From the start (Joel Miller x Reader) (EDITED)

Chapter 8

The hum of the café was soft and steady, underscored by the hiss of steaming milk and the clink of dishes being stacked behind the counter. The scent of roasted beans and warm pastries created a cozy cocoon around your little corner booth, shielding you and Joel from the outside world. Morning sunlight streamed through the window beside you, casting a warm glow on his face as he ruffled his damp hair and glanced out onto the quiet street.

"This place reminds me of that little café in town where Sarah and I used to grab breakfast," Joel said, voice low and thoughtful. "She always ordered this ridiculous rainbow bagel just to annoy me."

You chuckled, picturing it vividly. "That's adorable. I bet she loved getting a rise out of you."

A faint smile tugged at his lips, and his eyes turned distant for a moment. "Yeah. She's in college now, but I hope she holds on to those memories. I know I do."

You paused, your tone softening. "She's lucky to have a dad who remembers those moments, Joel. That stuff matters more than we think."

Joel nodded, his gaze finding yours again. "I try to hold onto the good ones. There's enough bad that tries to take up space in your head. You've got to make room for the good."

You glanced at the menu, sensing the shift in mood and eager to lighten it just a bit. "Alright, tell me something important—pancakes or eggs?"

That earned a real laugh from him, warm and low. "Fluffy pancakes all the way. But if there's a good omelet with bacon, peppers, cheese—hell, throw it all in—I'm not saying no."

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to judge. "So, indecisive and greedy. Got it."

He smirked. "Accurate."

You grinned and gestured to the server, placing your orders—Joel's loaded omelet and black coffee, and your waffles with fruit and a cinnamon latte.

As the waitress walked away, Joel leaned his forearms on the table. "So, I heard a little something about your writing. What's the current obsession?"

You straightened, your whole posture shifting with excitement. "Mystery novel. It's a little unconventional, though—more psychological than procedural. I'm trying to blur the lines between what's real and what's perception."

Joel's brows rose with interest. "You ever write characters based on people you know?"

Your lips curved. "All the time. Sometimes subconsciously. Sometimes very deliberately."

"Should I be flattered or worried?" he asked, feigning suspicion.

You leaned in, your voice playful but sincere. "Maybe a little of both."

He laughed, and it lingered for a moment, softening his entire face.

The food arrived, breaking the intensity of the moment with the clatter of dishes. You both tucked in, grateful for the grounding sensation of good food and simple pleasure. Between bites, the conversation turned to books, music, favorite films—little snapshots of each other's lives that filled in the quiet spaces between the bigger, messier parts.

Joel's eyes sparkled as he spoke, his voice softening with nostalgia. "You know, I've always had this thing for old westerns. There's something about those lone riders, the wide-open landscapes, the clear-cut battles between good and bad... It's like a simpler time, even if it wasn't. When I was a kid, I'd sit for hours watching John Wayne or Clint Eastwood, dreaming I was out there riding the range, just me and the horizon."

You smiled, leaning forward, fingers tapping lightly on the table as you countered, "I get that. I'm hooked on classic noir films and vintage crime novels—think The Maltese Falcon, Double Indemnity, Raymond Chandler's stuff. There's this dark, gritty edge to them, a world full of shadows and moral ambiguity. The characters aren't clear-cut heroes or villains—they're complicated, flawed." You paused, eyes twinkling. "Like that famous line from The Maltese Falcon—'The stuff that dreams are made of.' It's poetry wrapped in mystery."