Ya'll Are In For Such A Treat.

Ya'll are in for such a treat.

For @hypnotisedfireflies 🩷

the sun’s probably shining in wyoming

Tess lives. She and Joel build a life in Jackson. A day in each season, over the course of a year.

Hiya ☺️ What’s “Stand on the Rock” about?

Stand on the Rock is a day-in-the-life fic all about Tommy - or, it started that way, and then it ended up being about how he and Maria got together, with a focus later on about him trying to get through a day with his many, many children. (Well, there are only three of them, but they're...a lot.) So basically it's the Tommy Dad Fic I've been struggling to write for months and months, but I keep getting distracted away from it.

For Your Love

Banner made by @toointojoelmiller

[As Long as You Follow] [People Still Listen to Fleetwood Mac in the Apocalypse]

Pairing: Joel Miller x OC

Words: 3,227

Summary: She liked him like this, craved it; him pinned beneath her thighs, a vessel steered by her desires. Intoxicating, when she deepened their kiss and then pulled away from him and he tried to follow her, head lifting off the pillow, lips seeking hers even when she was out of reach, his abdomen taut with strain. There was something thrilling about it; about someone so much bigger than herself, built like a storm with muscles that could overtake her in a moment, choosing restraint; something satisfying about those large, rough hands sliding along her skin, so gentle when they didn’t have to be.

Warnings: +18, MDNI, smut, oral sex, face-riding, unprotected PIV. Minor angst referenced. Age gap (Joel is 62, OC is in her mid-forties), my Joel is soft AF and loves his wife.

This is my first time posting something like this as a standalone. This is actually a scene from chapter 18 of As Long as You Follow, but also works as its own piece (in that you don't have to read the whole fic to understand this scene). Enjoy!

Dawn was barely a whisper when she crept back upstairs, her skin flushed with warmth, her head swimming from even the miniscule amount of liquor she’d been encouraged to drink. She shed her sweatpants with a clumsy grace, using the wall as an anchoring point, and then poured herself onto the mattress with a sigh, burrowing until she sank into the cool embrace of the bedding.

Unsurprisingly, Joel was awake, his eyes steady and observant as she claimed her pillow. “Hi,” she said quietly, and he quirked an eyebrow. She wondered how long he’d laid here just like this, waiting for her to return; wondered if he’d gone looking for her, or had been patient enough to assume she would come back on her own. But he didn’t resist her when she slid over to him, the cool sheet parting like water around her, pressing her warm skin against his. If he was surprised, he didn’t let on; he fell into her embrace easily, fingers sliding under her shirt to trace the delicate architecture of her ribs, his breath, a warm current, brushing against her cheek.

"Would you do something for me?" she breathed into the hollow of his neck.

“Name it,” was his immediate reply, though she let herself linger in the space between them for a little while longer; let him nuzzle into her hair, his hand gliding across her skin, gripping and cupping softly – let herself feel it, his love and affection. In the end, words were unnecessary. She tangled her fingers in his patchy beard, tilting his chin down so he could meet her lips. He responded instantly, his body tensing for a moment before relaxing completely against hers.

In the cocoon of his embrace, the night's unease unfurled and floated away, dissipating into the shadows. It seemed impossible to find anything to be scared of when they were just like this – because nothing terrible had ever happened to her when she was wrapped in his arms, and she knew with a sudden clarity that nothing ever would. “I love you,” she whispered, and then was filled with frustration because even this didn’t seem like enough to convey the immensity of what he meant to her, and all the ways he had reshaped her life for the better. He kissed her again, a gentle press of lips against hers, and then drew her close, his chin resting on the crown of her head.

“I love you,” he echoed. “Go to sleep, baby.”

And just like that, her mind stilled.

But she didn’t sleep. Whether intentional or not, she’d already given up on it. Joel slept, and she didn’t begrudge this of him, this man who gave so much of himself to everyone and everything – to her, to their family, to his community, nevermind the strain of his aging body. She closed her eyes, but sleep never found her, and when the sky began to lighten along its edges, cool and gray, and the birdsong began to trill through their open window, swept in with the breeze that stirred their curtains, she found herself still wide awake. The room was dim, the branches of the old oak outside casting a slow, hypnotic dance of shadows across the bedroom walls. She watched them shift and change, restlessness pulsing through her veins.

Joel stirred in his sleep, breaking their embrace when he rolled onto his back. She shifted onto her side when he did, taking him in as he lay bathed in the soft glow of the approaching day. He looked so peaceful, his features relaxed, his breath even and deep. She remembered doing this during their very first night together; remembered being so full of nervous energy that she hadn’t slept at all, all at once thrilled and terrified of this man that lay sleeping next to her, uncertain of where he would end up fitting into her life but so eager to find out.

For some reason, she could only hear Ellie’s voice in her head, her recollection of her own early days in Jackson; ‘I just didn’t understand why it was so easy for him – how, after everything we’d been through, he could just turn around and be okay. But I figured…he was pretending, you know? For me.’ And she wondered if he was doing the same thing for her, and had been since they got back to town – pretending, for her sake, holding them both together while she crumbled, replaying the familiar dance they'd performed again and again over the years. It unnerved her just as much as it flooded her with gratitude, and she found her vision blurring, his sleeping face glowing and fracturing before she blinked away these unexpected tears, and suddenly it wasn’t enough just to be close to him.

“Joel,” she murmured, a whisper drifting across their pillows. Her movements were deliberately quiet, slow as molasses as she rolled herself over, her hand reaching for him beneath the sheets until her fingers could trace a languid path across his ribs and the expanse of his bare chest. She watched his face as she moved, searching for any flicker of disturbance. “Joel,” she breathed again, his name stretched taut across her tongue.

Finally, he shifted; his features, pale and sculpted in the muted light that speared through their flimsy curtains, pulling tight, his mustache twitching above parted lips. Eyes that glittered like gemstones blinked open, a small, confused grunt leaving his throat.

“What –” The soothing cadence of her voice, the softness of her hand feathering back and forth across his ribs – none of it mattered; he lurched for an upright position, eyes darting around the room.

“Easy,” she whispered, gently pushing him back down; and he hesitated, but seemed to trust her enough to allow this, settling his head back on his pillow with a groan. “Sorry, just…was seeing if you were awake.”

“Am now,” he rasped, voice thick and gritty with sleep, though his grip on her hand was soft after he fumbled for it, squeezing it as it lay across his chest. “What is it?”

She answered him in movement; a soft, measured shift when she swung a leg over his hips, the sheets whispering against her skin until she settled astride him. There was an exhale of surprise, a breathed oh – that was immediately silenced when she captured his mouth with her own, a gentle conquest, her lips velvet against his. She didn’t linger in preambles, deepening her movements with quiet need, her tongue flicking past his teeth – and he hesitated, just for a moment, his hand adrift until it found its home on the curve of her hip.

She liked him like this, craved it; him pinned beneath her thighs, a vessel steered by her desires. Intoxicating, when she deepened their kiss and then pulled away from him and he tried to follow her, head lifting off the pillow, lips seeking hers even when she was out of reach, his abdomen taut with strain. There was something thrilling about it; about someone so much bigger than herself, built like a storm with muscles that could overtake her in a moment, choosing restraint; something satisfying about those large, rough hands sliding along her skin, so gentle when they didn’t have to be.

“Darlin’ –” She sensed his shift immediately; felt his hands migrate to the small of her back, urging her forward, but she shook her head – though she went to him, offering a rather chaste kiss, a fleeting touch of their lips that only seemed to frustrate him. He groaned softly as she continued an upward journey, peppering light kisses across the bridge of his nose, his brow, his forehead while her hands steadied themselves on his shoulders, holding him in place.

“Just lay back,” she said softly, pressing her lips against his again just to stifle any response he might have had. And there was something there; a puff of air that met her lips, a slight sigh that she felt echo through his throat, because her mouth went there next, nipping and licking as that sigh deepened to a groan. “Quiet,” she chided against his collarbone, and that groan turned into an amused scoff – but he did quiet himself, his hands following her, winding through her hair, twirling the golden strands between his knuckles. She felt the response of his body as her touch grew bolder, the stiffening of his chest and the clenching of his stomach when she softly, so softly kissed the half-moon scar above his hip, but his hands remained gentle, careful not to pull too tightly –

– until she descended too low, finding him already straining against his boxer briefs, and she kissed that, too; felt the twitch of his cock through the fabric right before he reflexively jerked his hips. His fingers tightened in her hair and then let go, and suddenly there were hands on her shoulders, gently trying to pull her back up, and she heard his voice rumble through the darkness, “Sweetness – you don’t gotta do that–"

And she knew, with a mix of tenderness and frustration, what he was doing – shielding her, protecting her in that endearing, infuriating way that was so innately him. But she had no use for his protection – not tonight, anyway. She shook her head, grasped his wrists firmly, and pried his hands away from her shoulders. She didn't release him immediately, savoring the moment, placing a lingering kiss on his knuckles before letting go. He responded with a sigh, his head sagging back against his pillow, his chest rising and falling visibly in the dim light; she saw the rhythmic expansion and contraction of his ribs sliding beneath his skin, felt the nervous jolt of his leg when she straddled it, her own heart pounding in her chest.

“I don’t have to do anything,” she murmured, her fingers teasing the waistband of his boxers, “but I’m not doing anything I don’t want to. Okay?”

She watched him carefully, moved slowly, pulling down the fabric until he sprung free, ready and willing despite the rest of his body’s hesitance. She knew that he was watching her, too; saw his eyes as two pinpricks of light glittering through the darkness, heard the sharp intake of his breath as her hand encircled him, warm and inviting – but she waited for him, waited for those eyes to flutter shut, for the quiet, gasped, ‘fuck’ that signaled his surrender –

– and there was something about it that was so familiar, so nostalgic. She thought about when they were first brought together; remembered that look on his face the first time she straddled him on that couch, mouth parted in surprise, eyes sparkling with shock and yearning – remembered the first time she took him in her mouth, the way he’d bucked his hips so harshly, overwhelmed by a sensation so new, so intense. He'd looked at her on her knees with an awe-struck reverence, as if she were the most precious treasure in the world, and that same adoration shone in his eyes now; his hand guiding the bobbing of her head while her lips sank lower, lower, every movement of her tongue causing a wonderful little gasp to push from his lungs.

There was an intoxicating power in witnessing this strong, capable man become something far more pliant in her hand, a profound pleasure in knowing she was the only one who could unravel him in this way. She enjoyed bringing him right to the edge, his strong legs quivering beneath her; knew that he was so close to bliss, because there was a steady stream of whispered Spanish cutting through the darkness – and she smiled around his cock, swirled her tongue along his salty tip, turning those words into an unintelligible groan.

He was beautiful, she thought; plush lips parted, trembling amidst the salt-and-pepper stubble of his jaw. His head tilted back, pressing into the pillow, the morning light tracing the contours of his strong jawline and glinting off the silver in his hair. She watched his tongue dart out to wet his teeth before a grimace of pleasure contorted his face, felt his fingers tangle in her hair while his other hand clenched the sheets, wrinkling the fabric beneath his desperate grip.

“Baby – hey, hey –” His hands were already in motion, before she could react; gentle but commanding, hinging under her arms and lifting her effortlessly – his arms guided her over his body, and though she longed to stay where she was she yielded to his touch, rising to meet his kiss.

And this, too, was beautiful; his lips eager to reclaim the taste of himself on her tongue, his arms encircling her waist, pulling her tight against him as his chest heaved, his words slurred against her lips, ‘god damn, woman – god damn –’ and she barely had time to feel pleased with herself, to savor her satisfaction before she was being moved again, and she was powerless to stop it, those same strong hands gripping her ribcage, lifting her with ease, then seizing her thighs. Her body responded instinctively to his urgent pull, a gasp escaping her lips followed by a startled shriek –

She was unprepared for the onslaught of sensation that engulfed her, his strong arms wrapping around the backs of her trembling thighs as he buried his face between them. She struggled to stay upright, fingers clawing until she finally managed to grip the edge of the bed’s headboard for support.

He was a man determined, her underwear nothing but a flimsy inconvenience, easily yanked aside so that his tongue could seek out her sensitive flesh, roving and licking and swirling and fuck, it was as though that tongue was made for exactly this; she was already unraveling, delicious waves of heat and pleasure rolling between her legs. When he constricted his arms around her and pulled her flush to his eager mouth, she gasped in blissful agony, his nose gliding along her sensitive bundle of nerves.

It took her a moment to find the rhythm in it; in the way he firmed and loosened his grip on her thighs, the press of his tongue at the crest of every wave created by the way he manipulated her hips - but she found it, she fell in line with it, and then she took control of it just as quickly, hastening her own movements, grinding herself against his mouth as she braced her arms against the headboard, every desperate press of his tongue like an electric shock that ignited every nerve ending in her body.

It was blinding, this release; washing over her like a cool wave as he feasted on her with unbridled hunger, unfaltering even as her hips stuttered, then stilled, until she had nothing else to give him; her entire body pulled tight as a guitar string, stretched to its limit and ready to snap –

She hadn’t even realized that she’d stopped breathing until the air came slamming back into her lungs; she gasped, chest filled with fire, pulse pounding in her throat, forking into her limbs – and before she could even begin to come down, he managed to wrap his arm around her back, hefting her away from him and rolling her onto her back as though she weighed absolutely nothing – he moved with her, crawling over her, a comforting, heavy weight pressing her into the mattress – and she didn’t fit, exactly; their limbs tangled, her head lolling over the edge, but it didn’t matter because there was his hand cradling her neck, holding her up; there were his lips meeting hers, slick with her own taste, and there was him, all of him, filling her senses, his muscles pressed against her –

He rooted himself inside of her in fiery stretch, and she welcomed it, brief as it was; sank her teeth into muscle of his shoulder and cried out with each thrust, unconcerned with the noise of it all because she wanted him to hear her, wanted him to understand exactly what he was doing to her – and when he unspools inside of her, it’s with a cry that was almost primal, that last stuttered thrust pinning her against their sheets, his legs taut, his breath hot on her neck.

He was stifling, when he finally settled; his skin scorching against hers, sweat pooling where their stomachs pressed together, dripping from his neck – and she didn’t care, dragging her fingers lightly along his glistening flesh and tangling them in his stringy hair, holding him close to her trembling body. He panted against her chest, one hand still gripping the back of her neck, the other searching for her unencumbered arm as it rested across the sheets.

“That was – supposed to be –” She drew his arm closer, their fingers interlacing. Her lips traced a path of reverence along his thumb, his knuckles, down to his wrist, punctuating each word with a tender kiss, “– about you – and just you –”

He groaned softly, shifting his head to rest his chin on her chest. “Christ, darlin’ – when’re you gonna learn?” Those dark eyes glittering at her through the sun's first tentative rays that filtered weakly through the curtains. His hand abandoned her neck, slipping under the curve of her lower back, and with a slight grunt, he pulled her towards the center of the bed, rescuing her head from its precarious position near the edge. It was a safe place, she decided; tucked against the hard plane of his chest, his fingers weaving through her hair, his lips a whisper against any exposed skin he could find: brushing her nose, pressing a lingering kiss against the pulse point of her neck. “It’s never just about me.”

She had known the illusion of love well before meeting Joel Miller – she was pretty sure of it, anyway. She’d been held before, just like this; felt the comforting embrace of a man’s arms around her, heard the assurances being made from lips loosened by their intimacy, their bodies slack and spent. She'd tasted the fleeting sensation of safety, and even believed it when it was promised to her – because she’d chosen to, because in the harshness of the QZs she’d called home for so many years, delusion was a wonderful refuge from reality. It was strange, maybe, that there was no choice in this now; no pretense, no manufactured hope while sirens blared outside and neighbors' screams pierced through thin, flaking walls.

In Jackson, the world was distilled to its simplest elements: there was only sunlight that streamed through her curtains, only birdsong that flowed through the open window. Only her husband, the man who put a ring on her finger and brought her back from hell again and again, who took her shattered body and rebuilt it with pleasure and showered her in the kind of love that she’d only encountered in the pages of books.

And when he kissed her again, and again in their sun-dappled bedroom, when he held her face in his hands and promised her that she was always going to be safe with him, it was the easiest truth she'd ever embraced.

The way you write your sex scenes is so calming and emotional and I just want you to know that. So safe and refreshing. I can't wait for more. 🧡

Thank you! 😭♥️

I find myself missing my grandfather today.

Here is a fun fact about him: he had a cannon in his front yard. He told everyone it was a decoration, but my father confided in me that when packed when the right mixture, it would, in fact, fire.

Whenever one of my grandfather's neighbors annoyed him, he would rotate the cannon to point at their house.

When we were going through his house a couple of months ago, we found several smaller cannons. One is now in my living room.

[As Long as You Follow] [People Still Listen to Fleetwood Mac in the Apocalypse]

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC

Words: 1,911

Summary: He could have lived in this moment forever, if it was possible; just stayed with her in their sunlit little room, all wrapped up in the sheets and their heavy winter quilt, the fan above their heads humming gently as he ran his hands along every part of her that he could reach, palming her curves and pinching her flesh just to make her giggle.

Warnings: +18, MDNI, smut, unprotected PIV. Age gap (Joel is 62, OC is in her mid-forties), post-outbreak featuring Jackson! Joel, who is soft AF and loves his wife. This is actually my post for WIP Wednesday - I was tagged by @bumblepony and @march-flowerr, and thought I would just post the first few pages of the epilogue of As Long as You Follow as a preview, because it is fun and sweet and a little smutty. Just like before, you don't have to read the fic to understand this scene.

The morning bloomed just like so many others did – with the sun’s persistence bursting through their curtains, flooding the bedroom with light well before its occupants were ready to greet the day.

Today, however, Joel woke before his wife. He shifted gently beneath the sheets, careful not to disturb her. For a few precious moments he simply gazed at her, her form bathed in the warm glow of the sunrise. He reached out, his fingers tracing the strands of her hair, soft and curled and shimmering silver and gold between his fingers. Though her back was turned to him he could still make out the elegant curve of her cheekbone, the subtle flutter of her eyelashes, and he hoped that if she was dreaming, it was at least a good one. 

He patiently waited for her to stir, a slice of the sun slowly creeping across her pillow until it laid square over her eyes, a bright spotlight, and he chuckled at how, even in sleep, she seemed to protest this intrusion; brow knitting together, lips moving but no words escaping, then a slight moan as she turned to bury her face in her pillow. That was when he moved in, sliding across the sheets and wrapping his arms around her, folding her against him. 

“Mornin’, Mrs. Miller,” he mumbled into the nape of her neck, his voice hoarse with sleep, and she groaned something back that he didn’t quite catch, his good ear pressed against the pillow, though when she turned her head to look at him her eyes were soft, her lips curved into a sleepy smile.

It was an impulse he couldn't resist, his hand cupping her chin, drawing her closer until his lips could claim hers in a kiss, never mind the sleep in her eyes or the fact that neither of them had brushed their teeth – needed, the way his other hand drifted, gliding over the curve of her ribs, tracing the dip of her stomach before slipping lower, seeking the heat between her thighs – magical, how immediately she reacted to this, arching against him, keening, her head knocking back against his shoulder as her hands jolted up to clutch his forearm.

It was loose work, sloppy the way his fingers moved against her, swirling and stroking as she whimpered, every sound met with his lips muffling her. He loved this version of her in his arms; skin glittered with perspiration despite the chill in the air, those sharp little gasps when he curled his fingers, sliding them inside of her; the way her thighs clenched around his hand as she unraveled, panting and open-mouthed; how she so eagerly lapped at his fingers with her tongue when he slid them past her lips, her hips already rutting against him –

He tugged at the waistband of his own boxers, springing free from the dark blue fabric and immediately slicking himself with his hand and the saliva she’d given so freely. It was almost no effort at all to slot himself against her entrance, pressing his tip against her slickness, sliding it back and forth a few times just so he could hear those gasps again, feel her shoulders pushing against him – and it’s heaven when he finally pushes within her, those first thrusts slow, steady, taking his time to work into her; though she was ready for him, warm and inviting and guiding him with her hips, and they settled into a rhythm – lazy, languid, no real need to rush.

It couldn’t have been a more perfect start to their day, the cadence of their bodies, the gentle slap of skin against skin building to a crescendo until his hips stuttered and he had nothing more to give her, surrendering to the bliss of release. She melted against him after, still connected, their chests rising and falling in unison, her hand reaching back just to thread through his hair. 

When the stars in his eyes began to fade, they were replaced by her skin, curtained by her hair and marred by the scar on her shoulder – and instinctively he pressed his lips against this, too, because that was his habit, now; to only show love to the parts of her that had known violence, and she made a pleased sound deep in her throat because that was also habit, the pleasure she derived from his unwavering adoration of every inch of her.

He could have lived in this moment forever, if it was possible; just stayed with her in their sunlit little room, all wrapped up in the sheets and their heavy winter quilt, the fan above their heads humming gently as he ran his hands along every part of her that he could reach, palming her curves and pinching her flesh just to make her giggle. She rolled her shoulder, turning to face him a little more fully, kissing him again and mumbling against his lips, “Good morning to you, Mr. Miller.”

“Mmhmm,” was all the energy he had to respond to this, though he kissed her back, lingering a little longer this time, tongue sweeping against her teeth as she sighed, stretching her legs long against him – and he wished he was younger now, wished he could follow through with the urge to grab her leg and hoist it over his hip, to drive himself into her again, deeper this time, with more urgency – but he wasn’t young, and he never would be again. He had to be content with this: the softness of her lips, the warmth of her body nestled against his beneath the sheets. “Just wanted to give you a good sendoff.”

“How kind of you,” she sighed, and finally she broke away from him, immediately drawing a little groan from him when she slid her hips away from his limpness, that extra bit of sensation that he always tried to put off until he absolutely couldn’t avoid it anymore. She twisted herself around in the sheets so she was facing him, instead, hooking her leg over his waist and nudging her head under his chin as he embraced her. “You’re only making it harder for me to leave this nice, warm bed, though.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, slipping his hands down to cup at her hips, giving them a firm squeeze as she huffed in surprise, “that’s unfortunate. For you.”

He loved her laugh; loved for the opportunity to kiss the delicate center of her throat when she threw her head back, dragging the tip of his nose against her soft skin, nudging against her chin until he was able to capture her lips with his own again. “Maybe you should play hooky today,” he murmured, and she groaned in frustration.

“I wish,” she sighed, and that was that; she lifted her head, squinting through the morning sunbeams toward their alarm clock, then fell back onto her pillow with something of a dramatic moan. But she only lay there for another moment or two, slipping out from under their quilt with her arms wrapped around her, flesh already goosebumping in the chilly morning air; and he watched her go with far too much appreciation, her bare legs padding across the bedroom until her willowy form, draped only in a thin sleeping tank top, disappeared into the bathroom.

He’d only begun to disentangle himself from the warm confines of the quilt when she reappeared in the doorway, a towel wrapped around her shivering body, one hand pulling her hair down from a hasty topknot. She began to dress herself quickly, and he decided to settle back and enjoy the spectacle of it; the towel dropping to the floor, the faded green panties being shimmied past the divots of her hips, an incredibly mismatched pink sports bra tugged over her shoulders – and she caught his eye in the mirror next to the dresser, cocked an eyebrow at what he realized was a rather dreamy expression etched across his face.

“What?” she demanded, though there was a smirk playing along the edges of her lips. “This doing it for you?” She spun around, tugging at the thick bottom band of her bra, wiggling her finger through a small hole in the seam. He chuckled, pulling himself up against his pillow.

“Anything does it for me,” he corrected her. “Don’t matter, s’long as it’s on you.”

“Flirt.” It was a gentle chide, but it brought her to him anyway; she sauntered a languid path to his side of the bed, and he was reaching for her even before she nudged a knee to the quilt – and then she was astride his hips, one leg swinging over him, and she was so warm from the shower, tiny pearls of water still dripping from her collarbones and shimmering like diamonds misted into her hair, though her skin still pebbled finely from the cold, raised and textured along her thighs where his hands traced firm paths. 

“I wish I could stay here all day,” she told him, her words as soft as her lips when she gently pressed them against his – she tasted like sage, piney and sweet, from her homemade toothpaste, smelled like lilac from her soap. 

His hands roamed, so large and rough against her softness, and for a moment – just one fleeting moment – he entertained the thought that maybe there would be more to their morning together; his body was certainly was eager for it, excitement coiling in his stomach, her long legs quivering on either side of him – but she pulled away from their kiss, sighing deeply and slumping back. “I have to go,” she told him, and then she groaned again when he followed her, arms wrapping around her waist as his spine straightened, the coarse bristles of his mustache brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck. “But I need something from you before I do.”

“Name it,” he mumbled, his teeth gentle against the edge of her jaw. 

She framed his face with her hands, her fingers cool against the heat of his skin, and her eyes were very serious as she gazed down at him, glinting and bright in the morning light, a mosaic of gold and emerald and amber. “I’m taking your long johns.”

“The hell you are.” But she somehow slipped away from him in a blur of movement, rolling from his hips and practically dancing her way over to the dresser, yanking open a drawer and triumphantly extracting a pair of his long underwear – his favorite pair, no less, red plaid and cotton, by far the softest and least-tattered set he owned – which she then held up as though they were a trophy, wiggling her hips expectantly. He grunted in annoyance, sinking against his pillow. “Woman–”

But he was powerless against her – and she knew this, smiling at him even as she unfastened the row of buttons in the chest and then stepped through the legs, pulling them up and over her body. They were loose on her, baggy in the hips and shoulders, but she didn’t seem to mind it. “Cozy,” she reviewed, giving him a small spin, and he shook his head wearily.

“Fine,” he relented, waving a hand dismissively. “Just bring ‘em back in one piece – and the woman in ‘em, too.”

She laughed, fingers fumbling with the buttons. “I’ll do what I can.”