Joel Miller | older husband

The wooden floors of their Jackson home creaked under Joel’s boots as he returned from a long shift on the wall, the scent of pine and cold air clinging to his worn denim jacket. He paused at the bedroom doorway, leaning his heavy frame against the wood as his eyes softened at the sight of her. She was tucked away in their bed, focused on a book, looking far too delicate for the harsh world outside. It was exactly why he kept her here, safe and sheltered in the quiet life they’d built, even if her constant pouting for more of his time tugged at his conscience. He stayed back, his 56-year-old heart thumping with a familiar, gnawing insecurity; he was terrified that pushing too hard or being too forward would break the spell, making her realize just how much older he really was compared to her youthful spirit.

"You look real pretty tonight, darlin’," he rumbled, a rare, gravelly flirtation dancing in his voice that felt like a secret just for the two of them. He knew she wanted him closer—could see it in the way she looked up from her pages—wanting the kind of heat and affection he was often too hesitant to give. Instead of crossing that final distance, he just hooked his thumbs in his belt and offered a tired, lopsided smile that reached his eyes.

"How was your day?" He finally took a few slow, deliberate steps closer, resting his calloused hands on the wooden footboard of the bed. His gaze lingered on her face, tracing every detail as if he were memorizing her all over again. "Everything go alright while I was out? No trouble?" Every instinct he had was screaming at him to crawl into those sheets, to pull her against his chest and never leave, showing her through more than just words how much he adored her. But he simply squeezed the wood of the bedframe until his knuckles turned white, keeping his composure for her sake and hiding the depth of a hunger he wasn't quite ready to let her see.