it is, honey," he hummed, his big hands closing over her waist, tugging her back to his solid, wide chest. "Want you with me, always want you with me."

__________

Joel trailed behind Ophelia and his daughter as they walked past a couple shoe stores, down the brightly lit corridor of Stonestown Galleria, toward the glowing red H&M sign.

He was completely out of his element, in this bright mall, listening to his daughter excitedly chatter about Harry and outfits and whatever the fuck One Direction was. But Ophelia was a natural, matching Sarah's excitement in a manner that did not seem forged at all, keeping up with her hurried pace, picking out bright pink and purple and sequin outfits for Sarah to try on at each of the stores they'd stopped in.

He was so in love with her it hurt.

She fit so perfectly in the canyon he'd constructed his life around that the thought of losing her, of not making her his, was too brutal of a thought to harbor.

He'd noticed— because there wasn't a day that went by since he met her that he hadn't stared at that diamond ring on her left hand with contempt— that it was gone. She'd been wearing it when he dropped her off on Friday evening, she'd been wearing it when he fucked into her on Thursday night, she'd been wearing it every day since he crashed into her in that portable and now it was gone. And Joel tried not to lean into the hope that was daring to overtake his form, but it was so hard not to give into it entirely when she was here, with him, without a ring that declared her someone else's on her finger.

Joel followed Ophelia and his daughter into the store, his heart aching in his chest as Sarah raced toward the teen section in the back, plucking a pink, ruffled skirt from the rack and holding it up to Ophelia.

"What about this? With that tank top we found? Then I just need a cool jacket."

"I think that would be perfect, you wanna try it on?" Ophelia asked, with a bright smile that made Joel's core ache.

"Yes!" Sarah chimed, "can you hold this?" she asked, holding out the little pink bag she'd gotten from the last store they stopped in.

Ophelia took it from her, then let her eyes slide over to Joel as Sarah raced to the changing rooms.

Joel took the bag from Ophelia's hand, closing his hand over her nape as the two of them walked toward the changing rooms, lingering on the outside while Sarah darted into an open stall.

"You're so good with her," he whispered, petting her hair as he leaned down so he was closer to her height. "Think she's obsessed with you, though I can't blame her, that's probably genetic."

Ophelia's cheeks flushed pretty pink and Joel tugged her closer to him by his grip on her nape, until she was pressed against his chest.

Watching her with his daughter made him ache, worked to fill that woman shaped hole in their lives, but it did something else too, fueled something carnal and base, something primal that made him want to drag her back to his bed and fuck her full, made him want to rip that IUD out of her womb himself.

"She's sweet," Ophelia said softly, tilting her head back so she could look up at him, her pupils blowing out when those pretty green eyes met his.

Joel let his hand slide from her nape to her cheek, cradling her face in his palm.

He wanted to tell her that he loved her, but didn't know how when she still belonged to another man.

"We can stop at your place on the way back, grab whatever you need for the weekend," he said instead, his thumb brush stroking across her soft cheek. "I need you back in my bed tonight," he uttered, lower in volume, the words coming out of his throat all scratchy and gravel-edged.

Her bottom lip darted up between her teeth, and Joel swallowed a groan at the vision, wanting so desperately to devour her mouth right here in the fuckin' mall.

He tugged at her bottom lip with his thumb, until the plump thing bounced out of the grip of her teeth and he was able to run the pad of his thumb across the soft length of it.

"Pretty girl," he hummed, without much cognition, relishing in the flush of warmth that spread across her cheeks.

"Look!" Sarah's voice called out from the changing rooms and both his and Ophelia's attention turned toward her, his hand moving from her face to the small of her back.

"Very cute, baby girl," he said, as Sarah did a little twirl in the pink ruffled skirt.

Sarah smiled, but then her gaze flicked over to Ophelia, waiting for her approval.

"I love it!" Ophelia chimed with a wide smile, "It'll look perfect with the tank top."

"Yay!" Sarah beamed, racing back into the changing stall.

Joel let his hand drift under the hem of Ophelia's shirt, spreading his palm across the soft skin at the small of her back, lowering his head to bury his nose in her floral scented hair.

He felt her tremble, then lean back into him, her shoulders dropping as she let out a breath.

It was too easy with her, too perfect, that sometimes Joel forgot that she wasn't his, that she was having an affair with him, that she still hadn't brought up or even uttered the word divorce. This all felt so much more weighted, so much more paramount than the term affair could ever hold, for him, and he knew for Ophelia. So, what was this... if she was still married, if she hadn't broached the d word, if this blurry, undefined break was all they had.

He needed to know, before it killed him, before his love for her burst out of him and detonated this thing before it could even truly begin, but he needed to wait until Ophelia was ready to talk about it, until she was ready to utter that word.

__________

They spent another hour at the mall.

Ophelia helped Sarah pick out a sparkly, silver coat that completed her outfit, then the three of them drove home, stopping by Ophelia's house so she could grab a bag before Joel drove them all home.

Joel cooked dinner while Ophelia sat at the table with Sarah, the two of them chatting about her school and soccer and Harry. Then they ate together, Ophelia sat between the two of them, and they felt so much like a unit, so much like a family that it made Joel's core ache with a yearning so deep it felt like it was eating him alive.

They watched a movie after dinner— Cheaper by the Dozen— and Joel sat between the two of them, his arm around Ophelia, Sarah curled up on his other side. By the end of it, Sarah was asleep, and Ophelia's head had come to rest on his chest, and Joel had never felt so full in his entire life.

"Gonna put her to bed," Joel whispered, pressing a kiss to Ophelia's head before he carefully lifted his daughter into his arms, hoisting them both up and beginning to carry her downstairs to her room.

After he tucked her in, kissed her head, and carefully left the room without waking her up, he returned to the living room, finding Ophelia curled into the corner of the couch, her head resting against the arm of it, her eyes in the motion of fluttering closed before she caught sight of him and seemed to force them back open.

"You tired too, baby?" he asked, coming to kneel in front of her, brushing a rogue piece of red hair back behind her ear.

"I'm fine," she said through a yawn that had affection boiling over in his core.

He chuckled, then tugged her to him, bringing her into his arms as she lazily wrapped hers around the back of his neck. He lifted her up, burying his face in her hair as she rested her head on his chest, and carried her down the hall to his bedroom.

He set her down on the bed, tugging his shirt off over his head, about to turn and head to the bathroom before Ophelia let out a whine, her little hand reaching out to tug at his wrist.

"What do you want, baby?" he asked softly, leaning down to cup her cheek in his hand.

The submissive glint had overtaken her eyes when she squeaked out daddy, and Joel felt blood rush toward his cock.

"You're so sleepy, honey," he hummed, moving to sit on the bed beside her, trailing his hand under the oversized shirt she'd donned after dinner, toying with the little bow on the sleep shorts she had on underneath, rubbing the silky material between his fingers.

She squirmed, shaking her head despite her heavy-lidded eyes.

"Bet you're all wet and soft for me under these, aren't you?" he asked, voice low and rough as his eyes drifted down her thighs, cock growing stiff in his jeans at just the thought of what was underneath those little shorts.

Ophelia nodded urgently, a keening noise erupting from her throat as she tried to press her hips up toward his hand.

"Okay," he cooed, "let me see, baby," he uttered, moving further onto the bed, beginning to tug the little shorts off, revealing the plush skin of her hips, the pretty curls on her mound, then her wet, swollen pussy, so beautiful the vision made his mouth water, made his cock throb and ache in the confines of his jeans.

"Oh sweetheart," he sang, "so wet, I bet she's achin', huh?"

Ophelia nodded urgently, chest beginning to heave as she tried to grind down against his hand, which had taken residence on her thigh. "Please daddy," she whined, and Joel groaned, palming his erection through his pants.

"Please what, baby, what'd you want?"

"I need to come, please," she whimpered.

"So polite," he hummed, moving himself between her thighs, pushing them apart as he laid down on his belly, burying his face in the plush skin of her inner thigh, the heady scent of her arousal making his hips buck into the mattress.

He dragged his face across her cunt, letting her arousal coat his scruff, groaning into her core as she let out a keening moan, her fingers taking a tight grip of his hair.

He engulfed her cunt in his mouth then, unable to wait another second, lapping up her sweet arousal with a groan, sucking her swollen, begging clit into his mouth. And Ophelia let out a warbled cry, pressing her hips up while her fingers tugged at his hair.

And how was she not supposed to be his when he could have her coming undone like this? When she was crying his name? When she was everything he'd ever wanted in his life?

Joel growled into her cunt, his mind chanting a chorus of mine, mine, mine while he ate her like a man starved, a creature deprived of anything good or sweet. She was back in his arms, in his house, bared for him entirely, and yet, he still didn't know what this was, where it was going, if she had any intention of leaving her husband after this ambiguous break was over. And it was driving him insane.

He pounded two of his fingers into her, groaning into her clit at the tight squeeze, hammering them into the spongy end of her. He could feel the pokey end of her IUD strings, and the most depraved part of him— something animal and base— wanted to pinch them between his fingers and tug the thing out, immediately fuck her full of him, chain her to him.

But as it was, he was more than that desperate, greedy core, and so he just kept eating her, hammering his fingers into her until he felt her flood his palm, a flutter starting deep inside her cunt.

"I can feel you, baby," he growled into her pussy, "you're right there, doin' so good for me."

She whimpered, her thighs trembling in his grasp, muscles going taut as that flutter turned into a pulse.

"That's it," he hummed, "good girl."

__________

Ophelia was dizzy, untethered from herself as Joel moved over her, taking her jaw in his big hand and engulfing her mouth with a rumbling groan, tasting like her, feeling like safety and salvation, personifying hope in the middle of a storm.

She clawed at him, at his shoulders, his chest, at the waistband of his jeans while he ate her mouth. So desperate for him, it felt like she might fall apart if he wasn't inside of her.

He seemed forced to pull away from her, hurriedly discarding his jeans, his boxers, his heavy cock drooling between his thighs as he ripped her shirt off as well. He manhandled her onto her knees, his big, rough hands taking hold of her hips as he pushed into her, stretched her open for him, the thick head of him pounding straight into her cervix.

And Ophelia let out a cry that burned her throat, her face pressed into his mattress. He was everywhere, she swore she could feel him all the way in her lungs, making it hard to breathe as he set a brutal pace, his thick fingers digging into her hips, heavy balls slapping against her clit with each hammering thrust.

He was fucking her like he was angry, like each thrust was coated in something possessive and claiming, he was fucking her like he was begging her to stay. And it was almost too much, verging on painful, but mind numbingly overwhelming at the same time.

"Jo-el," she let out a broken cry, face twisting to the side, tears and drool wetting the sheet beneath her cheek.

"Is it too much for you, honey? Daddy's cock too big for your pretty little pussy?"

Her cunt fluttered sorely around him at his words, her belly swooping in a dramatic fashion that had her head going fuzzy.

"You can take it," he crooned, grinding into the end of her before he was back to pounding his hips into her ass, "you feel so fuckin' good, Ophelia," he uttered, voice breaking in a hearty moan that had her pelvis buzzing.

"Soak my cock, baby," he urged, one big hand sliding around her waist to press his thumb down on her clit, the pressure was otherworldly, overwhelming in combination with how hard he was fucking into her. "Soak daddy's cock and I'll fuck you full of me."

Her orgasm hit her hard, like a sudden downpour, her vision completely blacking out as the pressure she hadn't even realized she'd been harboring in her pelvis exploded. She sobbed into his sheets while she pulsed around the thick length of his cock, the moan that rocketed out of him ringing through her ears.

"Fuck me," Joel groaned, his thrusts going out of sync, "you're fuckin' dripping, baby."

Ophelia could barely hear him, her ears were still ringing from the force of her climax, but then Joel was leaning over her, his big body eclipsing her form as his hand closed over her nape, tugging her head up so his lips were right next to her ear.

"You're fuckin' mine, Ophelia," his voice rumbled, making her hair stand on end, causing her belly to clench tight as the vibration of his voice, of his words rocked her core.

He came then, with a moan, his come crowding her overwhelmed cunt as his head fell between her shoulder blades. They stayed like that for a moment, Joel's big ribs contracting and expanding above her, his cock growing soft inside her, both their come leaking down her thighs, her cheek nestled on the sheet that was wet with her tears.

When he did pull out of her, she whimpered at the loss, but he was right there, tugging her into his arms, crushing her to him as he moved them both up the mattress, so his head was resting on his pillow, hers nestled on his chest.

"Do you need anything, baby?" he asked, still slightly out of breath, his big hand coming up to pet her hair.

Ophelia shook her head, burying her face into the side of his thick, warm neck. What she needed was not something he could give her, it was not anything anyone could give her, it was something she would need to figure out herself.

Just as soon as she managed to crawl out, to force herself away from his shelter.

"Thank you again, for today," he said softly, pulling her even tighter against his side.

"I wanted to help," she said, muffled into his neck.

"I know," he breathed out, big hand still petting her hair, "but ya help everyone too much."

"It's different... with you," she admitted, lifting her head from his neck, finding those warm brown eyes in the dim light.

"Is it?" he asked, head tilting slightly to the side, his hand moving from her hair to cup her cheek in his calloused palm.

She nodded, "Because you don't expect it, because you... you take care of me too."

Joel's eyes went a little glossy at that, his hand closing over her jaw, using the grip to tug her mouth to his, placing a soft kiss on her lips before he spoke, his plush mouth sweeping over hers.

"You deserve to be taken care of, Ophelia."

And maybe that's what it all boiled down to.

But there was still so much left unsaid, while she floated in this limbo with him, while she was still chained to another man.

Ophelia's head fell back onto his chest, sleep quickly closing in on her while she was safe in that life raft, the roar of the tide echoing out in the distance. 

Chapter Text

"Then, if he says he loves you,

It fits your wisdom so far to believe it"

Ophelia spent too much of the next week wrapped around Joel. She tried to convince herself that she could work through the bouncing thoughts in her head, that she could unweave the guilt from her ribs, examine it, neutralize it while she was in his presence, but she knew that wasn't true.

That limbo that had once felt pacifying now felt like a waiting room on the precipice of her damnation. She was simply putting off the inevitable, delaying reality while living in this delusion with him. And the longer she put it off, the longer she tried to push it to the back of her mind, the more that guilt took hold, made her feel sick and heavy with it, the more doubt crept into her head, the more she yearned for something familiar, something stable, something that wasn't riddled with shame and secrets and neglected morality.

The weekend she spent with him tumbled into the week, and before she could dissect what this break meant for her and Scott it was Saturday again, and she'd spent two weeks living outside of reality.

Ophelia watched him, as he scrambled eggs, as he stuck a couple pieces of bread into the toaster, dressed in nothing but his boxers and a thin, white t-shirt that did nothing to obstruct the rolling muscles in his back. There was no way this could last forever, no scenario in which she got to stay here— sheltered and safe and taken care of. This would detonate, implode or fizzle out, leaving Ophelia with more scattered pieces to gather in her hands, or another relationship defined by apathy and resentment under her belt.

That knot in her gut that was coated in guilt and distress twisted tighter, it made it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to relish in this shelter for the little remaining time she had left.

Joel plated toast, eggs, sausage, placing the meal in front of her with a deep kiss to the top of her head before he took the seat across from her, his big hand making his fork look child-sized as he picked it up and shoveled a large portion of eggs into his mouth.

"Thought we could go to MOMA today," Joel said, his thick throat working to swallow, "they've got that architecture and design exhibit."

Ophelia's tummy cramped brutally as she pushed her eggs around her plate. She wanted to go, wanted to wander around a museum with him, continue to elude the inevitable, but today was her last day here, in this limbo that had become a corridor to her condemnation, a blasphemous exemplification of whatever curse she'd been hexed with. She'd texted Scott yesterday— trying to ignore the absurd feeling that she was cheating on Joel by doing so— told him she was finally ready to talk.

He was coming back home tomorrow.

She felt Joel's warm gaze zero in on her, his fork pausing its motion of lifting another large bite of eggs to his mouth.

"You okay?" he asked softly, "If you're not hungry I can make you somethin' later."

Ophelia nodded, plastering on a manufactured smile as she stabbed a piece of sausage and popped it into her mouth, trying to chew through the taste of ash that was haunting the back of her throat. She didn't know how to broach the subject of Scott, she didn't know how to tell Joel she was leaving, she didn't even know what it would look like when she returned to her house, what she was expected to do or say or be anymore.

"Bein' awfully quiet this morning," Joel remarked, and she could feel his perceptive gaze bouncing over her face even as she kept her focus on her plate, back to pushing her eggs around.

"I'm just tired," she said, and it wasn't a lie, she felt exhausted despite sleeping longer and more sound here than she ever had before, like there was a greedy, wicked creature inside her eating up all her strength.

"Can make you more coffee, or we can go lie back down."

That knot in her gut twisted tighter, a painful and brutal thing. How easy it was to fall into the delusion of this, of him, but the longer she stayed here the worse the eventual collapse would be, and she was already in too deep, pieces of her already wrapped around him in a manner that was too intense, too profound for what this truly was.

An affair, a lapse in sanity, a break from reality.

She refused to think, to let herself admit— even silently— what she felt about him, because the notion was terrifying.

"I'm fine," she reiterated, with another broken smile, forcing a bite of toast down her throat.

Joel made a low sound that rumbled through Ophelia's scalp, a sound like he didn't quite believe her, but he didn't push— for once— just continued eating in silence until his plate was empty and Ophelia's eggs were still untouched.

He stood with a grunt, took his plate to the sink, then returned to her, his heavy, warm hand closing over the nape of her neck, making it so hard not to dissolve back into this shaky limbo.

"Can I make you somethin' else, baby?" he asked, dipping his head down, his big, wide form eclipsing her as he placed a kiss on her temple.

She shook her head, her eyes pinching hot and tight as she let her fork clatter onto her plate.

He made that low, rumbling sound again, displeased, unconvinced, but still picked her plate up, releasing her nape to walk over and begin shoveling the untouched food into the compost bin.

She thought he would return then, to usher her to the couch, or back to his bedroom to change, but instead he opened the fridge, starting taking out a random assortment of ingredients— bread, lettuce, tomato, a bag of deli meat.

"What're you doing?" she asked, twisting her torso to watch him as he bent over to grab the mayo and mustard from the door of the fridge.

"Making you a sandwich, if you don't want it now, can wrap it up and you can eat it later," he said, like the concept was obvious, like this was their life and not some deranged fantasy she'd stumbled into.

This was all too much, too perfect, not at all fixed in reality, and the longer Ophelia stayed here, the longer she let him make her sandwiches and bathe her and pet her hair and keep her safe from the storm she could feel brewing in the distance, the more impossible it would be to walk away.

"Stop," she heard herself spit out, head a bit too heavy on her neck, that knot in her gut so brutal it felt like it was weighing her down.

Joel's eyebrows tugged together, carving a divot between them as he paused his motion of opening the bag of sliced bread. "You've gotta eat, Ophelia," he said, like his action was that simple as he ignored her and continued untwisting the tie from around the bag of bread.

She felt dizzy, disoriented, unable to speak any of the words that were whirling around in her head as she watched him take out two slices of bread, then open the silverware drawer and grab a butter knife, his big hand twisting open the container of mayonnaise.

What would this thing between them— this weighty, formidable tether she couldn't seem to saw through— look like if she stayed? What would it look like in a year, in five, in ten? She couldn't seem to vanquish the thought— slithery and vile— that it might end up looking too much like what she already had. Doubt and resentment and exhaustion would creep in and she would find herself carrying one divorce while on the precipice of another. What was the statistic for a couple composed of two previously divorced people? She'd looked it up, last night, right before she texted Scott. Forty-one percent of first marriages ended in divorce, in second marriages that percentage increased to sixty-seven, and if both partners had been previously divorced, the percentage was ninety.

They only had a ten percent chance of making it.

Those odds were too dismal to ignore.

Joel was in the middle of piling slices of turkey onto the bread when she heard herself speak again, her voice disjointed and weak, floating somewhere above her head.

"Scott is coming back tomorrow," she blurted out, "we're going to— we're going to talk."

Joel's spine snapped straight, his hand dropped the last piece of turkey as his head turned slowly to face her, his eyes flicking rapidly over her face.

"Okay," he breathed out, "I think we should talk about this too."

Ophelia swallowed hard, that knot in her gut growing to encompass her chest as well.

Joel abandoned the sandwich, clearing the space between them in two ground-eating strides. "C'mon," he said, hovering above her, his expression impossible to read— something between pained and anxious that made her stomach churn— as he jutted his chin toward the living room.

Ophelia stood on shaky, unstable legs, Joel's wide presence looming behind her as she floated into the living room, taking a seat on the couch. But Joel did not sit down beside her, instead he paced the length of the room, pushing his fingers through his hair, then tugging roughly at the roots. The image made that knot in her gut even more weighty, something so colossal it felt like she might crumple under the bulk of it.

"You're talking to him tomorrow?" Joel asked, still pacing, his eyes flicking over to her to search her face with a palpable anxiety that made her palms sweat, made her heart drum sorely in her chest.

She nodded.

"And you're— what're you going to say to him?" He was still pacing, his bare feet thudding loudly against the hardwood.

Ophelia swallowed hard, mind whirling at a speed that was making her feel slightly nauseous.

"I'm— he wants to try to fix things. I owe him another chance."

Joel stopped pacing at that, his whole body shuddering to a stop, his eyebrows pinching together, carving a deep knot between them.

"Ophelia, you've given him ten years of chances."

Something pinched between her ribs at that, and she let out a shuddering breath before she was able to speak again.

"He's my husband— I— I never really told him everything that was wrong, he never had an opportunity to try. I have to give him a chance," she said, twisting her hands together, trying so hard to believe the words that were coming out of her mouth.

Joel shook his head manically, like he was trying to shake out a bad thought, then he cleared the space between them, dropping to his knees in front of her, his big hands taking residence on her knees, where she could feel a slight tremor working through his body. His warm, brown gaze was desperate, pleading as his attention bounced between her eyes. It made that nausea in her gut boil.

"You're going to force yourself to be miserable because you feel like he's owed a second chance? Ophelia, you don't owe him anything," he said, voice stern but wavering slightly with that anxious emotion she could see plaguing his eyes. His big hands gently squeezed her knees, but it felt like he was reaching into her chest and squeezing her heart.

"Yes I do," she whispered. Because he was her husband, she'd made a promise, a vow, for better, for worse... and she hadn't even let him try. She owed him that at least, after all the treacherous, horrible things she'd done.

Joel shook his head again, that agonizing knot still carved between his brows. "What about us?" he whispered, "Did— does this mean nothing to you?"

His words carved Ophelia's heart open into a broken and battered, bleeding thing.

Nothing.

He meant more than she was willing to say in words, more than she ever could admit to herself, he existed as everything she never thought she could have, everything she never knew she needed, he'd cracked her open, shown her parts of herself she thought dead or nonexistent. But this wasn't reality, this was fantasy, this was temporary, this was dangerous.

"That's not true," she whispered, her voice wet, her eyes aching brutally in her skull, "but I— Joel, this isn't real, this isn't— you're not always going to be this perfect, it's not possible. One day you would wake up and be exhausted with me, and then you would resent me, and then we would just find ourselves stuck, that's what always happens, it's inevitable."

Joel was shaking his head again as she spoke, but he did not interrupt her, did not speak until her words fell off into the buzzing space between them.

"Ophelia, the only reason you believe that is because of the marriage you're currently trapped in. This," he said brutally, rising higher on his knees to gather her face in his warm, rough palms, "is real."

If only that were true, if only it were possible for things to stay the way they were, for them to stay entranced in the newness of this, but it couldn't, it wouldn't."

Ophelia shook her head, biting down hard on her bottom lip, urging the tears she could feel welling in her eyes to stay at bay.

"It can't be," she choked out.

"Fuck," Joel spat out, dropping his hands from her face, dragging his palm down his mouth, callouses scrapping against his beard. "You're scared," he said, voice muffled against his hand before it dropped back onto her knee, "that's understandable, I'm fucking scared too, but you can't throw this away because you think we're going to end up like you and Scott, baby, that's not going to happen."

"How do you know that?" she heard herself spit out, too high and too loud, "how could you possibly know that?"

"Because I'm not him," Joel said simply, firmly, his eyes drilling into hers. "I'm never gonna wake up one day and be exhausted with you, I'm never gonna resent you, I'm not going to force you to do everything, to take care of everyone, because I want to take care of you, that's who I am, that's what I was built to do, Ophelia."

She choked on the tears she'd been desperately trying to swallow, her eyes aching as she tried to keep them from trailing down her cheeks by refusing to blink.

"This is real, I'm real, and it fuckin' kills me that you've been so mistreated that you genuinely think you don't deserve this, or that time is going to make me somethin' different. You're everything I've ever wanted, baby," he breathed out, his eyes tracking the lone tear that had managed to trail down her cheek, glaring at it, like it was abhorrent to him. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you that earlier, that I haven't drilled it into your head as often as possible, but that doesn't make it any less true. If you were mine, I'd spend every minute of the rest of my life making sure you're happy and safe and taken care of. That's what I want."

It felt like every organ in Ophelia's body was atrophying, like something inside of her was shutting down.

"If you feel like you have to give him another chance, I want it to be because you want to be with him, not because you feel like you have to, or because you feel guilty, or because you think this thing between us isn't real, because it is. This isn't just an affair, Ophelia, you know that."

It wasn't just an affair, there was something large and paramount occupying her chest that made it impossible to classify this thing between them by just that one, disgusting word, but on the surface, negating— if that were possible— that weighty thing she couldn't give words to, that's what she was doing... having an affair.

But still, even so, she wanted to cling to him, to bury her face in his chest and forget about everything, all of this, but she was not deserved that kind of solace.

"Are you hearin' anything I'm sayin', Ophelia?"

She was trembling as she met his warm, pained stare.

"I have to give him a chance," she whispered, voice wet and pinched.

"I need you to tell me why," Joel said, pushing his fingers through the front of his hair, leaving his curls mussed and messy. "Is it because you feel like you have to, because that's not a good enough reason, baby."

"It is," she burst, "he's my husband, Joel, I have to give him a chance to make things better."

"No you don't," he growled, a muscle in his jaw fluttering beneath his skin, "that can't be the reason you give him a second chance, Ophelia, it has to be because you want to be with him."

Did she want to be with Scott? Maybe, but not for any of the reasons she should. She wanted to be with him because he was familiar, and stable. She wanted to be with him because she was supposed to, because she'd made a vow, and the thought of disregarding that vow made her sick, consumed with guilt. After everything she had done, she owed him a chance to try, even if the thought of leaving Joel, the thought of stepping out of this fantasy, made her feel like her organs were shutting down.

"I have to let him try," she heard herself whisper.

"Goddammit!" Joel spat out, pushing himself to his feet, beginning to pace again, in a motion that made Ophelia's stomach churn. "What about everything you told me, Ophelia— how you want children but you can't imagine having them with him, how tired you are of doing everything, he's never bought you flowers, in ten years, you—"

Hearing him throw her words— the ones she'd told him, only him, in confidence— back at her was a screaming kind of betrayal, and she felt something thick and rotten crawling up her throat as she interrupted his spiel.

"Stop it!" she croaked, wishing she wasn't crying so that her words would hold more weight, "do you know how hard it was for me to admit those things, to tell you, and now you're throwing them back in my face!"

Joel's features visibly dampened, and he stopped his pacing to return to her, to kneel in front of her again, and she wished she had the strength, the fortitude to push away from him when he gently gathered her hands, wished she could rip them from his grip, but she couldn't, so she just sat there, trying not to meet his pained stare.

"That's not what I'm tryin' to do, honey, I just— the thought of you goin' back to that, to being miserable, havin' no one to take care of you, baby that kills me. I can't handle it."

He sounded too sincere and his words were too much when she still wanted, needed to be mad at him.

"I've never asked you to leave him, Ophelia, that's not my decision to make. I want you to leave him because you know you deserve better."

"What if I don't deserve better," she blubbered, still hating herself for crying, for even entertaining this conversation when she needed to leave, pry herself away from him, away from this fantasy before it consumed her entirely. "I cheated on him, how could I deserve anything good?"

Her face was hot, wet from the tears she couldn't halt any longer, she felt out of control, on unsteady ground, or conversely, lost at sea, scrambling for a surface she couldn't see.

"Oh baby, that's not true," he cooed, rising on his knees to gather her face again, and she couldn't find the strength to push away from him as he wiped her tears away with the rough pads of his thumbs. Her time here was limited, slipping away at an increasingly fast pace, and even though it made her awful and selfish and irredeemable, she did not want to spend a minute of the time she had left here forcing herself away from him, even if that's what she should do.

"You spent ten years being treated like a commodity, a maid, not a wife. That would push anyone to cheat, to leave."

"Why do you care so much?" she mumbled, "what does it matter to you whether or not I feel like I deserve anything better?"

Joel's brows pinched together at that, his eyes flaring, his fingers dug into the hinge of her jaw for a moment before he loosened his grasp. His mouth opened and closed with a click, like he was contemplating if he wanted to speak, but then his features softened, and his head tilted slightly to the side, and his low baritone was rumbling through her bones.

"Because I love you, Ophelia," he said, in a voice so soft, so earnest, it felt like she was falling, like all her atrophying organs lifted into her throat, before dropping back down to sit laden in the bottom of her gut.

He loved her, Joel did.

To be loved by a man so solid, so kind, a man with such gravity, with such strength was not something she knew how to accept, how to claim, not when she was supposed to be leaving, not when what she felt for him was still too paramount, still too terrifying to admit to herself.

"I can't," she choked out, tears clawing their way up her throat as she watched his features drop, his hands departing from her face at the same moment, the loss of warmth like being cast back out into the tide. "I have to go."

"Please don't," Joel breathed out, though he did stand, did move out of her way as she pushed herself to her feet and began trying to gather her things while her chest ached like someone had lodged a steak knife between her ribs, while her tears made it hard to see much of anything.

He followed her— a heavy, looming presence— as she gathered her things— the book on his coffee table, her stupid expensive retinol in the bathroom, her clothes from his room.

"At least let me drive you home," he said as she began stuffing everything into the duffel bag she'd kept in his closet.

She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes. "I can walk," she said, reaching up to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand.

Joel let out a sharp sigh, and she could see him, out of her peripheral, tugging at the roots of his hair again.

"Don't leave like this," he said once she stood up, hosting the duffel bag with her, and he sounded like he was begging, and he looked like she'd taken that steak knife out of her chest and stabbed him with it.

"I have to," she whispered, forcing her gaze away from his pained face, "I'm sorry."

__________

That night, while Ophelia was alone in her house, trying to breathe when it felt like she was ten feet under water, she got an email from Frankie, addressed to the whole of her team and the Swinerton team. Construction was paused for at least the next week; there was a permit they had to obtain before they could continue framing. She wanted to feel relieved, that she didn't have to see him on Monday, that she could take this week to try to sort things out with Scott without having to resist his gravity when it felt like he was the sun. But she wasn't relieved, she wasn't anything.

Scott came back on Sunday morning— the fog was so thick she couldn't even see the street lamps outside the window in their living room. He looked different— tanner maybe, tired too, his hair looked longer somehow but that couldn't have been true. It'd only been two weeks. Two weeks living in a fantasy world that could never amount to anything within reality. At least, that's what she had to tell herself.

They talked— about all the things Ophelia needed, about the discrepancies in their relationship— and Scott said that he would try. Try to do better, to be better, and she didn't have the heart to tell him, as she sat next to him on their couch, as he spoke in earnest about all the things he was going to do to fix this, that she'd spent the last two weeks— the last several months— wrapped around another man.

"Let me cook dinner tonight," Scott said, as they sat over a foot apart on the couch. "I'll start with something easy."

"Okay," she whispered, wringing her hands together in her lap.

She watched him then, pull his phone out of his pocket and search for easy dinner recipes on Google, and she resisted the urge to cringe.

She wondered what Joel was doing, what he was cooking for dinner, then quickly pushed the thought of him away, as far to the back of her mind as she could.

"This looks easy enough," Scott said after a few minutes of scrolling, screenshotting some lemon chicken recipe that was surely not easy enough for someone who didn't even know how to make pasta. "Gonna check if we have everything," he grunted, pushing himself to his feet.

Ophelia tried to sit there, to swallow the anxiety that was bouncing around in her gut as she heard him banging around in the kitchen. If this was going to work, she needed to trust that he could get better. If she got up and helped him, took over before he had the chance to try, they would fall right back into where they'd been before.

But fuck it was hard.

After a couple more minutes of him opening and closing cupboards, the commotion stopped for a moment, then he called her name and she had to dig her fingers into her thighs to keep from getting up.

"Yeah," she called back.

"How do you tell if chicken is boneless?"

Something boiling and bitter came surging into her gut but she forced it down.

"I only buy boneless, but it would say it on the package."

"Got it."

She tried to sink back into the couch, but the kitchen commotion was too loud, too anxiety-inducing, and her brain was still too wrapped up around Joel, everything he said before she left, the cavern in her chest that felt like it was eating away more and more of her by the second.

"Is this pan considered large?" Scott asked, walking into the room and holding up a medium frying pan.

"No," she breathed out, still trying to swallow that bitter, biting thing, "there's a large one in the cupboard next to the stove."

Scott nodded, then shuffled back into the kitchen to continue his ruckus.

The rotten secret she was holding, of what she'd done was twisted around that cavern in her chest. It was like she was on a seesaw or some demented carnival ride, between missing him so desperately it felt like she couldn't breathe, to being so sick with guilt it made her feel like she was decaying.

She should tell Scott about Joel, that was the right thing to do, the moral thing, but god it felt impossible, like some insurmountable feat, like climbing an unscalable mountain. And if she told him, then what was the point of all this, of trying, when surely, he would leave her.

She'd never felt so out of control, so lost and alone in her life.

And maybe that's what she was condemned to, after the atrocities she'd committed.

Ophelia smelled the burning before the commotion in the kitchen exploded, a loud whoosh echoing over the sharp curse that Scott let out. She didn't wait for him to ask for help, just burst out of the living room and into the kitchen, her eyes widening as she took in the flames that were licking out of the pan on the stove.

"I don't know what happened!" Scott spat out, in the middle of filling a large bowl with water.

The surging, bitter entity in her gut was multiplying, but Ophelia did her best to push it down as she grabbed an oven mitt and a large metal lid.

"You can't put out a grease fire with water!" she shouted, her face burning as she tried to stand as far back from the flames as she could while she smothered them with the lid, reaching over to turn off the heat on the stove before taking a large step back.

Her chest was heaving as smoke billowed out from under the lid, the smell of it heavy, dense like the fog that was rolling down the avenues.

"Go open the windows in the living room," Ophelia ordered as she flicked on the vent above the stove.

Scott scrambled to comply while she carefully lifted the lid back off the pan, staring down at the blackened chicken, the burnt sauce that was quickly congealing to the bottom of the pan, trying to get that cavern in her chest to close up while it felt like it was ripping open even further.

If this is what it looked like when Scott tried, she didn't know how long she would last, how she could survive this, how either of them could when his first attempt had almost burned down their kitchen.

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding a little breathless as he returned to the kitchen, his presence anxiously buzzing behind her.

"It's fine," she breathed out.

"I'll just— I'll order from that Thai place on Irving."

"Okay," she whispered, still just staring at the chicken.

"I'm sorry," he said again, defeated, "I tried."

That swirling guilt in Ophelia's gut twisted tight at the sound of his voice and she dropped the lid to turn and face him, staring into his blue eyes that looked like the tide, that looked like the surging water she felt like she was ten feet under.

"I know" she said, trying on a manufactured smile, "It's okay."