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

Chapter 14

The sun was beginning to dip behind the trees, casting golden light across the road as Joel's truck rumbled along the winding highway. The cabin was now a fading dot on the map behind you, but its stillness clung to you like a soft echo. The scent of pine, the lazy hush of lake water, and the memory of Joel's hand slipping into yours without a word—it all lingered.

The ride home was quiet, but not empty. It was a silence that spoke volumes. Occasionally, Joel would glance over, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as though he was still replaying the same memories you were.

"You really thought you could beat me to the buoy," he said at one point, his voice warm and amused.

You laughed softly, the memory tugging a smile to your face. "I did beat you to the buoy."

The banter lapsed back into silence, but it was the kind that made you feel safe—held. The rolling landscape outside the window passed by in slow motion, but your thoughts moved faster: you kept thinking of his hand on the small of your back, how he made you laugh without trying, how his presence felt like something you hadn't known you'd been missing.

When you reached your neighborhood, a quiet heaviness settled in your chest. The mundane started to creep back in: street signs, cars parked crookedly, the familiar facade of your building. The spell was lifting.

Joel pulled up to the curb, shifting the truck into park. He turned toward you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. His brown eyes were steady, calm, with just a flicker of something unsaid.

"We'll meet again soon," he said, voice low and certain. "Take care, alright?"

You swallowed the ache in your throat and nodded, forcing a smile that wasn't just for him—it was for yourself too. "I will. Thank you... for all of it."

He leaned across the console and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close into the kind of hug that told you everything he hadn't said aloud. When he pulled back, his lips brushed against yours—not rushed, not showy, but deliberate. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence you didn't want to end.

You gathered your bag, stepped out into the dusky evening, and turned to look at him once more. Joel gave you a slow nod, his hand resting on the steering wheel as he waited. Only once you'd unlocked the front door and disappeared inside did he drive away, the soft rumble of his truck fading into the night.

The days after the lakeside trip with Joel passed like pages turning in a well-worn novel—quiet, steady, and edged with a certain kind of ache you couldn't quite name. Though the world outside your windows kept moving, your own little bubble slowed, recalibrated by the memory of sunlight on water and the sound of Joel's laugh in your ear.

But life didn't wait for nostalgia. And so, you returned to your work.

The solitude of your home wrapped around you like a familiar cardigan—comforting, if a little threadbare in the corners. Mornings began with strong coffee and the quiet companionship of your laptop, where the cursor blinked like a metronome, waiting for your thoughts to fall into rhythm. The scent of brewing coffee mingled with the faint hum of your playlist, the melodies keeping time with the clack of your keys.

Your book had found its heartbeat again. Whatever had loosened in you by the lake had opened up something in your writing too. The characters felt more alive now, their voices sharper, more insistent. The story no longer meandered—it surged. You found yourself up late into the night, losing hours in your own words, the outside world dissolving as your plot thickened and secrets were unearthed.

Marianne, your agent, was your first lifeline beyond the page. She was everything you could want in someone guiding your work—candid, insightful, fiercely intelligent. She never sugar-coated, but she never dimmed your light either.