Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jackson, Wyoming — two months before Salt Lake City

Jackson slept beneath a blanket of snow, all hush and hush, the kind of silence that weighed heavy on the shoulders. The kind that made the wind sound louder, meaner. Chimney smoke rose from the rooftops, curling into the dark like ghosts with nowhere left to haunt. The gates were locked for the night, patrols had made their slow loops around the perimeter, rifles in hand, flashlights flickering. But in a place like this, survival didn’t stop when the sun went down.

It just got quieter.

Quieter didn’t mean safer.

Down near the stables, she walked with her hands buried deep in the pockets of her flannel, boots crunching over old ice patches. She didn’t take the main road. She never did. Too many eyes, too many “how’s your dad doing?”s and “still working the stables all by yourself?”s and she wasn’t in the mood.

She rarely was.

Willie padded alongside her, fur fluffed out against the cold. That dog was glued to her hip, ever since the day she found him half frozen in the remnants of a burnt out convenience store. Just skin, bone, and eyes too big for his skull. He’d growled at her once, weak and shaking, but let her pick him up anyway.

Now, he didn’t leave her side.

Not for patrols, not for chores, not for anything.

She lived with her dad in a small house a few blocks from the stables—ex-military officer, intense as hell but quieter now, like the war inside him had finally dulled to an ache. People in town knew who he was.

They respected him.

Trusted him.

Knew damn well the only reason he was even here was because of his daughter, the girl he taught to shoot before she lost her first tooth. The girl who now ran the stables by herself like it was nothing, like owning two dozen horses in a post apocalyptic commune was just another Tuesday.

She wasn’t wearing gloves tonight, even though her fingers were already red. Habit. She liked to feel things. Like the knife at her side, the one she kept holstered on her thigh no matter how many times someone from patrol told her it was “a little much.” Her dad had taught her that too—trust no one. And if you do trust them, be ready to kill them anyway.

That was when she heard the creak.

Faint. Soft. But wrong.

Willie stopped in his tracks. A low rumble in his throat.

Her body tensed. She pressed a hand to his coat. “Heel.” He froze, ears forward, waiting.

Good boy.

The stable doors weren’t latched all the way.

No one left her doors unlatched. She owned those horses.

Every one of them had a name, a history, a birthdate if she was lucky enough to know it.

They were her everything. In a world that ended, they kept her tethered to something real. So if someone was fucking around in her barn after hours, they better be ready to die for it.

She crept forward. Steps silent, practiced. One hand on her knife. Other pushing the door open just enough to slide in.

That’s when she saw him.

Back turned, dark coat, shoulders hunched as he fiddled with the reins of a bay mare near the last stall. He didn’t even hear her come in. Didn't hear her until she was right there—until the cold steel pressed flush against his neck.

“Move and I’ll open your goddamn throat,” she said, calm as ice.

The man froze. Slowly raised his hands.

And then he turned his head just enough for her to see his face.

Not familiar.

Not really.

But almost. People had been talking, whispering when they dropped off horses after patrol. Something about Tommy’s brother showing up.

Someone dangerous.

Someone quiet.

Someone who looked exactly like this.

“Put it down,” he said, low and gritted, like he was warning her. Not scared. Just...done. “Ain’t takin’ nothin’. Just needed a ride.”

Her grip didn’t falter.

“This is my stable,” she hissed. “My horses. My property. You don’t walk into my barn like it’s a fucking vending machine.”

“I didn’t know it was yours,” he bit out, still not turning around. “Didn’t matter whose it was. She was saddled. Figured someone wouldn’t miss her long.”

She stepped closer. Knife still pressed tight to his skin.

“She’s mine. They all are.”

Willie let out another soft growl, closer now, body tense at her side. The man glanced at the dog from the corner of his eye.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

She was sure if she motioned for Willy to attack, he would attack.

His tone shifted, sharp now. “You gonna stab me or what?”

“I might.”

“Then do it.”

For a second, just a beat, the cold in the air felt heavier. Time stilled. Just by glancing at the side of his face—whatever he’d been through, he was tired.

So tired.

Not afraid.

Just worn down to the marrow. Like he’d seen so many knives, one more didn’t mean a thing.

But she didn’t move. Not yet.

“What’s your name?” she asked, jaw clenching.

“Joel.”

And that... that was the name.

The one they’d been whispering about in town.

The one Tommy had seemed half proud, half pissed about.

The brother.

The one who left. The one who came back. And now here he was, standing in her stable, stealing her horse, and looking at her like she was the problem.

“You’re Joel,” she repeated flatly. “Tommy’s brother.”

He gave a slight nod.

She pulled the knife away from him, letting him go. But didn’t sheath it.

“You got a habit of stealing horses in the middle of the night?”

Joel shrugged. “Didn’t come here lookin’ to make friends.”

“No shit.”

She stepped back finally, eyes locked on him. Willie circled once, sniffing him like a TSA agent, before sitting down again at her side.

Joel adjusted his coat, fixing the strap on his shoulder. “You always this friendly to strangers?”

“I follow anyone acting shady as hell past curfew. You walked into my barn. I walked in behind you. That’s not unfriendly. That’s protective.”

He looked at her for the first time.

Really looked.

Something shifted in his eyes—nothing soft, nothing kind, but something curious.

Like maybe he hadn’t expected her to be this sharp.

This ready.

He didn’t say anything though. Just nodded once and started toward the exit like he didn’t just have a knife at his throat thirty seconds ago.

“You try to take one again,” she said, “I won’t hesitate.”

Joel paused. Glanced over his shoulder.

Then he was gone, disappearing into the shadows like he’d never been there. Not a single response muttered.

She stood still for a moment, heart pounding in the silence, watching the door swing gently on its hinges.

Willie looked up at her.

“Yeah,” she muttered, sliding the knife back into its sheath. “What the fuck was that?”

She didn’t know it then—not fully. But that man, that stranger with blood in his eyes and death on his shoulders, was about to unravel everything she thought she knew about danger, trust, and the spaces in between.

And by the time he came back, two months later, everything would be different.

Everything.

Chapter Text

They came back on a Tuesday.

No announcement.

No warning.

Just two figures on horseback at the edge of the gate, heads down, shoulders hunched, snow melting off their coats like wax off a candle. Joel looked worse for wear—more gray in his beard, a deeper slump to his already heavy frame.

Ellie was quiet. Too quiet. Everyone noticed it. No one said a word.

The gate guards exchanged tense glances and called Tommy over. The radio crackled for a minute, then the gates opened.

And just like that, they were let in.

The town didn’t stop to gawk, but the energy shifted. Like people could feel it. That something had happened. Something big.

Word spread faster than fire.

By the time they made it halfway down Main Street, people were already talking.

The man who left was back. But he was different now.

And the girl he came with? She wasn’t talking. Just stared ahead with hollow eyes like she was still seeing something she couldn’t unsee.

Back at the stables, she was elbow-deep in a cracked saddle strap when one of the kids from the garden plots burst in, all out of breath and flushed cheeks.

“They’re back,” he said, like it was a secret he couldn’t hold onto a second longer. “Tommy’s brother and the girl. They just came through the gates.”

She didn’t flinch.

Just tugged the leather tight and muttered, “Good for them.”

She hadn’t thought about Joel much in the last two months, not consciously.

But he’d lingered in the back of her mind like smoke, like the sour taste of whiskey long after the burn. That night in the stables stayed with her. The weight of the blade against his throat. His dead eyed stare. The quiet resignation in his voice when he told her to go ahead and do it.

Yeah. Hard to forget that kind of thing.

Willie barked once and trotted to the stable door, ears up.

She looked out the window. And there he was.

Not ten feet away. Holding the reins of his horse—one of her horses, she realized—and walking toward the stables like he belonged there. Ellie was beside him, slower, her hood pulled low.

Joel hadn’t changed his clothes. Not really. Still that same jacket. Still that same scowl. But there was something else now, something heavier dragging behind his eyes. He looked like a man who’d seen the other side of hell and decided to pitch a tent there.

She stepped outside.

He saw her the second the door creaked open.

His hand tightened around the reins.

Her hand went to her hip. Not out of threat. Just reflex.

“You’re back,” she said flatly.

Joel nodded once. “Guess I am.”

Willie circled them both once before sitting neatly by her side. Silent. Watching.

Joel gave the dog a quick glance, then looked at her again. “Didn’t mean to scare you the first time.”

“You didn’t scare me,” she said, crossing her arms. “You pissed me off. Not the same thing.”

That pulled a ghost of a smirk from him. Barely there.

Ellie was quiet. Still hadn’t said a word. Her eyes flicked up toward the stable, then back down again. She looked exhausted.

“You need stalls?” she asked Joel, already turning toward the barn doors.

“Just one,” he said. “I’m keepin’ her close.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “You know that’s not how it works here.”

He didn’t say anything.

She stopped, turned fully to face him. “You can trust me with your horse. You don’t get to act like you’re still out there. You’re not. You’re here. And here has rules.”

Joel looked like he wanted to argue. But then he looked at Ellie.

Whatever fight was in him deflated. “Fine.”

She led the way into the stables. The light inside was golden, warm, almost too soft for the mood hanging between them. She walked like she had nothing to prove, but every step was deliberate. She opened a stall near the front, clean hay, fresh water, the whole deal.

Joel led the horse in without another word.

Ellie stood by the door. She still hadn’t spoken.

Willie walked up to her, sniffed at her boots, and let out a soft whine.

Ellie’s lip twitched. Almost a smile. “Hey, buddy,” she murmured, reaching out a hand.

She crouched, scratched behind Willie’s ears. Didn’t say anything else.

“You okay?” the woman asks the girl, watching her.

Ellie nodded, but it was a lie so thin it might as well have been smoke.

Joel stepped out of the stall, brushing hay off his coat.

“You need anything else?” she asked him, arms still crossed.

“No.”

He hesitated.

Then added, “Thanks.”

She raised a brow. “That almost sounded polite.”

Joel looked at her, really looked this time. There was something raw in his face, something edged with grief and whatever else he wasn’t saying.

“I know what you think of me,” he said finally. “And you’re probably right.”

“I don’t think anything,” she lied.

He gave her a look that said bullshit, but didn’t press.

They stood there in the quiet of the stables. Just the soft shuffling of the horses and the creak of old wood. Willie let out a soft huff and laid down near Ellie, who had finally sat against the barn wall.

Joel rubbed a hand down his face.

She could’ve walked away then. Could’ve let him sit in his silence. But instead she said—

“If you want her to eat better, add molasses to the feed. She’s older than she looks.”

Joel blinked at her.

Then gave a slow nod. “Thanks.”

And she walked out of the barn without another word, flannel whipping behind her in the wind.

But Joel watched her go. Eyes trailing the sway of her stride, the set of her shoulders, the way Willie rose to follow her without command.

He didn’t understand her. Not even a little.

But something in him—some bone deep instinct—told him he was going to.

Whether she liked it or not.

The house Joel and Ellie were given wasn’t much.

Two bedrooms, one bath.

The kitchen sink wheezed when the faucet turned, and the floorboards in the hallway groaned like they were mourning something. But it had a roof, a fireplace, four solid walls, and no infected scratching at the doors.

To Joel, that was more than enough.

It was damn near luxurious.

Ellie said nothing the first time she stepped inside. Just scanned the rooms like she was memorizing exits, hands stuffed in her hoodie pocket, her gaze still a thousand miles away.

She didn’t take her backpack off until Joel told her twice, and even then, she only half listened. The girl hadn’t slept properly in weeks. And Joel? He was barely holding it together himself.

They didn’t talk about what happened in Salt Lake.

Didn’t talk about the Fireflies, the blood, or that room where the light buzzed overhead while Ellie laid unconscious on a metal table. Joel had left that place soaked in red.

And he didn’t regret it.

Not for a second.

But every now and then—usually in the dead of night when everything was still—he’d catch Ellie looking at him like she knew.

She hadn’t asked again. Not yet.

Instead, they lived like shadows for the first few days. Ate whatever Maria dropped off—mostly stew and bread—slept through the afternoons, and walked around town like ghosts wearing other people’s faces.

Joel started doing little things to the house to feel normal. That’s what he used to do, after all.

Fix things.

Patch them up.

He wasn’t much for conversation, but a broken door hinge or a drafty window? That, he could manage.

First, it was the front steps. The second one cracked when Ellie stepped on it, and Joel swore under his breath before grabbing a crowbar and ripping the whole stair off. He found scrap lumber near the school building and spent an hour sanding it down with a rock like a caveman. When he was done, the step was solid. Level. Satisfying.

Next, it was the fireplace.

The chimney flue had been jammed open, letting in too much cold at night. Joel had to get up there, boots crunching against snow, hands freezing against the brick, muttering to himself the entire time.

A week ago, he’d been murdering an entire wing of armed militants. Now he was adjusting chimney caps in the Wyoming snow. Life was weird like that.

He got a rhythm going.

Mornings, he fixed.

Afternoons, he helped Ellie settle in.

Evenings, he read aloud from an old paperback he found on the bookshelf—Shane, a beat up Western with half the cover torn off. She didn’t ask for it, but she didn’t tell him to stop, either.

Still, he kept catching her staring out the window.

Like she was looking for something that never came.

She saw him again on the fifth day.

The woman in charge of the stables hadn’t expected to, not really. But Jackson was small, and routine was everything here. Especially in winter, when the sky turned gray before dinnertime and everyone moved like molasses just to stay warm.

She was unloading a stack of new feed bags from the wagon when she saw movement down the block.

Joel.

Walking with purpose, arms full of wood slats and a hammer tucked into his belt. He looked like a cowboy lost in a Home Depot. Ellie trailed behind him, holding a plastic bag of nails and looking thoroughly unimpressed.

She narrowed her eyes. He was heading toward one of the houses near...the empty one.

Which meant…

“Oh, hell no,” she muttered.

Joel didn’t see her until she was halfway across the street.

“You’re on my street now?” she called, her voice sharp over the crunch of snow.

Joel glanced up, eyes squinting against the pale sun. “Didn’t realize you owned all of Jackson.”

“I don’t,” she shot back, dropping the last bag of feed a little too hard. “But this block’s mostly for town workers. Stablehands, livestock teams.”

He shrugged. “They gave me a house. I took it.”

She stopped a few feet away, arms crossed over her flannel. “You planning on fixing the whole thing up?”

“Already started.”

“Of course you did.”

Ellie stood behind Joel, chewing a piece of jerky and watching the two of them like she was watching a tennis match. Her mouth twitched at the corners—just the barest hint of amusement.

She narrowed her eyes at Joel. “You gonna do that thing again?”

“What thing?”

“Act like you’re not gonna talk and then sneak into my barn in the middle of the night like some damn horse thief.”

Joel exhaled through his nose. “Thought we were past that.”

“I don’t forget easy.”

“Neither do I.”

For a second, they just stared at each other. Like two wolves trying to figure out who was gonna break eye contact first.

Joel didn’t blink.

Neither did she.

Then Ellie, in the flattest voice imaginable, muttered, “Jesus. Just kiss already.”

Both their heads snapped toward her.

“What the hell’d you just say?” Joel asked.

Ellie raised her eyebrows. “What? I didn’t say anything.” She turned away, grinning to herself.

The stable hand let out a dry laugh. “She yours?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Well,” she muttered, already turning to leave, “good luck with the home renovation. Hope you know how to fix a frozen pipe.”

“I do,” he called after her.

She didn’t answer.

But she also didn’t roll her eyes. So… progress?

Later that week, he caught her again—this time with her sleeves rolled up, elbow deep in a water trough clogged with slush and hay. She was muttering under her breath about dumb kids who didn’t clean up after the horses, and Willie was curled up nearby, tail thumping lazily in the snow.

Joel didn’t mean to linger. He just… didn’t walk away.

He leaned on the fence, watching as she cleaned out the last clump of frozen gunk, her breath visible in the air. She looked different when she worked. Less guarded. Fierce, but focused.

“You do this by yourself every day?” he asked.

She just glances up. “You stalk me now?”

“Just walkin’ by.”

“Right.”

He smirked.

She tossed the slush to the side and wiped her hands on her jeans. “Yeah. I do. Every day. These horses don’t feed themselves, and no one else here’s qualified to run this place.”

“You run it?”

“I own it,” she corrected, chin tilted up. “My dad and I built it up after we got here. Every horse here’s mine.”

Joel nodded. He already knew that. Everyone in Jackson did.

“You do good work,” he said quietly.

She looked at him, surprised. “Thanks.”

Joel shifted his weight. “You ever need help with repairs…”

She raised an eyebrow. “You offering to fix my stable?”

“I’m good with my hands.”

“Wow,” she said, deadpan. “Was that your version of flirting?”

Joel blinked. “What?”

She smirked and walked past him, bumping his shoulder just slightly. “Relax, cowboy. I know a compliment when I hear one.”

Willie trotted after her, tail wagging.

Joel watched them go, rubbing the back of his neck, trying not to feel the weird twist in his chest. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just small town awkwardness.

Post trauma weirdness.

Human interaction after too long without it.

But when he turned back toward his house, the step in his walk was just a little lighter. And that ache in his ribs? The one he thought would never leave?

It eased. Just a little.

Not all at once. Nothing ever did with Joel. He was a man built on fractures and held together with silence, with calloused hands and unspoken grief.

But something about her—this woman who didn’t flinch, didn’t fold, who knew how to hold a knife and a stare with the same lethal confidence—settled the chaos in him. Didn’t erase it. Just... quieted it.

They didn’t start talking, not in any conventional sense.

But they ran into each other more often. At the gates during patrol shifts. At the town hall where Maria forced everyone to rotate in for supply counts. At the stables—always the stables—where she spent more time than she did anywhere else.

Sometimes he’d drop off scrap wood. Say it was extra. She never asked.

Other times, he’d pass by while she was working and nod. She’d nod back. That was how it started. Nods and glances and the occasional smirk that was almost—but not quite—a smile.

They circled each other like wary animals.

Not hostile.

Not exactly friendly, either.

Just... aware.

She made fun of him once for the way he fixed his porch railing. Called it “janky” and said it looked like something out of a post collapse Home & Garden magazine.

He’d grunted, muttered something about "function over form," and she’d laughed—actually laughed—and for the first time, he noticed how pretty her smile was. Crooked, a little smug. She had that look of someone who’d always been underestimated, and had made peace with it by being better than everyone else.

“Maybe I’ll come by and fix it properly,” she said, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face. “Before you collapse through it and break a hip.”

“Yeah?” Joel replied, brow cocked. “You a carpenter now?”

“I’m everything now,” she said, not bragging—just stating a fact. “That’s what surviving makes you.”

Joel didn’t argue.

Instead, he said, “I’ll make coffee.”

They didn’t have coffee that day. Or the next. But the third day after that conversation, she showed up in his driveway with Willie trotting beside her and a socket wrench in her back pocket.

“Where’s this pathetic railing?” she asked, already walking toward the porch like it was hers.

Joel stepped aside.

Watched her work.

She didn’t ask for help. He didn’t offer it. But he did bring out two cups of the bitter instant coffee Maria had given him in one of her guilt baskets. She took a sip, grimaced.

“This tastes like tree bark.”

He shrugged. “Better than snow.”

She sat on the step after that, hands wrapped around the mug, steam curling into the cold air. Joel sat beside her. Not too close. Just close enough to feel the heat of her arm through her flannel.

Willie dozed at their feet, and the silence between them stretched long—but not uncomfortable.

Ellie passed by once with a group of teenagers heading toward the greenhouse. She spotted them on the porch, raised an eyebrow that could’ve cut glass, and kept walking.

The woman noticed. “Your kid’s got an attitude.”

Joel huffed out a soft breath. “Ain’t mine. But yeah. She does.”

“She’s smart,” she said. “Sharp.”

“She is.”

“You protecting her?”

Joel went still for a beat too long.

Then...

“Yeah.”

She looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly, like she heard all the things he didn’t say in that one word. But she didn’t press. Didn’t ask. Just turned her attention back to the horizon and said,

“Good.”

The days kept passing.

They saw each other more often. Not every day. But enough.

Joel started patrol shifts that used the horses the stables.

She didn’t comment, but she noticed.

He started leaving her extra scraps of jerky and coffee beans wrapped in newspaper at the edge of the barn’s tack room. No notes. No signatures.

But she knew who they were from.

One night, a snowstorm hit unexpectedly. She was stuck in the barn with two pregnant mares and a busted space heater, trying to warm them with blankets and body heat. Joel showed up just past midnight, soaked in snow, holding a gas canister and an old portable heater he'd fixed up for his own place.

“I heard,” he said, setting it down without waiting for thanks.

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded. Lit the heater. Sat down beside him in the straw.

“Couldn’t sleep anyway,” he said after a while.

She raised a brow. “You never do.”

He looked at her. “You watchin’ me?”

“No,” she lied. “People talk.”

They both chuckled. It was small, but real.

They sat like that until sunrise. Not touching. Not talking. Just sharing space, wrapped in hay scented silence, warmed by the soft hum of propane and the quiet breath of sleeping horses.

It wasn’t romance. Not yet.

It was something else.

Trust, maybe. Or the early ghosts of it.

Two people who’d survived the worst, who didn’t flinch when the other got too close. Who understood what it meant to carry grief like a second skin. They never spoke about the things they’d lost. They didn’t need to.

Joel never asked why she carried a blade even inside the gates.

She never asked what happened in Salt Lake.

They just kept crossing paths. Kept leaving the door open, just a little wider each time.

And Joel, for the first time in years, didn’t feel the need to run. Or lie. Or lock every emotion behind a steel trap in his chest.

He just sat beside her.

And breathed.

And when she looked at him now, she didn’t see the man who tried to steal her horse that night in the stables. She saw something else. A man who was still learning how to exist again. A man whose silence wasn’t cold—it was just careful.

And she could live with that.

For now.

It was quiet for a while after that.

Just cold mornings and cracked leather saddles, flannels stiff from the freeze, and routine.

Joel kept fixing things.

She kept working the stables.

And somewhere in between, the silence between them turned companionable. Familiar.

She still didn’t smile at him often—but when she did, it felt like the sun breaking through storm clouds. Joel never said anything about it. He wouldn’t know how to.

But he noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He noticed everything.

Ellie did too.

“You’re different when she’s around,” she said one day, midway through sharpening her knife at the kitchen table.

Joel looked up from where he was oiling a door hinge.

“I ain’t different.”

Ellie raised her brows like he’d just told her horses could fly.

“You are,” she said. “You get weird. Not, like, bad weird. Just… stiff. Stiffer than normal. And your ears turn red.”

Joel muttered a curse under his breath and went back to the hinge.

Ellie smirked. “It’s kinda cute.”

“Mind your business,” he said.

But she wasn’t wrong.

The woman talked about her father sometimes. Not much, not often. But Joel picked up the pieces over time.

Ex-military officer.

Disappeared from duty the second the outbreak hit. Took her and ran. Survived alone with her in the wild for years. Built her from the ground up. Trained her to survive and taught her not to trust anyone.

It explained a lot.

Joel hadn’t met him yet.

But he knew the type. And he knew he’d be a hard man to win over—if he even tried. Which he wasn’t planning to. Because this thing between them? It wasn’t a thing. Not really. Not yet. It was just… whatever it was. 

So he wasn’t expecting to find the man waiting for him outside the stables one afternoon, arms crossed, posture perfect. Like he’d never stopped being military.

“You’re Joel,” the man said. Not a question. A statement.

Joel stopped mid step. Studied him.

“You must be her dad.”

“She’s my daughter,” the man replied, cool and clipped. “And you’re someone I need to talk to.”

Joel said nothing. Just waited.

“I know who you are,” the man continued. “Maria told me everything. About you. About Tommy. About the things you did before Jackson.”

Joel’s jaw tensed.

“You two ran with raiders. You were violent men. Dangerous. I know how that story goes.”

Joel didn’t argue. He wasn’t here to rewrite his past.

“I’m not stupid,” the man added. “I see the way she looks at you. Like you’re someone worth trusting. But I’ve known her every second of her life. She don’t trust easy. And if she’s starting to trust you, I need to know what the hell your intentions are.”

Joel stared at him, long and level.

“She’s grown,” he said. “She don’t need my intentions.”

“She might not need ‘em,” the man said. “But she damn well deserves to know ‘em.”

Joel’s voice dropped. “I ain’t trying to hurt her.”

“But you will,” the man said, certain. “Maybe not on purpose. Maybe not today. But you’ve got blood on your hands, and people like you don’t get clean. You just get older. And slower. And more dangerous.”

Joel didn’t answer. There was nothing to say.

So the man gave one last look—cold, final—and turned back toward his street.

But the damage was already done.

She came home that night, cheeks flushed from the cold, boots muddy from patrol. She found her dad standing at the stove, stirring stew like it owed him money.

He didn’t look at her when he said, “He’s not who you think he is.”

Her stomach dropped.

“What are you talking about?”

“I talked to him. Joel. I warned him.”

“Warned him?”

Her voice was sharp, rising. “You what?”

“I told him to stay away.”

“Jesus, Dad,” she snapped, pulling off her jacket. “You don’t get to do that.”

“I do, actually,” he barked. “I’ve spent my life keeping you safe.”

She stared at him, mouth open.

“And I didn’t keep you safe from just monsters and raiders,” he added. “I kept you safe from people like him. People who don’t have anything left to lose.”

“You don’t know him,” she said.

“I know enough. I know what Maria told me. What kind of man he was before he got here. Him and Tommy ran with killers. They did things to survive that they should never be forgiven for.”

“We’ve all done things,” she shot back. “Even you.”

His eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You think I forgot?” she snapped. “You think I forgot how you left your post? How you deserted your team and went AWOL because of me?”

He flinched.

She didn’t stop.

“You left people behind. People who needed you. You always said it was because you chose me. And I believed you. I believed you were the hero in that story. But maybe you’re not.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“No. You don’t get to act like you’re the saint and Joel’s the sinner. You’ve both done horrible shit. But at least he doesn’t lie about it.”

“You’re defending him?” her father asked, disbelief cutting through the anger now. “After everything I’ve done for you?”

“I don’t know why I’m defending him!” she shouted. “I just, I just—when I’m around him, I don’t feel like I’m stuck anymore.”

Silence.

Just the sound of the stew boiling over. Neither of them moved to stop it.

He looked at her then—really looked. And the pain in his eyes? It gutted her.

“Do what you want,” he said finally. “You always do.”

She didn’t say anything else. Just walked out.

The Tipsy Bison was warm and crowded, full of wood smoke and cheap booze. A fire crackled in the stone hearth. People laughed too loud, music played on a scratched vinyl record someone had scavenged from a thrift store years ago. It was one of the few places in Jackson that didn’t feel post apocalyptic.

She didn’t come here often.

But tonight? She needed something to burn.

She pushed open the door, stepped inside, and shrugged out of her coat.

And that’s when she saw him.

Joel.

Sitting at a table near the bar.

With her.

Esther.

Esther was practical. Kind. Mid-fifties, no bullshit, solid. Ran the town’s laundry rotation and helped with medical restocking. A widow. The kind of woman who made sense for a man like Joel.

She froze.

Watched Joel lean back in his chair, nod as Esther said something. Watched Esther touch his forearm. Watched Joel not pull away.

She swallowed hard.

Turned.

Sat at the bar.

“Whiskey,” she told Seth, the bartender.

He poured without a word.

She drank it fast.

Didn’t look back at the table.

Didn’t look at Esther’s hand on Joel’s arm.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That it was fine. That he was too old for her anyway. That he’d never think of her like that.

And if he did?

He wouldn’t act on it.

She was too young. Too complicated. Too her.

She ordered another drink. Let it burn.

Willie sat beneath her stool, ears low, sensing something off.

She scratched behind his ear with shaking fingers.

She didn’t know why she was jealous.

She didn’t even have him.

But the way her chest ached? The way the whiskey wasn’t doing shit to fix it?

Yeah.

Maybe she didn’t have him.

But some stupid part of her had wanted to.

She didn’t even know when it started—this quiet, aching want that had wrapped itself around her ribs like ivy.

Maybe it was that night in the stable, when her blade was pressed to his throat and he didn’t flinch. Maybe it was the gas heater he brought in the middle of the storm, or the way he watched her with a kind of respect people didn’t usually give her. Maybe it was just loneliness, twisting itself into something softer.

Whatever it was, it was hers now. And it hurt.

The third whiskey didn’t help. Neither did the fourth.

She sat there, boots hooked against the bottom of the stool, fingers wrapped tight around the glass, trying not to look.

She failed.

Her eyes drifted back toward the table—just for a second. Just to check.

Joel was leaning forward now. Esther was laughing at something he’d said, brushing her hair behind her ear like she was twenty again. Her hand still lingered on his forearm. Joel didn’t look like he was laughing, but his mouth was tilted in that way it sometimes did when he was amused and trying not to show it.

He looked comfortable.

He didn’t look like a man who was haunted.

Didn’t look like hers.

Her stomach flipped.

Willie whined under her stool.

“You and me both,” she muttered, pouring the rest of the whiskey down her throat.

Seth raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she lied. “I’m just peachy.”

The music shifted—some old Joan Baez track, fuzzy on the edges, but still carrying that slow ache in its bones. A cruel twist of fate. If she were feeling more like herself, she might’ve laughed. Might’ve raised a toast to the irony.

Instead, she just stared into her glass.

“You know,” came a voice beside her, “you shouldn’t drink when you’re angry. Just makes you do dumb shit.”

She turned.

Tommy.

He pulled up the stool beside her, wearing that crooked half smile that always looked a little too knowing for comfort.

She snorted. “Did Maria send you?”

“Nah.” He nodded toward Joel’s table. “Just figured I’d catch a beer before heading home. Didn’t know I’d be stepping into a soap opera.”

Her jaw tightened.

“I’m not mad,” she said.

“You’re seething,” Tommy replied, signaling Seth for a beer. “It’s coming off you like heat.”

She didn’t answer.

Tommy’s tone softened. “You like him.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She stared at the bar, fingers drumming against the wood. “He’s not mine to like.”

Tommy took a sip. “You ever tell him how you feel?”

She scoffed. “You think Joel’s the type to want a confession?”

“I think Joel’s the type to convince himself he doesn’t want things,” Tommy said quietly. “Especially good things.”

That made her look up.

Tommy glanced at her. “You scare him.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You do,” he said. “You’re younger, smarter than you let on, and maybe the first person in years who could actually see him. Like, see him. That terrifies the hell outta my brother.”

She stared at Tommy like he’d grown a second head.

“And here I thought I was drunk.”

Tommy just smiled. “He talks about you, you know. Not a lot. But I hear it. In the little things. The way he always knows when you're gonna show up at the stable. The way he keeps tools packed in case you mention something’s broken.”

She felt something splinter inside her.

“Then what’s he doing with her?”

Tommy followed her gaze to Esther.

He was quiet for a beat.

“She’s safe,” he said finally. “Comfortable. She doesn’t make him feel too much. That’s the problem with people like Joel. After everything he’s been through, feeling too much is dangerous.”

She looked back at her glass. “So what, I’m dangerous now?”

“No,” Tommy said, finishing his beer. “You’re just real.”

He clapped her gently on the back and slid off the stool.

“Be kind to him,” he added as he walked away. “He’s only ever known how to survive. Doesn’t know what to do with someone who makes him want to live.”

She left the Tipsy Bison after midnight. The last one to leave.

Seth had poured her a final drink and sent her off.

Willie trotted beside her through the snow, paws barely making a sound. The cold hit hard, but she welcomed it. Needed it. Something sharp to cut through the fog in her chest.

The moon was high and pale. The streetlights flickered like they were struggling to hold onto their power. Jackson was quieter at night, but not dead. Never dead. Even now, she could hear the low murmur of a patrol radio, the crunch of footsteps on the far road, someone chopping wood.

Her boots left prints in the fresh powder. She walked past her house. Didn’t stop. Didn’t want to go home to the silence. Her dad was probably still up. Or sleeping. Or pretending not to care.

Her feet moved without thinking.

And when she stopped, she was in front of Joel’s house.

The porch light was off. Windows dark. Quiet.

She didn’t know why she was there.

Didn’t know if she wanted to yell at him or kiss him or ask why he let Esther touch his arm like that.

She stepped back, half ready to turn around.

But then the front door opened.

Joel stood there in a flannel and jeans, boots unlaced. His face was unreadable. Not surprised. Not confused. Just…waiting.

They stared at each other.

Then she said it.

“Do you like her?”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Esther. Do you like her?”

Joel looked at her for a long time. Then.

“She’s nice.”

“Nice,” she repeated, almost laughing. “That’s what we’re going with?”

“What are you doin’ here?” he asked, voice low.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just…I didn’t wanna go home. I didn’t want to be alone.”

Joel stepped out onto the porch, the old wood creaking under his weight. Willie stood still beside her, tail wagging once.

“You drunk?” Joel asked.

“Not enough to forget what I saw.”

He looked at her, hard.

“You jealous?”

She almost lied. Almost said no. Almost turned it into a joke.

But instead, she said, “Yeah. I think I am.”

Silence.

Then Joel exhaled slowly, like it was the first real breath he’d taken all night.

“You’re young.”

“I’m twenty five, Joel. Not sixteen.”

“I’m...not.”

She stepped closer. “I know.”

“I’m not good at this,” he said.

“I’m not asking you to be good at anything.”

He looked at her like she was dangerous. Like she might ruin him.

And maybe she could.

“I just needed to know,” she said softly. “If what I’m feeling is one sided.”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then, almost too quietly to hear, he said...

“It’s not.”

Her heart stuttered.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her. Just stood there on the porch, staring at her like she was a map he couldn’t read.

She didn’t push. Didn’t beg.

Instead, she turned away and whispered, “Goodnight, Joel.”

And as she walked back down the path, boots crunching in the snow, she felt his eyes on her.

Like maybe—for the first time—he didn’t want to look away

Chapter Text

Six months.

It had been six full months since that night on the porch—since the snow, the whiskey, the ache. Since she’d asked him if it was one-sided, and Joel had looked at her like the truth might kill them both.

It’s not, he’d said.

And then nothing had happened.

Not in the way people might’ve expected. There was no kiss. No grand confession. No tangled sheets or impulsive mistakes. Instead, something quieter took root. Something steadier.

They fell into a rhythm.

Mornings meant breakfast at the mess hall—her, Joel, and Ellie sitting in their usual corner table. Ellie griped about early patrol shifts while poking at eggs with a fork, Joel drank his coffee like it was penance, and she—well, she watched them both with a quiet kind of fondness she’d never known how to name.

After breakfast, it was patrol. Joel paired with her every time, without question. They rode side by side through snow-packed trails and frozen rivers, never needing to talk much, though sometimes they did.

She told him about the horse she’d trained to recognize clicker sounds.

He told her about a guitar he used to play—used to, because the sound made him too damn sad now.

Afternoons, he’d show up at the stables. Said he was just “helpin’ where help was needed,” but she knew better. He helped muck stalls, repair fences, haul hay bales like they weighed nothing. Never hovered. Never gave orders. Just…showed up.

And when he left, he always found Willie and gave him a quick scratch behind the ears. The dog adored him now—probably more than anyone else in Jackson, aside from her.

Their conversations grew longer. Their silences more comfortable. They began moving through the world like a unit—not loudly, not publicly, but with an understanding that didn’t need spelling out.

And her father hated it.

He hadn’t said it outright. He didn’t need to.

It was in the way his jaw locked whenever she returned home late from patrol with Joel.

The way his fingers twitched when Joel’s name came up at dinner.

The way he stood just a little straighter when they passed each other in the street, like he needed to remind everyone—including himself—who she belonged to.

“You’re riding with Jack tomorrow.”

The statement came over stew. Blunt. Cold.

She looked up from her bowl, spoon frozen halfway to her mouth.

“No, I’m not,” she said.

Her dad’s eyes were level. “Already cleared it with Tommy.”

“You what?”

“Joel’s off patrol. Jack’s taking his place. You’ll be riding the south route.”

She set the spoon down with a soft clatter.

“You don’t get to do that.”

“I do, actually. And I did.”

Her voice dropped, flat and dangerous. “You went behind my back.”

He didn’t flinch. “You’ve been spending too much time with him.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And?”

“And you’re not thinking straight.”

“Oh, right,” she snapped. “Because I must’ve lost all sense the second I let a man speak to me.”

His mouth tightened. “I’m protecting you.”

“From what? Joel? He’s not a threat.”

Her father’s voice rose for the first time. “He’s everything I ever taught you to avoid. Older. Hard. Violent. That man has a trail of bodies behind him longer than the Snake River.”

“He also fixed my trough last week,” she shot back. “And brought a heater during the blizzard. And makes sure I eat when I forget to.”

“That’s not love,” he said, low. “That’s penance.”

She stared at him. Her chest hurt.

“You don’t know him,” she said.

“I know men like him.”

She stood, chair scraping against the floor. Willie lifted his head from where he laid under the table.

“I’m not a child,” she said. “You don’t get to control who I ride with.”

“I’m not controlling you. I’m reminding you who you are. What you’ve survived. And who you owe that survival to.”

She froze. The words sliced deeper than he intended—and from the way his expression shifted, he knew it.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” she said, grabbing her coat. “You always do.”

And then she left. Willie followed silently, tail low.

The next morning, she showed up at the stables before sunrise, saddle already over her shoulder. She could see Jack near the gate, rubbing his gloved hands together, clearly waiting for her.

But Joel was there, too—leaning against the barn, one boot braced against the wood, coffee in hand.

She didn’t speak. Just walked past Jack and tossed the saddle onto her horse’s back with more force than necessary.

“You’re not paired with him,” Jack called.

She didn’t look at him. “That so?”

“Tommy said—”

“I don’t care what Tommy said.”

She mounted the horse in one smooth motion.

Joel stepped forward. Quiet. Watchful.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

She met his eyes. “I ride with who I trust.”

He didn’t smile. But his gaze softened.

She turned the horse toward the gate. “You coming, or what?”

Joel swung up onto his mount without a word, and together, they rode out before anyone could stop them.

By noon, the snow was falling sideways.

They took cover near an old ranger’s outpost, the kind built back when the woods had still been part of a national park. Inside, the floor was littered with leaves and mouse droppings, but it was dry. Sort of.

She sat with her back to the wall, arms crossed. Joel crouched near the door, scanning the trees like the storm might spit out clickers just for fun.

“Your old man’s not gonna be happy,” he said finally.

She snorted. “He hasn’t been happy in years.”

Joel didn’t answer. Just looked at her.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just thinkin’.”

“That’s dangerous.”

He huffed. “You and him ever fight like that before?”

“All the time. Just not about you.”

His brow furrowed. “So I’m the problem now?”

She rubbed her hands together for warmth. “No. The problem is that you’re not the kind of person he can control.”

Joel didn’t respond.

“But you don’t try to control me, either,” she added. “That’s why he doesn’t trust you. And why I do.”

Joel glanced down at his gloved hands.

“People talk,” he said after a moment. “About me.”

“I know.”

“They say things. About what I’ve done. Who I’ve been.”

She looked at him. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I do care,” she corrected. “But not in the way you think.”

He shifted against the wall. The silence stretched, long and brittle.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted, finally.

“Neither do I.”

“But it’s...somethin’.”

She nodded.

“Yeah. It is.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her. Just looked like he wanted to.

She sat still, heartbeat loud in her ears.

“I ain’t good at this,” Joel said. “I never was.”

“You don’t have to be good at it,” she said softly. “You just have to show up.”

“I'll show up whenever you want me to,” he said.

She smiled, small and real. “I know.”

Outside, the wind screamed against the cabin walls.

But inside, it was quiet.

And warm enough.

By the end of the week, Maria got involved.

She cornered her outside the stables, one hand resting on the curve of her pregnant belly like a shield.

“We need to talk,” Maria said.

She wiped her hands on her jeans. “About what?”

“Joel.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You always this subtle?”

Maria didn’t blink. “Your father’s concerned.”

“Of course he is.”

“And I’m concerned, too.”

She crossed her arms. “Why?”

“Because Joel’s a threat.”

“No,” she said. “He was a threat. There’s a difference.”

Maria’s expression didn’t change. “You’re young. And he’s Joel.”

“And you don’t like him,” she said.

Maria didn’t deny it.

“I’ve known men like him. My whole life. They only love in moments of calm, and they burn everything when things get hard.”

She nodded once. “Well, I’ve known men like my dad. Who protect so hard they forget how to let go. Who teach you not to trust anyone until you don’t even trust yourself.”

Maria went quiet.

“I’m not asking you to like him,” she said. “But don’t treat me like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Maria’s voice softened. “He’s not going to give you what you want.”

“I’m not asking him to.”

“You will.”

That, she didn’t have an answer for.

That night, Joel fixed her tack room door.

It had been creaking for weeks. She hadn’t asked.

But she found him there anyway, kneeling in the dark, screwdriver in hand.

She stood behind him, arms crossed.

“You always break in like this?”

“Door was open,” he said.

“It’s always open.”

He glanced up. “That ain’t safe.”

“I know.”

She stepped inside, closed the door behind her.

He stood. Dusted off his hands. The space between them felt thinner than usual. Closer.

“They’re going to keep pushing,” she said.

“I know.”

“They want me to stop seeing you.”

His jaw tightened. “That what you want?”

“No.”

He looked at her like that meant something he didn’t know how to handle.

She stepped closer. Just a little.

“I don’t scare easy, Joel.”

“I know that too.”

She was inches away now.

He didn’t move. Didn’t touch her.

But she felt him anyway. That quiet heat. That slow, aching want he didn’t know what to do with.

“You ever gonna kiss me?” she asked.

Joel swallowed.

And then—finally—he did.

It was slow. Careful. Like he thought she might shatter.

She didn’t.

She leaned in and kissed him back like she’d been waiting two goddamn months.

And maybe she had.

When they pulled apart, they didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

He touched her cheek once, soft.

And she let him.

Outside, the snow kept falling.

Inside, the world held still.

The air between them was warmer now—like the kiss had ignited something neither of them wanted to name yet. Her eyes were still closed, her breath caught halfway in her throat.

Joel hadn’t moved away. Not fully. Just hovered there, gaze flicking between her eyes and her lips like he wasn’t sure if one kiss had been a mistake or a beginning.

Then—

Willie barked.

Not once. Not twice. A full, echoing string of sharp warnings from just outside the barn.

Both of them jerked slightly—guilt and tension crackling between them like live wire.

The tack room door creaked open with a creaking groan, and then—

“Oh my god, finally.”

Ellie stood just inside the doorway, eyebrows halfway up her forehead, mouth open like she’d stumbled into a crime scene.

Willie trotted in behind her like he’d done his duty and was now ready for his treat.

Joel took one step back from her, rubbing the back of his neck in that guilty, awkward way she was starting to recognize. His cheeks flushed with unmistakable red, jaw clenched tight as he looked everywhere but directly at Ellie.

“Jesus, Joel,” Ellie deadpanned, “you look like I caught you watching old people porn.”

Her mouth fell open.

Joel groaned, low and pained. “Ellie…”

“What?” Ellie said, spreading her hands like she was the picture of innocence. “I’m just saying, I knew something was going on. I’ve seen the way you two hover around each other. The glances. The weird carpentry flirting. It was just a matter of time.”

“I don’t hover,” Joel grumbled.

“You are the definition of hovering,” she shot back. “You probably invented hovering.”

Joel muttered something that might’ve been a curse.

Willie barked again and padded over to sniff Ellie’s boots before flopping down on a saddle blanket like he was bored of all of them.

She couldn’t stop the laugh that rose in her chest—not the full kind, just a huff, but it cracked the tension wide open.

Ellie pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “Anyway, I was sent to get you two for dinner before I walked in on your moment. So let’s go. I’m starving and Tommy said if Joel doesn’t show up soon, he's feeding his stew portion to the sheep.”

Joel blinked. “He’s not—”

“He is. I asked.”

The walk to the mess hall was quiet at first—mostly because Joel didn’t say a word, and she couldn’t stop replaying the feel of his lips against hers.

It hadn’t been dramatic. It hadn’t been desperate.

It had just…been.

And that was somehow worse.

Because it meant it was real.

She didn’t know what it meant for tomorrow, or next week, or what she’d say to her father when he inevitably found out, but in that moment, she let herself feel it.

The quiet buzz beneath her skin.

The warmth lingering behind her ribs.

The small, strange twist in her stomach when she saw how Joel’s fingers still hovered near hers, like he wanted to reach for her and didn’t quite know how.

Ellie, walking ahead with Willie bouncing beside her, didn’t let the silence last long.

“So, what’s the plan now?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder with that trademark glint in her eye. “Gonna get married in the greenhouse? Willie can be the ring bearer.”

Joel let out a long sigh.

“Dina can officiate,” Ellie continued, undeterred. “She’s got a great voice.”

“You need to stop talkin’,” Joel muttered.

“You’re blushing,” she pointed out gleefully. “Oh my god, you are actually blushing. This is the best day of my life.”

“Ellie,” he warned, voice gravel and threat.

Ellie turned to look at her. “Can I be the flower girl?”

She grinned. “Only if you promise to wear the dress.”

“Gross! No!”

Joel stopped walking. “No one’s wearin’ a dress.”

Ellie and Willie both ignored him.

The mess hall was warm, loud, and full of the usual clatter of evening routine. Kids darted between tables. Someone had rigged a record player to spin an old folk album in the corner, the scratchy notes of a guitar weaving under the din.

As soon as they stepped through the doors, she saw them—her father and his old friend Jack, sitting at their usual table near the north wall. The second Joel entered behind her, both men straightened, shoulders tightening like they were preparing for a fight.

Willie, oblivious to the tension, trotted directly over to them, tail wagging, ears up. He sat politely by Jack’s knee, earning a scratch behind the ears, then nudged his nose toward her father’s hand with quiet expectation.

Her father didn’t pet him at first.

Then, after a moment, he gave one short scratch behind the ear.

It was muscle memory, not affection.

Jack whispered something to him, and both men’s eyes tracked her across the room like spotlights. She didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just kept walking toward the far end of the room where Ellie and Dina had already claimed a table.

Joel hesitated behind her for half a second before following.

Dinner was stew. Again.

Joel said nothing about it, but she noticed the way he always stirred it clockwise, slow and deliberate, like his thoughts were louder than his appetite.

Ellie, on the other hand, had no such distractions.

“So,” she said between spoonfuls, “Dina and I were talking, and we decided we’re forming a community watch group for your relationship.”

She blinked. “A what?”

“A watch group,” Dina chimed in, grinning. “To monitor and track all romantic developments in this emotionally repressed post-apocalyptic will-they-won’t-they we’ve been forced to live through.”

Joel groaned. “Christ.”

“Language,” Ellie teased. “You’ve got children present.”

“You are the child,” he muttered.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“I mean, it’s not like we’re judging you,” Dina continued, spoon tapping against her bowl. “We’re just… observing. For science.”

“This ain’t science,” Joel said, exasperated. “It’s harassment.”

“Only if we write it down,” Ellie said. “Right now it’s just casual undercover work.”

Joel glared at her.

Dina shrugged. “Also, your kid’s been beaming all evening. Pretty sure that’s a good sign.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “I’m not his kid.”

Joel looked like he was about to argue, but stopped. Something passed over his face—a flicker of something unspoken and fragile.

He didn’t correct her.

But he also didn’t deny it.

She caught the shift. Stored it away. Something in her chest tugged a little harder.

Across the mess hall, she could feel her father’s stare like a second spine.

She glanced up once—just briefly—and met his eyes.

Hard. Unblinking.

Jack was whispering something again, and her father didn’t blink.

She felt Joel shift beside her. His body didn’t move much, but his attention did. Like he could feel it too.

When dinner was over, Ellie and Dina walked ahead, heading towards her home, already planning something chaotic for the next day. Joel and her hung back by the door. Willie returned to her side, brushing against her leg.

She didn’t say anything.

Neither did Joel.

Outside, the air was biting. The wind had shifted direction, blowing off the mountains, colder now.

She paused just outside the mess hall.

Joel did, too.

“You feelin’ watched?” he asked, quiet.

“I’m always watched.”

He didn’t look at her. Just scanned the street.

“You think he’s gonna say somethin’?”

She shrugged. “He already did.”

Joel’s jaw worked for a moment. “You want me to back off?”

She turned to face him.

“No,” she said. “I want you to stay.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. His eyes were tired, but not unsure.

“I ain’t gonna make this easy,” he said.

“I didn’t survive this long looking for easy.”

A long pause.

Then,

“You wanna come by?” he asked, voice low. “I got coffee. Better than the bark stuff.”

Her heart skipped.

She didn’t answer.

She just started walking in the direction of his house, Willie trotting beside her.

Joel followed.

And somewhere in the dark, behind windows and whispers and flickering porch lights, she knew people were watching.

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t care.

Because tonight, the snow was falling quiet again.

And she wasn’t walking alone.

Joel didn’t say anything as they moved through the snow-covered street, his footsteps falling into rhythm with hers like it had always been this way. Willie trotted beside them, his nails clicking on the wooden porch when they reached Joel’s house.

The wind howled around the corner of the street, whipping at her flannel, tugging strands of hair loose from her braid. Joel stepped up behind her and opened the door without a word, holding it just long enough for her to pass through before following behind and closing it against the cold.

Inside, everything felt...still.

The house was dim. Warm. Smelled faintly of wood smoke and old coffee grounds. A low fire crackled in the hearth, half-burned logs glowing faint orange. Joel dropped his coat onto the back of the chair, his boots thudding gently as he kicked them off. She followed suit, letting the silence settle, comfortable now. Familiar.

Willie padded straight for the fireplace, circled once, and flopped onto the worn rug with a dramatic huff, nose between his paws.

“You want coffee?” Joel asked after a moment, voice low.

She nodded. “Only if it doesn’t taste like bark.”

A hint of a smile touched his face. “No promises.”

He moved into the kitchen while she wandered the room, taking it in slowly—she’d been here before, once or twice, but never long. Never like this. The place was clean in that practical, utilitarian way—everything had a purpose. A place. But there were little things too, a chipped mug resting on the windowsill, an old paperback tucked spine-up under a pile of tools, a photo frame turned face-down on the table near the window.

He didn’t talk about the past.

She didn’t ask.

But the ghost of it lingered everywhere, like woodsmoke clinging to the walls.

Joel returned with two mismatched mugs, steam curling from the surface. He handed her one without a word, then lowered himself onto the couch, settling in with a tired exhale. She joined him, tucking her legs beneath herself, mug cradled between her palms.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping. The only sound was the soft crackle of the fire, Willie’s low breathing, and the occasional creak of the floorboards settling.

“You ever think about what normal used to be?” she asked quietly, voice half-lost in the rim of the mug.

Joel didn’t answer right away.

“Used to,” he said eventually. “Stopped. Hurts too much.”

She nodded.

“I don’t remember much of it,” she said. “Bits and pieces. Cartoons on TV. My dad cussing at traffic.”

Joel huffed a breath. “Traffic.”

“Right?” she smiled. “Feels made up now.”

He glanced at her, something softening behind his eyes. “You were just a kid.”

“So were you,” she said. “Just... a bigger one.”

That made him chuckle. A real sound, low and rough.

“You tryin’ to call me old?”

“I don’t have to try.”

He gave her a look. She grinned into her cup.

After a while, she leaned into the back cushions, her shoulder brushing his. He didn’t move. Just shifted slightly, enough for their arms to touch.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

She looked at him.

It wasn’t about her safety.

It wasn’t about patrol, or her dad, or the town.

It was just him, asking if she was okay. Right now. In this moment.

And she nodded.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m good.”

The words lingered in the air between them, soft and real. Joel’s eyes dropped to her mouth. Her breath caught.

She leaned in first.

Their second kiss wasn’t like the first.

It wasn’t careful.

It was hungry.

A slow, burning press of lips that deepened too fast, like they’d been holding back too long. Joel’s hand came to her cheek, his thumb rough with callus, palm warm. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, grounding herself.

He made a sound low in his throat, the kind that went straight to her chest and rattled loose something she hadn’t realized she’d been locking away.

She shifted closer. Into his space. Onto his lap, knees bracketing his thighs as she straddled him without hesitation.

Joel froze for a second.

Not because he didn’t want it—God, he did—but because of how much he wanted it. His hands found her hips, firm but not possessive. Guiding. Steady.

She kissed him again. And again.

His scruff scraped her jaw in the best way, grounding and raw, his mouth tasting like coffee. She buried her hands in his hair, tugged just enough to make him groan into her mouth.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Every kiss was a confession.

Her hips pressed against him, her chest flush with his, and he kissed her like he was memorizing every second of it. His hands slid beneath her flannel, fingertips brushing her back, but never moving further than that—like he needed to hold her close but was afraid of pushing too far, too fast.

She broke the kiss first, barely, her forehead resting against his, breath ragged.

“I don’t wanna stop,” she murmured.

“I know,” Joel said, voice rough, trembling against her mouth. “I know, darlin’. But…”

His hands slid to her thighs, holding her there like an anchor.

“I wanna do this right,” he said. “Wanna do you right.”

She blinked.

He swallowed hard. “You matter to me. More than I know how to say. And I ain’t gonna mess this up by rushin’ into somethin’ and makin’ it feel like it don’t matter.”

She touched his face. Soft. “It already matters.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I need to go slow.”

She nodded. Pressed a kiss to his cheek, then his jaw. Slid her arms around his shoulders and tucked herself there, breathing in the scent of him—something undeniably Joel.

Willie lifted his head from across the room, let out a soft sigh, then dropped back down with a thump. Joel chuckled.

“He your chaperone?”

“He's judgmental,” she mumbled into his neck. “Keeps me humble.”

Joel wrapped his arms around her fully then, pulled her close until her chest was pressed against his and her breath warmed the hollow of his throat.

They stayed like that for a long time.

Just breathing.

Letting it be quiet.

Letting it be enough.

Eventually, her breathing evened out. Her arms went slack. She shifted once in his lap and mumbled something unintelligible into his shirt.

Joel looked down and found her asleep.

Her face softened in sleep, all the fight and fire melting into something quiet and safe. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, then ran a hand slowly down her back.

“Jesus,” he whispered to himself. “What are you doin’ to me.”

He sat there for a moment longer, just holding her.

Then, slowly, gently, he stood.

She stirred in his arms, murmured something, but didn’t wake. Her head tucked into the crook of his neck, her hand still clutching a fistful of his shirt.

He carried her upstairs.

His knees popped once on the landing, and he muttered, “Fuck,” under his breath, even though Willie was the only one awake enough to hear.

He nudged his bedroom door open with his foot, crossed the room, and pulled back the blankets with one hand. Laid her down like she was made of glass.

She curled into the pillow immediately, one hand searching.

Joel stood for a moment, watching.

Then he leaned down, brushed his lips to her temple.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll be right here.”

Willie padded in and laid down at the foot of the bed, ears flicking once before he sighed and settled.

Joel sat in the old armchair near the window. Stared out at the snow falling under the moonlight.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel the need to run.

Didn’t feel the weight of what was behind him.

Only what was here.

What was coming.

He looked back at the bed, at her curled up with the covers tangled around her jeans.

And for once, the ache in his chest didn’t feel like grief.

It felt like hope.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Joel sat in the old armchair near the window, boots off, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped in front of him. The snow outside fell in thick, slow flakes, heavy enough to mute even the wind. The kind of snow that blanketed everything until it looked soft—peaceful. Clean.

He’d always hated how quiet winter could be.

Made it too easy to think.

Too easy to remember.

The fire downstairs had burned low by now, and the house had taken on that particular kind of stillness that only came in the dead of night. Upstairs, the only sounds were the occasional creak of the wood beneath them, the whisper of her breath as she slept in his bed, and the slow, rhythmic thump of Willie’s tail every time she shifted under the covers.

Joel watched her.

Curled up in a tangle of blankets, mouth slightly parted, one arm reaching for something even in sleep. She looked young. Soft. Peaceful in a way he’d never seen on her face before—like some part of her had finally stopped bracing for the next blow.

And that did something to him.

Twisted up something he’d buried so deep it had almost turned to bone.

Sarah.

The name alone was enough to hollow out his chest.

She would’ve been in her thirties now. A grown woman. Might’ve been a mother herself. Might’ve had her own porch, her own slow mornings, her own dog sprawled on the rug like he owned the place.

Instead, she was a ghost.

Still thirteen in his head.

Still asleep in that pink hoodie, curled up against the passenger seat, trusting him with everything.

Still dying in his arms while the world burned around them.

Joel dragged a hand down his face. It didn’t stop the ache. Never had.

He hadn’t let himself think about Sarah—not deeply, not honestly—in a long time. Couldn’t. Because thinking about her meant remembering what it had felt like to lose her. And remembering that felt like trying to breathe underwater.

But tonight, with her—this woman wrapped in his sheets and tangled up in his chest—it was harder not to think about Sarah. About the difference.

About the similarities.

Joel had known her father carried his little girl into the apocalypse. Had watched that little girl grow up in the kind of world no child should. Watched her learn how to hold a knife and set a trap and smile without softness.

Her father had kept her alive.

Joel hadn’t.

That truth stuck like glass in his throat.

No matter how much good he tried to do now—no matter how many fences he fixed, patrols he ran, meals he shared—it never changed the fact that his daughter had died in his arms, and he hadn’t been able to stop it.

But her?

She had made it.

Not just survived—but lived.

That meant something.

She stirred under the blankets, murmured something incoherent, and rolled over, one hand stretching toward the empty space beside her.

Joel’s heart gave a slow, painful thump.

He stood.

His body was stiff—back aching, joints creaking like old wood—but he moved slowly toward the bed. The sheets rustled as he sat on the edge, watching her face for any sign that she’d wake.

She didn’t.

Just made a small sound in her sleep and shifted closer.

Joel hesitated only a moment more before slipping under the covers beside her.

The bed dipped beneath his weight, and she immediately moved toward the warmth, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder like she’d always belonged there. One leg slung across his. Her arm curled against his chest, fingers resting just over his heart.

He froze.

Then breathed.

His hand came up slowly—tentatively—and settled against her back. He could feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing. The weight of her. Real. Alive.

He closed his eyes.

And tried not to fall apart.

She didn’t know what this meant to him.

Not yet.

She didn’t know how long it had been since he’d shared a bed with anyone. Not for sex, not for convenience, not for heat—but just to be near. To be held. Even in sleep.

She didn’t know how deeply she was undoing him.

Didn’t know that part of him—the one that had been cold and locked up for twenty years—was slowly beginning to thaw in her presence. That she was rebuilding things in him he hadn’t thought repairable.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know how to deserve it.

But she was here.

In his bed.

In his life.

And for tonight, that was enough.

Joel pressed a soft kiss to her temple. Closed his eyes. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he let himself fall asleep with something warm in his chest.

Not fire.

Not grief.

Something gentler.

Something dangerously close to love.

That was what settled in Joel’s chest as her breathing warmed his collarbone, her leg still draped across his hip.

The early hours of morning crept in slow and gray, winter’s hush resting heavy against the windows. She slept like someone who hadn’t in a long time—deep, weightless, unguarded. And he held her like he knew the truth, that trust like this was a rare, fragile thing. Not a gift, but a risk.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep with her in his arms. Hell, he hadn’t meant to let her fall asleep at all. Not here. Not in his bed, tangled up in him like she belonged there.

But she did.

She did, and now he couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to wake up without her.

And then someone started banging on the goddamn door.

Joel’s eyes flew open, muscles tensing as he jolted upright halfway, hand instinctively going for the pistol he kept under the side table. Beside him, she flinched, groaning into his shoulder, already stirring.

The knocking didn’t stop.

It was angry.

Sharp.

A fist slamming into wood like the person on the other side wasn’t just impatient—they were furious.

Joel was already sliding out of bed, careful not to jostle her too hard.

“What—?” she murmured, voice thick with sleep, blinking blearily as Willie jumped to his feet at the end of the bed, growling low in his throat.

Joel peeked through the slat in the curtains.

His stomach dropped.

“Shit.”

“What?” she asked, sitting up, rubbing her face. “Who is it?”

Joel turned, jaw tightening. “It’s your dad.”

That woke her up real fast.

She pushed the blankets off her, already climbing out of bed, hair a mess, flannel wrinkled, socks half off her feet. “Fuck.”

The knocking turned into pounding.

Joel moved fast. Fixed his wrinkled shirt. He didn’t want to open the door, didn’t want to deal with the man who looked at him like he was one wrong breath away from being put down—but he also wasn’t about to let him wake the whole town.

He opened the door.

The man standing on the porch wasn’t yelling.

He wasn’t red-faced.

He wasn’t even speaking.

But he was seething.

Her father stood there like a storm barely holding itself together, coat half-buttoned, gloves stuffed into one hand like he’d left in a hurry. His mouth was a hard, straight line. His eyes—

They were looking past Joel.

Straight into the house.

Joel barely got a word out before the man pushed past him into the living room.

She had just reached the bottom of the stairs, one sock on, flannel buttoned, her jeans—

Unbuttoned.

She blinked at her father.

He blinked back.

Then his gaze dropped. Saw the undone fly of her jeans. The bare strip of her stomach. The bed-rumpled hair. Joel standing half between them, tense, protective.

And something inside him snapped.

“Are you kidding me?” her father hissed. “This is what you’re doing now? This is who you are?”

Joel stepped forward, voice low. “Look—”

“No,” her father snapped, rounding on him. “Don’t you fucking speak to me.”

“Then don’t come poundin’ on my door at six in the goddamn morning—”

“You son of a bitch—”

“Hey!” she cut in sharply, stepping between them, hands up like she was breaking up two dogs on the edge of a fight. “Stop. Both of you.”

Her dad looked at her like he couldn’t recognize the woman standing in front of him.

“You spent the night here?” he asked, voice too quiet now. Too cold.

“Yes,” she said.

“You slept in his bed?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head, already spiraling.

“And what, you just couldn’t wait? Had to—what? Throw everything away for a warm body?”

Joel stiffened behind her.

Her mouth fell open.

“Are you fucking serious?” she barked. “You think I’m that stupid?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” he snapped. “I find out from Esther, of all people, that you didn’t come home last night. She saw you sneaking into his house—”

“We weren’t sneaking!” she shouted. “Jesus, Dad—do you hear yourself?”

“You’re in his bed—”

“Because I fell asleep.”

He scoffed. “With your pants undone?”

Joel stepped forward again, voice low but hard. “You might wanna stop talkin’ to her like that.”

Her father’s eyes cut to Joel, and the air snapped tight between them. “Don’t act like you’re not loving this. You’ve been sniffing around her since day one. You think I don’t see it?”

“I never touched her without her say-so,” Joel said, jaw clenching. “Never crossed a line.”

“You think that makes you good?” he sneered. “You think that makes you different from the men who came before you?”

Joel’s face darkened, but he didn’t respond.

Her voice cut the tension clean in half.

“I undid my jeans,” she said, voice flat, arms crossed. “Because I was sleeping in fucking jeans, and I wanted to breathe. That’s it. I didn’t sleep with him. We didn’t even take our clothes off.”

Her father’s mouth opened—then closed again.

The silence that followed was brutal.

She stared at him, tears burning hot at the corners of her eyes. Not because of shame.

But because she knew this wasn’t about Joel.

Not really.

It was about control.

About fear.

About her growing into someone her father couldn’t protect from everything anymore.

She turned on her heel.

“I’m going home to take a shower,” she muttered.

Willie immediately rose to his feet and followed.

Joel stood frozen in the doorway as she brushed past him, barely catching her sleeve. “You okay?”

She looked up at him.

And nodded.

“Thanks for not yelling,” she said softly.

He gave her a tired smile. “Didn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

Her eyes flicked back to her dad—still standing in the middle of the room like he wasn’t sure whether to hit something or collapse.

Then back to Joel.

“See you later?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice gentle. “You will.”

She left.

The cold slapped her cheeks as she stepped outside, but it felt good. Grounding. Willie padded beside her, ears flicking, nose twitching at the air.

She didn’t cry.

Didn’t yell.

Didn’t even curse.

She just walked.

Because there were things she couldn’t fix right now.

Her father’s fear.

Joel’s guilt.

The parts of herself still learning how to be wanted without being someone’s responsibility.

But this?

This was hers.

And she’d made her choice.

Back inside Joel’s house, the silence was thick. Her father hadn’t moved.

Joel rubbed a hand down his face, then walked to the front door.

“You ever raise your voice at her like that again,” he said, quiet, dangerous, “we’re gonna have a real problem.”

Her father said nothing.

Just stood there, shoulders square.

Joel didn’t press.

Didn’t push.

But he meant it.

He always would.

Because whatever this was between them—it wasn’t just about kisses on a couch or coffee and half-smiles.

It was about her.

And Joel wasn’t going anywhere.

Not this time.

Joel meant it.

He meant every damn word, even as her father turned slowly to the door, not saying a thing. Just stared at Joel with a glare that could’ve split ice, shoulders rigid, fists clenched like he was still deciding whether or not to take a swing.

Joel didn’t move.

He just looked back. Calm. Solid.

And then her father spoke, low and cold,

“You touch her wrong. You hurt her. You make her cry one time—I will kill you.”

Joel didn’t blink. “Wouldn’t expect any less.”

Her father stared for one more long second—then turned and walked out without another word.

The door slammed behind him.

Joel stood there, shoulders tight, breath slow.

The sound of her fading footsteps down the snowy road still echoed in his ears. And something in his chest felt a little emptier than it had before.

Not because she was gone.

But because she’d walked out carrying pain she didn’t deserve.

And that? That tore him apart.

She didn’t cry on the way home.

Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look back.

But by the time she made it to the porch, her jaw was locked so tight it hurt, her fingers half-numb from how hard she’d clenched her fists.

Willie waited quietly as she opened the door, his tail flicking gently, eyes on her like he could feel it—like he knew something inside her had cracked.

She stripped off her flannel, tossed it onto the kitchen chair, and didn’t stop until she was in the bathroom, steam already clouding the mirror.

The shower was hot. Too hot. She didn’t care.

She stood under the spray, hands braced on the tile, eyes closed, chest heaving.

It wasn’t just her dad. It was Esther.

Fucking Esther.

Who the hell did she think she was? Running her mouth to him of all people. Just because she saw her walk into Joel’s house and didn’t see her leave?

She scrubbed her skin harder than necessary, dragging her nails down her arms like she could scrape the frustration out of her bones.

Esther had been circling Joel since the day he arrived in Jackson—always lingering too long at the gate, always talking just a bit too sweet whenever she handed him a plate at the mess hall. She was kind, sure. Capable. The kind of woman who got along with everyone. But he had said it himself,

“I’m not interested.”

He’d said it weeks ago. Quiet and certain, when they were sitting on his steps, sharing jerky and silence like it meant something.

And she’d believed him.

Still believed him.

But Esther didn’t know how to let go. And now she’d run to the one man she knew would go ballistic.

She turned off the water, furious all over again.

The towel she wrapped around herself felt suffocating. So did the house. So did the thoughts racing like wildfire in her head.

She needed to work.

She needed the barn.

The air smelled like hay, cold metal, and horse musk—the kind of grounding, raw scent that reminded her where she came from. What she’d built.

She got to work without saying a word. Shoveled feed. Replaced water buckets. Brushed out dried mud from hooves, oiled leather reins, unlatched stalls and mucked out shit with a rhythm that felt damn near religious.

Willie laid in the hay beside the mare she liked best—Sparrow, a stubborn gray with more attitude than sense. He didn't bark, didn’t move. Just watched her with those solemn eyes that always made her feel like he knew.

She didn’t want to cry.

But her hands shook.

And when she dropped the bucket and it clattered loud against the wood, she whispered a sharp, “Fuck,” and bent down fast, pressing her forehead to the cold side of the stall, eyes shut.

She didn’t even hear the barn door open.

But she felt him.

His presence always arrived like a change in the air. Subtle but weighty.

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t speak.

Joel stopped a few feet away. She could hear his breath. The soft shift of his boots on straw.

“I didn’t invite you here,” she said, voice flat, still facing the stall.

“I know,” he said quietly.

She stayed still for a long moment. Then turned.

His eyes were already on her.

Not angry. Not expectant.

Just... watching. Waiting.

She wiped her hands on her jeans and picked up the bucket again.

“I’m working,” she muttered.

“I can see that.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

He nodded once. “Didn’t come to talk.”

“Then why are you here?”

He hesitated.

“Wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” she said too fast.

Joel just looked at her.

It made her stomach twist. That goddamn soft patience in his eyes. Like he could see through every wall she’d built and was willing to wait on the other side.

She turned back to the stall.

He walked in farther. Slowly. Like approaching a wild animal that might bolt if he moved too fast.

“You’re mad at me.”

“No,” she said. “I’m mad at Esther.”

He blinked. “Esther?”

“She’s the one who told him I didn’t come home,” she said, slamming the latch harder than necessary. “Probably because she saw me go into your house and assumed the worst.”

Joel frowned. “Why the hell would she—”

“Because she likes you,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Everyone knows that.”

His brows pulled together. “I don’t give a damn what she wants. I told you—”

“I know,” she cut in.

The silence hung heavy for a moment.

She dropped the bucket in the feed room and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“I just… I’m tired,” she said quietly. “Of being watched. Of being treated like I don’t know what I’m doing. Like I’m some idiot kid who can’t handle her own heart.”

Joel stepped closer.

“You’re not a kid.”

She looked at him, eyes hot. “My dad—he looked at me like I betrayed him.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “He was wrong.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “But it still fucking hurt.”

He didn’t touch her.

Just stood close. Like a shield.

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” he said. “Not me. Not him. Not Esther.”

She looked up at him, and for the first time since she left his house, her shoulders relaxed.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted.

Joel’s expression didn’t change. But his voice softened.

“I don’t either.”

That cracked something open.

Because there was something about hearing him say it—this man who had seen the end of the world and walked through hell and back—that made her feel less alone in her own confusion.

“I keep thinking about what it would’ve been like if the world hadn’t ended,” she said. “If I’d been... normal. Had a mom. A real childhood. If he hadn’t had to give everything up to keep me alive.”

Joel’s face twisted. Just slightly.

“And then I think about you,” she added, voice barely a whisper. “What you lost. Who you were before. And I just…”

She stopped.

Joel stepped closer. Close enough to reach her if he wanted.

“I look at you,” she continued, “and I see someone who’s still standing. Still showing up. Even when you’ve got every reason not to.”

He didn’t speak.

He just reached out and cupped the side of her face, thumb brushing lightly over her cheekbone.

“You’re worth showing up for,” he said simply.

Her breath caught.

And then she leaned into him, forehead resting against his chest, arms coming around his waist.

Joel held her.

Held her like she was something fragile and real and his.

Not because she asked.

But because he wanted to.

Outside, the wind howled.

Inside, the barn stayed warm.

They didn’t kiss.

Not this time.

There was no heat between them in that moment—just something softer.

He stayed while she finished her chores, silent except for the occasional question.

He handed her tools when she needed them. Held a halter while she tightened the buckles. Rubbed Sparrow’s neck while she brushed her out. Even fixed the crooked hinge on the tack room door without being asked.

Willie followed them everywhere.

She didn’t talk much. Neither did Joel.

But it was the easiest silence she’d known in weeks.

And when he finally left—after squeezing her shoulder once, firm and warm—he didn’t say goodbye.

Just said, “See you later.”

And for once, she believed it.

And she let herself breathe.

Just for a minute.

She believed him.

The morning after felt warmer. Not just in the way the sunlight cut through the bedroom blinds, or how Willie laid curled like a living furnace at the foot of her bed—but something deeper. Something steadier.

Maybe she hadn’t fallen asleep in Joel’s arms again.

But she had walked away from him knowing she could walk back.

And that meant something.

Until a loud, violent banging rattled the front door, followed immediately by Willie barking like the apocalypse had come back for round two.

She shot upright in bed.

“Jesus fuck—”

Willie launched off the mattress, bolted toward the stairs.

More pounding.

“Hey! Open up! I know you’re in there! You’re not dead, are you?”

Ellie.

She stumbled out of bed, half-blind with sleep, grabbing for yesterday’s flannel and barely jamming her arms into it as she headed down the hall.

Willie barked again—excited now, more tail-wag than threat.

The banging returned.

"I swear to god—"

“Ellie, stop!” she yelled, just as she missed the last step and nearly pitched forward in her socks. She caught herself on the banister and muttered, “Mother—fuck—”

Willie sat by the door, looking far too proud of himself.

She yanked it open with one hand and blinked hard at the daylight slicing through her skull.

Ellie stood there, fully dressed, grinning like she was on something.

“Wow,” the kid said, stepping inside without invitation. “You look like you just fought a horse in your sleep.”

“I am asleep,” she grumbled. “Or I was. What time is it?”

“Like nine.”

She groaned.

“It’s patrol shift changeover,” Ellie said, dropping onto the couch like she lived there. Willie immediately jumped up beside her, tail thumping, tongue out. “So I figured, why not go bother the only person in this entire town who tolerates me.”

She flopped into the chair across from them, rubbing her eyes. “I don’t tolerate you. I endure you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ellie said, already scratching behind Willie’s ears. “He missed me.”

“He was asleep.”

“He lives to see me.”

“Okay, settle down.”

There was a beat of silence before Ellie said, offhanded, “Joel let you be his patrol partner pretty fast.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Just saying,” Ellie said, voice casual, eyes still fixed on Willie. “You two were barely talking, and then suddenly, boom, you’re his patrol partner, you’re eating with us, and now he’s all”—she waved her hands vaguely—“emotionally available.”

She laughed, surprised. “You think I made Joel emotionally available?”

“I mean,” Ellie shrugged, “you kinda did. He talks to you. Listens to you. You’re like—Joel whisperer or something.”

“I don’t control him, Ellie.”

“Yeah, but he loves you,” Ellie said.

The words hit like a gunshot.

Not a loud one.

Not violent.

But sudden. Sharp.

She stilled. “What?”

Ellie looked up, brow raised like duh. “He loves you. I mean, maybe he hasn’t said it. Joel doesn’t really say things. But it’s obvious.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Ellie—”

“He won’t let me go on patrol,” Ellie interrupted. “Still. After all this time.”

She blinked. “He’s just being protective.”

“Yeah,” Ellie said. “Of me. Which is nice, or whatever, but I’m not a little kid. And he won’t even talk about it. If I ask, he just shuts down. Like I said something bad.”

She leaned back in her chair, exhaling.

Ellie’s tone softened. “I thought maybe… since he listens to you, maybe you could say something.”

There was something raw behind the request. Not whining. Not pushing. Just longing. For trust. For independence. For the kind of respect Joel was afraid to give because it meant letting go.

“I’ll think about it,” she said finally.

Ellie grinned. “That means yes.”

“No,” she said, standing. “That means get up. I’m taking you to breakfast. You broke into my house like the cops and now I need caffeine.”

The sun had risen higher, casting a weak gold across the snow. Jackson buzzed with usual morning movement—kids dragging buckets of feed, older folks de-icing steps, the smell of smoke and fresh bread trailing from the mess hall chimney.

They were halfway down the path when they turned the corner—

—and there they were.

Joel.

And Esther.

Side by side. Next to the patrol horses.

She stopped walking.

Ellie looked up, squinting. “Is that—?”

Joel noticed them first. His eyes immediately locked on hers. His shoulders stiffened like he’d just walked into a trap, and for a split second, she saw the flash of something like guilt flicker across his face.

Esther, ever smooth, said something with a smile and handed her reins off to the stablehand. Her hand brushed Joel’s sleeve. Brushed it.

And that was it.

Her stomach twisted.

Joel took a hesitant step forward. “Hey—”

She didn’t stop walking.

Just kept going. Right past him.

Didn’t break stride.

Didn’t look at him.

Didn’t even flinch.

He called her name—low, like he was trying not to make it a scene.

She didn’t answer.

Ellie blinked, half jogging to keep up. “Uh… should I ask?”

“No,” she said.

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

“You’re walking really fast.”

“I do that sometimes.”

“Not usually while breathing fire.”

She pushed open the mess hall door with more force than necessary. The warm air inside hit her hard. Bread, eggs, chatter.

Ellie followed, slightly out of breath. “Okay, so we’re mad.”

She didn’t respond.

She just grabbed a plate and moved through the line like a soldier, jaw clenched, hands tight.

Joel hadn’t done anything. Not really.

He wasn’t cheating. He wasn’t even flirting.

But Esther’s touch… the way she smiled… the way he’d let her...

It felt like the universe was laughing in her face.

He hadn’t even fought for her attention. Just let her walk past like he didn’t know what to say.

And maybe he didn’t.

But that hurt more.

They ate in silence for a while.

Ellie kept looking at her out of the corner of her eye.

“So,” she said finally, “want me to put a dead rat in Esther’s laundry bag?”

She blinked.

Then let out a laugh. Short. Sharp. Real.

Ellie grinned. “I’ll do it. You know I will.”

“No rats,” she said. “Yet.”

Ellie leaned on the table. “You want me to talk to Joel?”

“No.”

“You sure? Because I’m really good at guilt-tripping him.”

“I’m sure.”

Ellie looked at her like she was studying a creature in the wild.

“You love him,” she said.

She stared at her tray. “I don’t—”

“You do.”

Silence.

Then, quietly, “I think I do,” she admitted. “Or I’m about to.”

Ellie’s voice was gentle for once. “He’s scared too, you know.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“Just don’t make him chase you too long.”

She sighed. “I’m just… tired of being made to feel less than. Of having to compete for something that already hurts to want.”

Ellie reached across the table and stole her toast.

Then said, “Yeah. But you’re not less than. You’re the only one who ever made him smile.”

And that?

That meant more than she'd admit.

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t slow. Didn’t blink. Just walked past, flannel sleeves pushed up, eyes forward, boots cutting sharp lines in the snow like she couldn’t feel the weight of his gaze trailing behind her.

Joel opened his mouth to call her name again.

But stopped.

Because the way she didn’t look at him?

That said more than any words could.

And it hurt more, too.

“Everything okay?” Esther asked, voice sweet and lilting behind him, like she hadn’t just brushed his sleeve with her hand two minutes ago.

Joel didn’t answer.

He turned back toward the horses, jaw tight, throat thick with everything he didn’t know how to say.

Esther had already mounted. Her bay mare flicked its ears as Joel swung up onto his own saddle, the leather groaning beneath him. He adjusted his gloves. Kept his eyes on the trail ahead.

They were heading west today. Scouting route seventeen. Same one he used to ride with her. Familiar snowdrifts, twisted trees that looked like skeletal hands in the winter light. Empty cabins and frozen creeks.

Joel didn’t speak for a good twenty minutes.

Didn’t need to.

Esther, though—she always needed to.

“I don’t think she likes me,” she said lightly.

Joel didn’t look at her. “Don’t see how that’s my business.”

“She glared at me,” Esther added. “Twice. And I’m very sure it wasn’t because I had something in my teeth.”

Joel gave a noncommittal grunt and tugged the reins to guide his horse through a patch of ice.

“She’s young,” Esther said then, her tone shifting—less breezy now. A little too knowing. “How old is she again? Twenty-five?”

Joel didn’t answer.

Esther smiled faintly. “You know she was five when it happened, right? The outbreak. Just a baby. And now she’s…”

Joel glanced over.

Esther trailed off. Shrugged. “I don’t know. I just worry about you, Joel.”

He stiffened. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Well, someone has to,” she said. “Maria said you don’t exactly make good choices when it comes to... attachments.”

Joel stopped his horse.

Right there on the trail, frost-laced trees on either side, wind blowing gentle through the brush.

He turned to look at her. Slowly. Eyes hard. Dark.

“You got somethin’ you wanna say?”

Esther’s mare sidestepped, sensing the shift in his posture.

Esther didn’t back down. She never did.

“I’m just saying maybe you don’t realize what people see,” she said. “An older man. A girl half his age. Alone together. In his house. In his bedroom.”

Joel’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

“She’s not a girl,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “She’s a woman. A goddamn survivor. Smarter than most people in this town. Stronger than all of ‘em.”

Esther blinked. He had raised his voice before. But not like this.

“And you,” Joel continued, cutting his words sharp and clean, “you don’t get to talk about her like she’s some helpless thing. Like she don’t know her own mind.”

Esther’s expression flickered—surprise, maybe. Then something colder.

“Joel,” she said, voice softer now. “I was just looking out for you.”

“No,” he said. “You were lookin’ down on her. And I’m not gonna sit here and let you do it.”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Then Joel clicked his tongue and spurred his horse forward, leaving her behind on the trail without another word.

The wind was colder than before.

He didn’t feel it.

Didn’t feel the weight of his pack, or the ache in his knees, or the saddle digging into his lower back. All he felt was the burn in his chest. The kind that didn’t come from cold or pain—but from regret.

Because he hadn’t gone after her.

Hadn’t grabbed her hand, hadn’t said, “It’s not what it looks like. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want her there.”

He hadn’t told her the truth.

That he only said yes to the patrol with Esther because Maria asked, and he didn’t want to cause a stir.

That he’d barely said a word all morning.

That all he’d been thinking about was her.

The way she’d walked away.

The way her voice trembled last night when she said, “I’m tired of being treated like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Joel had made a life out of silence.

Out of staying still until danger passed.

But this?

This wasn’t survival.

This was her.

And he didn’t want to survive her.

He wanted to keep her.

They reached the checkpoint an hour later. Joel didn’t speak. Just logged his name, scoped the ridgeline, did the job.

Esther tried twice to start conversation.

He ignored both.

On the way back, she didn’t try again.

By the time they reached the gates of Jackson, the silence between them was bitter.

Joel dismounted. Handed off his horse. Nodded to the guard. Started toward the stables.

He didn’t even say goodbye.

Didn’t look back.

The barn was empty.

He stepped inside anyway.

The smell hit him first—dust and hay and her. A little saddle oil. The warm scent of animals and earth and life.

Willie sat by the feed room door, ears pricking up when he saw Joel. He stood and padded over, tail thumping once.

Joel scratched his ears. “She here?”

Willie gave a soft whine. Turned toward the back stalls.

Joel followed.

And there she was.

Brushing Sparrow’s flank, back turned to him. Flannel sleeves rolled up, hands moving with practiced ease. She hadn’t seen him yet.

He watched her for a second.

Just stood there and watched.

He never believed in miracles.

Not since Sarah.

But this woman—this strong, stubborn, loyal, blinding woman—was the closest thing he’d seen to one in twenty years.

And he’d let her walk past him without a word.

He stepped forward.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

She paused. Didn’t turn around.

He swallowed. “Can we talk?”

Silence.

Then she said, “You busy with Esther?”

The words were quiet. But sharp.

Joel flinched.

“I didn’t ask to ride with her,” he said.

She kept brushing. Slow. Even.

“Maria assigned it. I didn’t want it. Didn’t talk much. Just did the job.”

Still brushing.

“She say something?” she asked, voice tight.

Joel hesitated. “Yeah.”

She stopped.

Turned.

Eyes cool. Distant.

“What’d she say?”

Joel looked at her. Really looked.

And said, “Didn’t matter. She’s wrong.”

She folded her arms. “Try me.”

He stepped closer.

“She said she worried about me,” he said. “Said you were young. Implying things. Said people might think I was takin’ advantage.”

Her jaw clenched.

Joel’s voice softened. “I told her to stop. Told her you’re the strongest person I know.”

She blinked.

Slowly.

Joel took another step.

“I don’t care what people think,” he said. “I care what you think.”

A long pause.

Then—

“I think you should’ve come after me,” she said. Quiet. Honest. “I think you should’ve stopped me.”

Joel’s heart broke a little.

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

“I did.”

He nodded. Painful. Slow.

She looked at him like she didn’t know whether to cry or swing.

“You let her touch you.”

“I didn’t want her to.”

“But you let her.”

“I froze.”

She turned away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know that don’t fix it. But I am.”

She didn’t move for a long time.

Then said, “I believe you.”

He closed his eyes. Exhaled.

And for the first time all day, something inside him settled.

Not all the way.

But enough.

Willie laid down at their feet with a sigh.

Joel reached out, tentative.

She let him touch her hand. And that?

That was everything.

The way she let him touch her hand—quiet, small, steady—it unraveled something in Joel’s chest so slow and deep it almost hurt.

Not pain.

Something else.

A loosening.

Like he didn’t need to hold his breath anymore.

She didn’t say anything. Just stood there with him, surrounded by horses and soft golden dust, the early afternoon light filtering in through the warped wooden slats of the barn. Sparrow shifted her weight in the stall behind them. Willie let out a groan from the hay and laid his head back down.

Joel didn’t let go of her hand.

He couldn’t.

And for once, she didn’t pull away.

She exhaled quietly, shoulders dropping from where they’d been hitched near her ears for most of the morning. The flannel she wore was worn through at the elbows, and he could see the faint line of a scar on her forearm—white and thin, like a whisper from another life.

He wondered what she’d had to survive to earn it.

He wondered how many more there were.

And he hated that there’d ever been a world where she had to.

“Listen,” he said, voice low, thick with gravel and hesitation, “I’ve been thinkin’—”

She gave him a look. “That’s dangerous.”

He huffed. “Let me finish.”

She arched a brow. “You’re finishing a lot of sentences lately. That’s suspicious.”

Joel gave her a pointed stare. “You want me to say it or not?”

She smiled—small, but real. “Say it.”

Joel rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. His hands were rough, but he was careful with them.

“I was wonderin’ if maybe you’d wanna come by tonight,” he said. “To mine.”

She tilted her head.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll cook. You eat. Willie sleeps on my couch. That sorta thing.”

She blinked.

Paused.

Then, “Wait.”

Joel froze. “What?”

Her smile deepened. “Is this a date?”

Joel went quiet.

Very quiet.

His fingers tightened slightly in hers, but not unkind.

She watched him shift on his feet, and then—just as she suspected—he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. Eyes narrowing, jaw working like it betrayed him to even think about being vulnerable.

She laughed. “Oh my god. It’s a date.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You said dinner. And cooking. And Willie sleeping on the couch, which means I’m not.”

Joel sighed. “You are the most insufferable woman—”

“You are blushing,” she grinned.

“I’m not—”

“You are. It’s adorable.”

Joel glared at her.

She leaned in slightly, still holding his hand. “You do realize I’ve slept in your bed, right? That ship has sailed, Miller.”

He groaned and muttered, “Lord help me.”

She laughed, loud this time, and Willie thumped his tail on the hay in approval.

Joel stared at her for a long second, expression softening.

Then, quieter, “I’d like to cook for you. Yeah. Like a date.”

She tilted her head, pretending to consider. “Do you know how to cook?”

“Yes,” he said too quickly.

She squinted.

“You’re lying.”

“I ain’t.”

“You absolutely are.”

Joel sighed, hand still on the back of his neck. “I can…make things.”

“Like what?”

“Things that go in a pot.”

“Oh my god,” she said. “Joel.”

“It’ll be fine,” he said. “I got a recipe. Or somethin’ close to it.”

She was grinning now. “You’re gonna poison me.”

“You’ll live.”

“We’ll see.”

They stood in the barn for another few quiet minutes.

And then—like gravity pulled them toward it—he leaned in.

She met him halfway.

The kiss was slow. Soft. Warm.

Different from the hungry, breathless ones before.

This one said I missed you.

This one said I’m still here.

His hand found her cheek again, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw, fingers sliding gently beneath the curve of her ear. She felt her knees loosen, the ache in her chest ebb. Her fingers curled into the collar of his jacket.

When they finally pulled apart, her breath came soft against his mouth.

She didn’t let go.

Neither did he.

She looked at him and whispered, “I’ll come over tonight.”

Joel nodded. Once.

His voice was soft. “Ellie’s staying with Kat.”

She raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Wasn’t my idea,” he muttered. “Maria’s makin’ her do a girls’ night.”

“She’ll hate that.”

“I know.”

She smiled. “So we’ll have the place to ourselves?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her.

Something in his face changed then—something soft and weathered and a little raw.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Just us.”

She leaned her forehead against his chest, let herself stand there for another breath or two.

The barn creaked gently around them. The smell of hay and leather filled the air. Willie gave a soft, approving grunt.

And for a moment—just a small one—it felt like the world hadn’t ended after all.

She pulled away first, but only just.

Joel didn’t move—not right away. Just watched her as she stepped back, her fingers lingering in his for one more second. The light outside was softer now, dusk beginning to settle. The kind of quiet that made everything feel more real.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough, soft. “You will.”

She turned to go.

And then—almost like he couldn’t help it—he reached out and caught her wrist gently, tugging her back just enough to steal another kiss.

This one was quick.

But it lingered.

She smiled against his mouth. “You’re greedy today.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “You got no idea.”

Then she was gone.

Willie at her side.

And Joel Miller was left standing in the middle of the barn like someone had just struck him over the head and handed him a second chance at life.

Which meant now he had to figure out how the hell to cook dinner.

The kitchen looked like a crime scene.

Joel stood at the counter, arms braced on either side of a wooden bowl, staring down at a pile of possible ingredients like they might start a fire if he looked away.

There was a can of tomatoes from last month’s ration rotation. A jar of dried basil that Ellie looked at in disgust. A sealed bag of pasta—thank god—from a trade he’d made with the supply team. A block of cheese that was hard enough to build a house with. And something that might have been garlic, but was currently fighting for its identity as “aggressive winter root.”

Joel scratched his jaw.

He hadn't cooked in a long time.

Sure, he’d boiled meat over fire. Fried beans in old pans on the road. Made tough coffee. But dinner?

A real one?

With flavor?

With a tablecloth?

That was new.

He looked at the stove. Looked at the tomatoes. Then looked at the sad little saucepan Maria had given him in the welcome basket six months ago.

“All right,” he muttered. “Let’s make somethin’ edible.”

The sauce was the first problem.

He opened the tomatoes with a dull pocketknife because he couldn’t find the can opener. Half of it sloshed out wrong. Missed the pot. Landed on the floor. Joel swore under his breath and grabbed an old towel from the drawer.

The dried basil came out in a clump.

He tried to stir it in.

It just... floated.

Joel stared down into the red mess, watching the leaves sit stubborn and wrong at the top of the watery sauce. He picked up the maybe-garlic and sniffed it.

Immediately regretted it.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

He chopped it anyway. Because he didn’t know what else to do. Scraped it into the pot with the side of the knife like he remembered someone doing on a cooking show in the late ‘90s.

The smell hit his face like a punch.

“Yeah,” he said to no one. “That’s flavor, all right.”

The pasta boiled over.

Twice.

He swore again. Louder.

Dropped a wooden spoon on the floor. Burned his hand grabbing the pot handle without a towel.

And that’s when Ellie walked in.

She stopped in the doorway, a bag slung over one shoulder, winter beanie sliding half off her head. She blinked once.

“Holy shit,” she said. “Is this... are you cooking?”

Joel didn’t turn around. “Don’t start.”

Ellie stepped farther in, nose wrinkling as she approached the stove. She sniffed the pot. Peered into it.

“Is that... even edible?”

“Go away.”

“Dried leaves?” She leaned closer. “Oh my god. Is that the weird basil I told you not to use?”

“I said go away,” he grumbled, trying to stir the sauce.

She looked around the kitchen.

Then looked back at him.

Her eyes went wide. “Oh my god. Is this for her?”

Joel didn’t answer.

Ellie gasped dramatically. “You’re making her dinner. You’re making her dinner?!”

He finally turned. “Ain't you stayin’ with Kat tonight?”

Ellie ignored him entirely. “You stole the tablecloth from storage, didn’t you?”

He glared. “Borrowed it.”

“That’s the one with the little blue flowers!”

Joel said nothing.

“You said hate the little blue flowers when I tried to bring it home.”

“I hate you right now.”

Ellie walked over to the table, which he’d spent nearly an hour wiping down and setting with two salvaged plates and three mismatched forks, just in case. She touched the fabric, grinning.

“You even folded the napkins,” she said. “You’re so in love with her.”

Joel grabbed the pot off the stove and turned away. “That’s none of your damn business.”

“Can I stay and watch?”

“No.”

“Can I hide in the pantry?”

“No.”

“Can I leave you a note to read her?”

“Out.”

Ellie raised her hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. But this is adorable and I am going to make fun of you for it for the rest of your life.”

He turned. “Ellie.”

She met his eyes.

Then, more quietly, she said, “She makes you better, you know.”

Joel’s expression softened.

“I see it,” she added. “You’re... calmer. Less grumpy. You don’t stand like someone’s always about to punch you.”

He exhaled. “You sayin’ I used to be worse?”

“Oh yeah. You were the worst. Now you’re just... mildly awful.”

Joel shook his head.

Ellie smiled. “She’s good for you.”

Then she grabbed her bag, shoved a piece of bread from the counter into her mouth, and said around it, “Good luck, Romeo.”

He heard her boots clomp out the front door.

And the house fell quiet again.

Joel stood there in the middle of his kitchen, tomato sauce on his sleeve, steam rising from a pot that smelled vaguely of regret, and looked around at the space he’d tried to make nice.

The tablecloth.

The mismatched forks.

The wine bottle he didn’t know how to open sitting unopened on the counter.

He hadn’t dated.

Not really.

Not even Sarah’s mother. They’d been kids, trying to do right by a baby they hadn’t expected. And after the world ended... there was no room for courtship. No room for dinner. For flowers. For trying to be something to someone.

Until now.

Until her.

Joel looked at the clock.

Thirty minutes until she showed up.

His hands trembled a little.

He rinsed them, ran a comb through his hair, and changed into a flannel that didn’t smell like sawdust.

Then he stood by the door.

And waited.

Heart thudding slow and scared in his chest.

Because this time?

This time he wanted to get it right.

So he stood there, heart quietly thudding behind his ribs, fingers twitching at the seam of his shirt as he watched the clock tick closer to evening. The sun had dipped low by now, throwing long, amber lines across the hardwood floor. The fire in the hearth was crackling low, flickering against the walls. The scent of tomato, basil, and something vaguely herbal hung in the kitchen like a nervous fog.

He adjusted the table again.

Then adjusted the chairs.

Then turned the record player back on, because the silence had gotten too loud.

It was an old Johnny Cash album—scratched slightly, but still warm. Familiar. Something he remembered his mama humming in the kitchen back in Texas, long before the world went to hell.

He moved into the kitchen. Checked the pasta again.

Still warm.

Still... edible?

He hoped.

He hadn’t tasted it. Too nervous. Too focused on making sure the table was clean and the napkins were folded right and the goddamn wine bottle had a corkscrew, it didn’t—he had to jab it with a knife and now it leaked.

Then—

He heard Willie’s bark.

Soft, friendly, two doors down.

His breath caught.

And there she was.

She walked slow, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, her shoulders relaxed in a way they hadn’t been in days. The street was quiet except for the wind gently tugging at the trees and the crunch of snow under her boots. Willie padded beside her, tail swishing, nose pointed toward Joel’s porch like he already knew where they were going.

She wore a knit sweater—deep green, the kind that made her eyes look brighter in the winter light—and jeans tucked into worn leather boots. Her hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands blowing in the breeze. She looked warm. Comfortable.

Joel stared through the window like a man watching something sacred approach.

He opened the door before she could knock.

Her eyes flicked up. “Eager?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Just didn’t want you waitin’ in the cold.”

Willie trotted past him into the house like he owned the place.

She stepped inside, brushing snow from her shoulders. Her eyes scanned the room—the flickering firelight, the table—neatly set, if a little lopsided, the record player humming soft country from the corner.

Her lips curled into a smile. “You got a mood going.”

Joel shut the door behind her. “Tryin’.”

She looked at the table. Then at him.

“Did you steal that tablecloth from the mess pantry?”

Joel narrowed his eyes. “Borrowed.”

She laughed.

God, he loved her laugh. It wasn’t always easy. She didn’t offer it freely. But when it came, it was whole. Real. Like it didn’t know how to lie.

“You smell like tomato,” she said, pulling off her coat.

Joel took it from her automatically, hanging it on the hook near the door. “Might’ve boiled over once or twice.”

“Mmhmm.”

She turned to him fully.

“Are you nervous?”

“No,” he said too quickly.

She tilted her head.

Joel sighed. “A little.”

She stepped closer, hands brushing lightly down his arms. “It’s just me.”

“I know,” he muttered. “That’s the problem.”

She laughed again.

And he felt his lungs finally expand.

Dinner was ready—if by “ready” you meant slightly overcooked pasta with a sauce that almost looked intentional.

Joel ladled it into mismatched bowls, wiping his hands on a towel. She helped grab the utensils without being asked, setting them out with a quiet ease that made the space between them feel lived-in.

Willie laid by the fire, already half-asleep.

She sat at the table, hands folded neatly, watching him with something that looked suspiciously like adoration.

Joel sat across from her.

Fidgeted.

She lifted her fork.

He cleared his throat. “If it’s bad, don’t lie.”

She tasted it.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Then looked him dead in the eye and said, “Joel. This is amazing.”

He blinked. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re smilin’.”

“Because it’s good!”

He gave her a long, skeptical look.

She twirled her fork through another bite. “It’s warm. It has flavor. That’s more than I can say for anything we’ve eaten in weeks. You didn’t burn it. There’s no ash. And I didn’t chip a tooth.”

Joel smirked. “High bar.”

“I’m serious,” she said, softer now. “You did good.”

Something in his chest unwound.

They ate slowly.

Talked quietly.

She asked about the patrol routes he used to run with Tommy before winter made everything unpredictable. He asked about how the pregnant mare was doing—restless, cranky, almost definitely a boy. She teased him about the crooked shelf in the hallway, and he told her how Ellie once filled it with jars of dead insects as a prank.

They drank two fingers of wine each—her idea of moderation—and halfway through her second glass, she looked at him and said,

“You built this table, right? Ellie mentioned it.”

He nodded. “Got tired of eatin’ hunched over the counter.”

Her gaze softened.

“You built this for her, didn’t you?”

Joel stilled.

Didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly, “Yeah. Thought she deserved better.”

She reached across the table and laid her hand on his.

“You deserve better.”

Joel looked at her hand.

Then at her.

And said, “I don’t know how to do this.”

She squeezed his fingers.

“You’re doing it.”

Joel looked down at their hands.

His thumb brushed her wrist slowly.

“This ain’t how I used to be,” he said.

“I know.”

“Wasn’t soft. Wasn’t... kind.”

“I know that too.”

“But I want to be,” he said. “With you.”

Her breath hitched.

They sat like that for a while, fork abandoned in tomato-stained bowls, the fire cracking low behind them, and Johnny Cash still humming from the corner like the world was trying to lull them into believing it wasn’t broken anymore.

She stood up.

Walked around the table.

Joel turned in his chair, looking up at her.

She sat on his lap without asking.

He wrapped his arms around her waist like he’d been waiting for it all night.

She kissed him—soft, slow, with that kind of certainty that made time slow down.

He kissed her back like it was the only thing that still made sense.

And as the snow fell softly outside, and the fire died low behind them, Joel Miller rested his forehead against hers and whispered,

“I don’t want this to end.”

She whispered back,

“It doesn’t have to. I want this. I want you”

The second she said it, something changed behind Joel’s eyes.

Like a switch flipped. Like the dam cracked open after months of barely holding.

He kissed her again—harder this time. Like he meant it. Like he’d been starving for it.

And he had.

His hands gripped her hips like he didn’t know whether to pull her closer or crush her, but god, he needed her close. He needed to feel her. The solid weight of her in his lap. The warmth of her thighs wrapped around him. The way her fingers fisted in his shirt like she didn’t ever wanna let go.

She gasped into his mouth when he rolled his hips up.

He growled.

“Jesus, baby,” he breathed. “You got any idea what you do to me?”

Her only answer was a moan—soft, breathy, and so fucking desperate it made Joel’s cock twitch.

He kissed down her neck, dragging his mouth slowly along her jaw, then down to the hollow of her throat. She tilted her head for him without thinking, baring it like she wanted to be marked. Wanted to be taken.

Joel groaned low. “You’re killin’ me.”

He stood—lifted her clean off his lap like she weighed nothing, one arm braced under her thighs. She gasped again, arms flying around his neck, legs instinctively locking at his waist.

“I got you,” he rasped. “Always got you, baby.”

He carried her up the stairs, boots thudding heavy against the wood. She could feel the tension in him—his hands trembling slightly where they held her, his breathing shallow like he was trying not to lose it too fast.

She’d never seen him like this.

So unguarded. So hungry.

He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot, stepped inside, and set her down on the bed like she was breakable.

Then just looked at her.

Long and quiet.

Like he needed a second to believe she was really there.

That she wanted this.

Wanted him.

“Joel,” she whispered, voice shaking.

He reached out and cupped her cheek.

“You say the word,” he said roughly. “And I’ll stop.”

She shook her head.

“I don’t wanna stop.”

His jaw clenched. Hard. Like he was holding back years of need.

“You sure, baby? You know I’m older. You know I’m not—fuck—I’m not gentle. Not all the time. Not when I want it this bad.”

She leaned into his palm. And kissed his hand.

“I don’t want gentle,” she said. “I want you.”

And that?

That broke him.

Joel kissed her like a starving man. Like he was trying to memorize her. His hands pushed up under her sweater, palms rough as they traced over her waist, her ribs, up to her bra. He groaned when he felt her breasts beneath the fabric, full and warm under his hands.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Look at you. Goddamn. You’re so fuckin’ pretty.”

She whined softly when his thumbs brushed her nipples, already hard beneath the lace.

He looked up at her.

“Off,” he said.

She raised her arms, and he pulled the sweater over her head, tossing it somewhere behind him. Then the bra. Then nothing.

Just her.

Laid out on his bed like a fucking prayer.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

She went to cover herself, but he caught her wrists.

“No,” he said softly. “Don’t hide from me. Don’t you ever hide from me.”

He kissed her chest, her ribs, the curve of her stomach. Worshipped her with his mouth like he had all night.

She arched up when he took a nipple in his mouth, tongue circling it slow, then sucking just hard enough to make her gasp. One of his hands slid down between her thighs, still covered by denim, and he groaned when he felt how warm she was.

“Fuck. You’re burning up.”

She squirmed, and he growled.

“Tell me what you need, baby.”

“You,” she whispered. “Need you to touch me.”

He sat back on his heels and dragged her jeans down her legs, slow, savoring it. The way her thighs shook. The way her breath hitched when he reached the edge of her panties.

Lace.

Black.

His fucking weakness.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

He pulled them down, slow and reverent.

And when she was bare for him, all flushed and wet and ready—

He just stared.

Then let out a broken groan.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice gravel and heat, “you’re soaked.”

She blushed, but he was already leaning in.

“Been thinkin’ about this since I laid eyes on you,” he said, kissing her inner thigh. “Wonderin’ what you sound like when I put my mouth on this pretty pussy.”

She gasped.

“Guess I’m about to find out.”

He dragged his tongue through her folds, slow at first. Just a taste.

Then another.

Then his mouth was on her—firm, hungry, good. His tongue lapped at her clit, slow and steady, until her back arched and her hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands.

“Fuck, Joel—”

He groaned against her. “That’s it. Let me hear you, baby. Let me taste how good I make you feel.”

She was already shaking, thighs trembling, voice breaking apart with every swipe of his tongue. He sucked gently, then harder, then eased a finger inside her—slow, careful, thick and perfect.

“Shit,” she cried. “Oh my god—”

Joel smiled against her.

“Thought about this every night since that night in the barn, you up against me—holding that knife against my throat,” he said, voice thick. “Thought about you spread out for me. Drippin’. Beggin’. Let me hear it, baby. Don’t hold back.”

She came with a cry, thighs clenching around his head, hands gripping the sheets so hard her knuckles ached.

Joel didn’t stop until she was gasping.

Didn’t stop until she was trembling.

Didn’t stop until she was his.

He kissed her thigh one last time.

Then crawled up over her, kissing her again—this time deep and slow, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

“You still sure?” he whispered. “’Cause if I take you now, baby, I’m not lettin’ you go.”

She pulled him in.

“Take me,” she said. “I’m already yours.”

Joel growled.

Ripped his shirt off in one motion. She gasped—Jesus, he had scars and solid heat and muscle, and somehow still soft in the places that mattered. The kind of body built for surviving. The kind of body she wanted over her.

He undid his jeans, cock thick and heavy in his hand, already leaking. He lined up with her, but didn’t push in yet—just rubbed the tip through her slick folds, watching her face.

“Look at me,” he said.

She did.

And he pushed in.

Slow.

Thick.

Stretching.

“Fuck, baby— so tight,” he groaned. “Takin’ me so good. Shit. That feel good?”

She nodded, eyes wide, mouth parted. “S-so good, Joel—feels so fucking good—”

“Yeah?” he rasped, hips grinding in deeper. “You want it slow, baby? Or you want me to fuck you like I’ve been dyin’ to?”

“Fuck me,” she said.

And that was it.

Joel snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt.

She cried out, and he moaned like she’d just saved him.

His thrusts were hard, deep, controlled—like he was holding back a tidal wave, but barely.

“You feel that?” he growled. “Feel how deep I am? No one’s ever touched you like this. No one.”

She could barely breathe, let alone respond.

He pinned her wrists above her head, held them there with one hand, and fucked her deeper.

“I’ve been starvin’ for this,” he said against her throat. “You. This pussy. The way you fuckin’ whimper when I—fuck—yeah, just like that.”

She came again, harder this time.

Came around him, clenching so tight he had to bite his own lip to keep from losing it.

“Good girl,” he groaned. “Goddamn. So good for me. So fuckin’ good.”

She was shaking, body limp, but still whispering his name like a prayer.

Joel slowed down. Softened.

Kissed her face. Her jaw. Her neck.

“Baby,” he said, voice breaking, “I can’t—I’m not gonna last. Not with you squeezin’ me like this—”

“Inside,” she whispered. “Please, Joel. Come inside me.”

And that?

That ended him.

He buried his face in her neck and came hard, hips stuttering, voice a low, broken growl against her skin.

They laid like that for a long time.

Panting.

Sweating.

Holding.

Joel stayed inside her until he softened, kissing her cheek, her hair, her shoulder.

Then pulled out carefully.

She winced.

He kissed her again. “I got you. I’ll clean you up, baby. Just lay there.”

She did.

And when he came back with a warm cloth and a glass of water, she looked at him like she was already half in love.

Maybe more than half.

Joel tucked her into his side and kissed her forehead.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll be here.”

And she believed him.

Because for once, Joel Miller wasn’t running.

He was home.

Chapter Text

The days got colder.

That kind of Wyoming winter cold that sank into bones and clung like regret. Snow hadn’t started yet, but the mornings came with frost thick enough to etch glass, and the smell of wood smoke curled down from chimneys like it was trying to wrap around your throat.

She woke up most days tangled up in Joel’s sheets. Or more accurately—tangled in Joel. He always slept like he was guarding something. One arm tucked around her waist, the other curled under her neck, like letting go might invite danger in through the walls. It should’ve felt suffocating, maybe. Overbearing.

It didn’t.

He was warm. Solid. Unmoving except for the way his thumb would trace lazy circles against her skin when he thought she was asleep.

And when she was asleep, Willie always posted up at the foot of the bed like a sentry. Ellie called them an old married couple the other morning before snagging half of Joel’s toast and ducking out the door.

“You two are gross,” she’d said. “Like one of those old couples here who still kiss and it’s weird but also kinda sweet.”

Joel grumbled and muttered something about boundaries.

Willie just licked her hand and followed Ellie out.

They’d fallen into a rhythm.

Not a routine, exactly. Routines felt like something Jackson had. Something structured. Clean. Predictable.

This thing with Joel wasn’t that.

It was warm food eaten over mismatched silverware, his hand steady on her lower back when she carried saddle tack into the barn, the way he always waited by the back fence for her when patrols ended—even when he didn’t say anything. Especially when he didn’t say anything.

He never hovered. Never asked her to come over.

But she always ended up at his place.

Especially on the nights when her father’s silence felt sharper than words.

The stable smelled like hay, sweat, and molasses feed. It was comforting, like a memory she didn’t have the energy to name. She was brushing down Windy, one of the newer rescues they’d brought in last week. Nervous mare. Tends to flinch at sudden noise.

She whispered softly as she worked. “You’re alright. Just you and me, yeah? No one's gonna hurt you.”

Willie was curled nearby, ears perked.

Joel showed up without making a sound, like he always did.

She caught sight of him leaning against the stall gate, arms crossed, mouth tilted just enough to be not-quite-a-smile. He’d just come off patrol—jacket dusty, eyes tired.

“Windy givin’ you hell again?”

“She’s scared of her own damn shadow,” she said, straightening.

Joel’s gaze swept the stable. Then it landed on her hands. Red knuckles. No gloves.

Again.

“You know you’re supposed to wear ‘em,” he said, his voice lower than usual.

“Gloves get in the way.”

“Still. You don’t need frostbite on top of everything else.”

He didn’t scold. Joel didn’t do that. But he stepped forward, pulled something from his pocket—a pair of wool-lined work gloves, clearly new.

She blinked. “Where did you—?”

“Barter with the guy from supplies. Gave him a box of .22 rounds and fixed his front gate. Seemed fair.”

Her chest tightened.

She didn’t say thank you. She just took them, slid them on, and kept brushing.

He stayed. Helped with stalls. Didn't talk much. Didn’t need to.

Later, when she pulled the barn doors shut for the night, Joel was still there. Waiting with a thermos in hand.

She raised a brow.

“Didn't think you ate dinner,” he said.

She frowned. “You cook again?”

He gave her a pointed look. “Don’t start. It’s Maria’s venison stew. I just heated it up.”

She didn’t ask if he wanted her to come by his place again that night. She just nodded.

And he followed.

Her dad was waiting.

They saw him before they even turned down the street. Standing on the porch, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

Joel's body tensed beside her.

She didn’t slow.

Her dad didn’t say anything. Just stared. Eyes locked on Joel like he was watching an open flame get too close to a gas can.

Joel kept his head up, shoulders squared.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t back down.

But the silence between them was war-drum heavy.

By the time they got inside Joel’s place, she could feel the tension burning under his skin.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just poured water into the kettle, pulled two mugs down from the shelf.

She leaned against the counter, watching him.

“Let him look,” she said eventually. “He doesn’t own me.”

Joel’s shoulders twitched.

“I know,” he said. Then added, quieter, “Doesn’t mean I like it.”

She looked at him carefully. “It’s not your job to win him over.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to,” he muttered, though she didn’t believe that for a second. “But I don’t like feelin’ like I’m… pullin’ you away from him.”

“You’re not.”

Joel turned then, looked her in the eye.

“I don’t want this to be hard for you.”

She crossed the room.

Slid her hands over his chest, palm to heartbeat.

“It’s not,” she said. “It’s only hard when people act like I’m not allowed to choose.”

Joel didn’t answer. Just leaned in, forehead brushing hers, the tip of his nose bumping hers like it was instinct. Like he couldn’t not be close to her anymore.

“Still want dinner?” he asked, voice rough.

She nodded.

He pressed a kiss to her temple. Gentle. Easy.

Then started ladling out stew.

Nights were quiet.

They sat on the couch sometimes—her in his shirt, feet in his lap. Joel’s hands were always somewhere... around her calf, brushing her ankle, pressed against the curve of her thigh like he just needed to know she was there.

Sometimes he read. Sometimes she braided her damp hair after a shower and he watched, silently captivated, like someone who’d forgotten what softness looked like.

Every now and then, when she was brushing Willie or feeding the dog from the table, Joel would mutter—

“Should’ve named him after Cash. He’s got the attitude.”

“He’s Willie. He’s perfect.”

Joel snorted. “He’s spoiled.”

“Says the man who gave him half a steak last night.”

Joel didn’t argue.

Things were good.

Really good.

Which is probably why they didn’t stay that way.

It was a Sunday.

Patrol shifts ran late, and she’d gone out to meet Joel halfway back. Just because. Just to walk with him. He looked exhausted—blood under his nails, dirt on his knees, like he’d been wrestling something that fought back.

“I’m fine,” he insisted.

She didn’t believe him until she saw he really was—just tired, not hurt.

They cut through town on the way back.

And that’s when her father saw them.

Joel’s hand on her back.

Her face tilted toward him, laughing.

That was all it took.

He stepped directly into their path.

Joel stopped.

So did she.

The street was empty, too late for stragglers.

Her dad's voice was low. Dangerous. “You got no shame, do you?”

Joel’s jaw clenched.

“Dad,” she warned.

But he wasn’t looking at her. Just at Joel. “Parading her around like she’s some kind of prize. You think this makes you good? You think this makes you safe?”

“Enough,” she snapped.

But Joel… Joel stayed calm. Stoic.

His voice, when he finally answered, was flat. “I ain’t parading her. We were walking home.”

Her father stepped forward. “Home? Her home is my house. Not yours.”

“Not anymore,” she said.

It came out before she could stop it.

Her dad’s face flickered. Just for a second. Hurt flashing under the fury.

She exhaled. “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” he said, straightening. “You did.”

And then he walked away.

Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t look back.

Joel stood frozen for a second. Then looked at her.

“You alright?”

“No,” she said. “But I will be.”

That night, he didn’t let go of her.

Not once.

He made tea with the good honey. Rubbed the knots out of her shoulders while she sat cross-legged on his floor. Washed the dishes after dinner even though she offered. Let her choose the book he read aloud—even though she knew he hated her dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre.

Later, when they were in bed and the snow had finally started to fall, she rolled toward him and whispered,

“I’m sorry.”

Joel blinked. “For what?”

“For all of it. My dad. The way he looks at you.”

Joel didn’t answer right away.

Then—“You don’t owe me an apology. He’s tryin’ to protect you. I get that.”

She shook her head. “He doesn’t see you.”

Joel’s hand curled around her waist, pulled her closer.

“I don’t need him to,” he said.

She buried her face in his chest.

And finally—finally—breathed easy.

Outside, the snow kept falling.

Willie snored at the foot of the bed.

And Joel held her like she was something holy.

Because to him—maybe she was.

It was past three when the ceiling wouldn’t stop staring back.

She'd counted the small cracks. Twice. Shifted her weight a dozen times.

Joel’s arms had been wrapped around her earlier, all muscle and heat, the kind of grip that made her feel like nothing in the world could get through. But eventually, she’d slipped out of bed. Not because she wanted to. Just because her brain wouldn’t let her stay.

Willie thumped his tail once from the corner of the bed, watched her move like he always did—quiet and alert. He didn’t follow, just watched.

The floor was cold under her feet, the flannel she tugged over Joel’s T-shirt wasn’t enough to hold off the chill, but the comfort of wearing him wrapped around her chest helped. Joel always smelled like cedar smoke and old leather, even after a shower. 

The kitchen was quiet. Homey, in its weird patched-together way. Her mug was still by the stove from earlier, the chipped one she liked with the faded wild horses stamped around the rim. Joel had found it on a run and said, “Saw it and thought of you. Didn’t even break it.”

He always brought her things.

Little things.

A roll of gauze she liked better than the town supply. Dried oranges from some abandoned market that still had a roof. One time, an old dog whistle he swore would “make Willie more manageable” 

It didn't.

The tea had been one of those gifts.

He came back from patrol two weeks ago with a small bag of loose-leaf tucked in the lining of his jacket.

It smelled like mint and lavender and something else she hadn’t had the words for. He didn’t even say anything when he gave it to her—just dropped it in her hand like it was obvious.

“Saw it. Figured it’d help when your brain won’t shut up.”

He always knew.

The kettle clicked softly on the stovetop. She poured the water, let it steep, wrapped her hands around the mug just for the heat.

The clock on the wall blinked red: 3:14 A.M.

She leaned against the counter. Tried not to think.

That was when the knock came.

Sharp. Two raps. Measured.

Every muscle in her body tensed.

Willie stood in the room, growling low. Not barking. Not charging. Just that low rumble he saved for things he didn’t like.

She set the mug down quietly.

Moved toward Joel’s room.

The door creaked open, and she peeked in.

Joel was out cold.

On his stomach, one arm flung across her pillow—her pillow—mouth open, breathing deep, that low almost-snore dragging out of his chest like a man too tired to care anymore. His hair was messy, curlier at the ends when he didn’t comb it.

He’d told her earlier that night—just before they went to bed, when she was sitting on the edge of the tub scrubbing blood from under his nails—that he was beat.

“Kid didn’t know how to hold the damn rifle. I spent half the shift teachin’ him how not to shoot his own foot.”

She had laughed, told him he sounded like an old man.

He said, “I am an old man,” and kissed her knee while she worked.

So now, she looked at him and hesitated.

But he needed sleep. He was dead to the world. And whatever was on the other side of that door? She could handle it.

She slipped her knife from the bedside table. The one Joel let her keep there without question. Just nodded the first time he saw it and said, “Good. I’d rather you get the jump on someone than the other way around.”

She moved toward the door with quiet, practiced steps.

No porch light. No sound.

She held the knife low, out of sight.

The second knock was louder.

“Alright,” she muttered, voice quiet. “Let’s see who the hell forgot how a clock works.”

She opened the door with the knife tucked behind her thigh—just in case.

And there, half-shivering under the porch light, stood Tommy Miller.

Hair wind-tossed, jacket half-zipped, shoulders hunched like something was pressing down on him.

Not panicked.

But serious.

Really serious.

His eyes locked onto hers, then flicked inside the house, probably toward the faint light of the kitchen.

He looked at her like he didn’t expect her to answer.

She didn’t say anything.

Just stared back. Knife still in hand.

Willie sat behind her, stiff and silent.

Tommy exhaled once, rubbed a hand down his face.

His face said it all before he opened his mouth. That low, tense jaw clench he did when something was wrong, when the town was teetering on the edge of chaos again. She’d seen that look once during a barn fire, and again when a raider stumbled in from the woods missing half a leg.

He wasn’t surprised to see her there—wearing Joel’s flannel, hair a mess, knife still tucked casually at her side like a second limb.

Of course she was here.

Of course she was the one answering Joel’s door at three in the damn morning.

Still, Tommy shifted awkwardly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” she said. “What’s going on?”

Tommy glanced over his shoulder down the road like someone might be following him. “It’s Ellie.”

That was all it took for her stomach to drop.

“What about Ellie?”

“She and a couple of the kids…snuck out.”

She blinked. “Snuck out where?”

Tommy rubbed his temple, voice low. “Out. Like, out out. Past the damn wall.”

She swore under her breath.

“Oh, and,” Tommy added like it was the cherry on top, “they were high. Stole some weed from Eugene.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” He sighed. “Maria and I just got them back. No one’s hurt, thank god, but… it could’ve gone sideways real damn fast. One of ‘em got caught in a fence loop. And Ellie—she’s the one who had the damn idea.”

Of course she did.

She felt her shoulders tighten, hand flexing at her side. She thought Ellie was sleeping. The girl had tucked in after dinner like nothing was off, made some sarcastic comment about Joel’s “old man snore” and passed out.

Or so she thought.

“I didn’t know she left,” she muttered. “She was in bed when I—”

Tommy waved her off, eyes kind. “Ain’t your fault. You’re not her babysitter. She’s just…fifteen. Thinks she’s invincible. Hell, I was like that once.”

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

“What about Joel?” she asked.

Tommy’s jaw ticked. “He asleep?”

She nodded. “Completely dead to the world.”

“Then let him sleep. Tell him in the morning.”

She blinked at him. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah. I don’t want this mess lighting a fire in the middle of the night. It won’t go well.”

They both knew that was putting it mildly.

Joel finding out that Ellie—his kid, whether he admitted it or not—had tried to leave Jackson high off her ass?

He would lose it.

Not yell. Not scream.

No, it’d be worse.

That deep, smothered kind of rage he only let out when he was scared.

Tommy looked up the street again. “They’ll be back any second. I just figured…I should let you know first.”

“Thanks,” she said, quietly.

Tommy glanced down, then looked at her again—really looked. She was barefoot, arms wrapped around herself more for comfort than cold, wrapped up in Joel’s oversized flannel like it was armor.

His voice softened. “He’s different with you, you know.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Joel?”

“Yeah.” He smiled, faint and lopsided. “You bring out something in him. Reminds me of… before.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Just gave him a quiet look, one he understood.

And then headlights cut through the edge of the street—flashlights, murmured voices. Maria’s voice, sharp and unmistakable.

“Shit,” Tommy muttered, stepping aside.

She turned to look.

Maria was marching Ellie toward the house, one hand clamped tightly around the girl’s arm.

Ellie looked like she’d been through a wind tunnel—hair everywhere, hoodie half-zipped, eyes red and glassy.

Two other kids trailed behind with an escort, both looking sheepish.

The second Maria saw her standing barefoot in the doorway, she stopped.

Her eyes raked over her—from the mussed hair to the bare legs and the very unmistakable fact that she was wearing Joel Miller’s shirt and flannel.

Maria didn’t say a word. But her eyebrows did something that said well, well, well.

Tommy cleared his throat. “Maria.”

“Tommy.” Her voice was clipped, professional. She gave his arm a squeeze, but her eyes were back on her.

Ellie shifted awkwardly under Maria’s grip.

“She okay?” she asked, voice quiet.

Maria huffed. “Aside from being high as a kite and stupid enough to think sneaking out was a good idea? Peachy.”

Ellie groaned. “Jesus, Maria, you don’t have to—”

“Shut it,” Maria snapped. Then looked back at her again. “Sorry to bring this to your door. I know it’s late.”

“I thought she was sleeping.”

“Slipped out the window,” Maria muttered. “Kids. They think Jackson’s Disneyland until they see what’s really out there.”

Ellie wouldn’t look her in the eyes.

Tommy patted Maria’s shoulder. “Let’s head back. She can talk to Joel in the morning.”

Maria didn’t argue. But her eyes lingered again on the flannel. She opened her mouth like she wanted to say something but clearly thought better of it.

Instead, she said, “Make sure she drinks water. And doesn’t throw up on anything.”

Then she let Ellie go and stalked off toward the main street with the other kids in tow.

Ellie stood there on the porch, shoulders slumped, eyes glassy but guilty. Willie padded forward, sniffed her leg, then gave a single low woof that sounded suspiciously like judgment.

She didn’t say anything. Just stepped aside and let the girl walk past her into the house.

Tommy gave her one last look. “Sorry for throwing this at you. You didn’t sign up for any of it.”

“I kinda did,” she said, watching Ellie slump onto the couch like a wet rag.

Tommy chuckled softly. “Well. Good luck. See you in the morning.”

Then he was gone.

She locked the door behind him and turned slowly to Ellie.

The kid had her head in her hands now, mumbling something about “Wasn’t even that far out, I swear…”

She crossed the room and grabbed the mug of tea from the counter, still warm. Handed it to her.

Ellie looked up, surprised.

“I should ground you,” she said.

“You’re not my mom,” Ellie muttered.

“No,” she agreed. “I’m not. But I could still make you clean out every single trough in the barn.”

Ellie groaned, sipping the tea. “You sound like Joel.”

She smiled despite herself. “High praise.”

Ellie looked toward the hallway. “Is he…?”

“Sleeping. Don’t wake him.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The girl curled into the corner of the couch like a sulking cat, mug balanced on her chest.

She sat nearby, pulled the blanket from the back of the chair and tossed it over Ellie.

No lecture. No speech.

Just silence.

Ellie didn’t fight it.

Willie laid down at their feet and yawned.

Eventually, Ellie’s breathing evened out.

She leaned back, her own tea cooling on the counter.

Joel was still asleep in the other room, dead to the world, snoring softly with her pillow trapped beneath him like a lifeline.

He had no idea that his surrogate daughter had almost gotten herself eaten or worse.

No idea about the weed.

No idea about Maria’s smug eyebrow lift or Tommy’s grimace.

But morning was coming.

And when it hit…

She was going to have to wake him up.

And tell him everything.

She didn't try to move Ellie.

The girl was dead asleep on the couch, one arm flung over her face, the other still loosely holding the empty mug. Her legs were tangled in the throw blanket like she'd collapsed mid-guilt spiral and hadn't bothered to fix it.

Willie had stationed himself right beside the arm of the couch, his big head resting on his paws, ears twitching in response to every creak and shift in the old wood floors. He didn’t look like he was planning to move either.

She watched them both for a moment—Ellie, slumped and small despite all her bluster, and Willie, all instinct and loyalty—and felt the tiniest flicker of something ache in her chest.

Without a word, she set the mug aside, clicked off the lamp near the reading chair, then the kitchen light, one by one. The room was swallowed in a warm, sleepy dark.

She padded back through the quiet house, her bare feet silent on the old hardwood floors Joel had refinished himself. The place still smelled like him—like pine and sawdust and old flannel. That scent was sunk into the grain of the furniture, the shape of the room, the fabric of the blankets.

Upstairs, the room was exactly as she'd left it.

The lamp still cast a soft glow across the floor where her boots were discarded. One of Joel’s flannels was slung over the footboard, where he’d thrown it earlier.

Joel was still where she left him—sprawled on his stomach, that worn-out pillow still hugged to his chest like it might float away.

She slid under the blanket carefully, trying not to wake him, but it didn’t matter.

The second her weight dipped the mattress, he moved instinctively.

In his sleep, Joel shifted, face still buried in the crook of his arm. Then, without even opening his eyes, he rolled toward her and pulled her in—an arm slung around her middle, hand splayed against her ribs like it belonged there.

She didn’t resist.

He tucked his face into her shoulder and sighed, warm breath brushing her collarbone.

Completely unconscious, and still knows when I’m gone.

She closed her eyes.

Sleep came easier this time.

She woke up just after 7.

The room was washed in early golden light that spilled across the edge of the bed, stretching long over the wood-paneled walls.

Joel was still asleep.

His arm had loosened its grip but not by much. His brow was soft, lips parted slightly, a faint scrape of stubble across his jawline catching the light.

She slid from bed slowly. This time, he didn’t stir.

She tugged on Joel's clothes again, glanced back once more to make sure he hadn’t woken, and padded downstairs.

The couch was empty.

Blanket folded. Mug washed.

Willie’s food bowl sat on the mat by the door—half full.

She crouched down to check it. The dog had definitely been fed. She could guess exactly how it played out: Ellie woke up early, probably still foggy but wracked with guilt, fed Willie like clockwork, and then snuck out to the stables before Joel woke up.

Smart girl.

Cowardly, but smart.

Willie was gone, which meant she had taken him with her. Most likely to do chores in quiet penance and avoid the coming storm.

She moved to the kitchen and opened the cabinets, setting out a small pan, eggs, and some bread that Joel had traded for yesterday.

He always cooked for her. Always.

He never said anything about it, never made a big show—but it was one of the ways he showed care. Morning after morning, she’d wake to the sound of the pan clicking against the stove, the smell of eggs and something toasted in the air, and Joel already halfway through a mug of coffee with his gray hair mussed and eyes still soft from sleep.

Today, she wanted to beat him to it.

She cracked the eggs into the pan, let them sizzle gently while she toasted the bread.

There was something comforting about the quiet—about moving around the kitchen he’d built up, surrounded by pieces of his life.

The carved wooden owl on the windowsill.

The worn books tucked next to the record player.

The way his flannels were always folded with too much care in the laundry basket near the door.

She thought about Ellie.

About how to tell him.

There wasn’t a gentle way. Not really. He’d take it hard. Probably harder than anyone would expect. Because for all Joel’s quiet steel, he loved that girl so fiercely it could undo him.

She’d have to be careful.

The smell of toast started to crisp. She turned the eggs over.

That was when she heard it.

Soft footsteps on the stairs.

Then—

Arms slipped around her waist from behind, slow and warm.

His body pressed close, chest against her back, heat radiating off of him like he’d just come in from the sun, not a night of sleep.

She didn’t even have time to speak before he dipped his head low.

And kissed the curve of her neck.

It was slow. Sleep-warm.

Not rushed or needy—just there, steady and sure like he always was with her.

She smiled without thinking, letting her body lean back into his.

His scruff scraped her skin, lips brushing just below her ear this time.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled, voice still gravel and silk.

“You slept hard,” she murmured.

“’Cause I had you next to me,” he said against her skin.

Her heart clenched a little.

He kissed her again.

And for a moment, just a fleeting moment, she let herself believe that maybe today could be quiet. Easy.

She didn’t say anything right away.

Instead, she tilted the pan slightly and slid the eggs onto two chipped ceramic plates, plating toast beside them like Joel did every time. She sprinkled a little salt on top—because he always said eggs were nothing without it—and set one plate on the kitchen table.

He rubbed a hand over his face and sat down, still waking up, eyes half-lidded and hair a mess. She watched him sit, then slowly lowered herself across from him.

The air started to shift.

And she felt it in her chest before she opened her mouth.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

Joel looked up at her, and just like that, her stomach turned.

It was hard, somehow, to look him in the eyes when he was still soft from sleep—before the walls went back up.

“Tommy knocked on the door last night.”

His chewing slowed. He didn’t say anything.

“It was around three in the morning. I was up… couldn’t sleep. Making tea.” She paused. “The one you brought back for me. That lavender tin.”

Joel gave a faint nod. Still nothing in his voice.

She pressed on. “Said it was about Ellie.”

His jaw twitched. Eyebrows furrowed.

“She and a couple of the other kids snuck out of the walls,” she said carefully. “They were caught. Maria brought them back.”

Joel finally looked at her. “Snuck out?”

She nodded slowly. “They were…high. Took some weed. Not from us, from someone in town.Tommy said she was the ringleader”

Joel went still.

The kind of still that made her throat close up.

She kept talking. She had to.

“I thought she was in bed. And when Maria brought her back, I didn’t wake you because… because you were dead on your feet, Joel. You told me Jesse needed help on patrol, that you had to do everything. You had dried blood under your nails when you came back.”

His hands were flat on the table now.

“And this morning she left early. She knew. Knew you’d be pissed. She fed Willie, took him with her. She probably went to the stables. Didn’t want to be here when you found out.”

The silence was loud.

He stared at his plate like it had wronged him.

She shifted in her seat, fingers twisting together in her lap.

“Joel—”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

His voice was rough.

She blinked. “What?”

He looked at her fully now, and his eyes had hardened.

“You should’ve woke me up.”

“I told you why—”

“I don’t care how tired I was. You should’ve woke me up. It's Ellie.”

She flinched. “I was trying to protect you. You needed sleep.”

“I don’t need protection,” he snapped.

“And what would’ve changed, Joel? You storm out, yell at Tommy, what? Ground her before she even walked through the door?”

“She’s fifteen,” he said, voice rising. “She’s a kid. You don’t let a kid come back stoned and not tell the one person who gives a damn what happens to her.”

“Don’t do that,” she said sharply. “Don’t make this about me not caring—”

“You’re not her mother.”

The words hit like a slap.

“I know that,” she shot back, standing up. “I’ve never pretended to be her mom.”

Joel stood too, fists clenched. “Then stop actin’ like this is your call to make.”

“She was safe. Tommy had her. Maria had her. I had her.”

His voice was louder now. “She ain’t yours.”

That made her go still.

Joel seemed to feel the shift, but he didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down.

“We're not family. We’re not—” He paused. Then: “We’re not even together.”

Silence.

The air was sucked from the room.

She just stood there, heart suddenly somewhere near her knees.

Joel’s face shifted. Barely. Like maybe he realized too late what he’d said.

But she didn’t give him a chance to walk it back.

She turned, walked past him, up the stairs without a word.

He didn’t follow.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t say a goddamn thing.

Her hands shook as she peeled off his flannel.

The sleeves were rolled halfway, still warm from her body, still smelling like sleep and wood and him.

She yanked it off and tossed it onto the bed.

Then came the shirt—one of his she’d slept in. She pulled it off, reached for her bra, shoved it on with fumbling fingers. Her own shirt was folded on the dresser. Jeans were by the chair.

She shoved her legs into them.

Zipped. Buttoned. Boots in hand as she stormed down the stairs.

She pulled them on while walking, laces dragging behind her, half-tied.

Joel was still at the table. Still. Just standing there.

Watching her.

But he didn’t say anything.

Not a word.

She grabbed the door. Yanked it open.

The sun was blinding.

And for the second time since he’d come into her life—Joel Miller let her walk away.

And didn’t stop her.

The morning air was sharp.

The kind that stung the cheeks and cut through shirts that weren’t flannel-lined. She tugged her sleeves down anyway, walking briskly down the street that cut straight through Jackson like a worn artery.

She ignored the way it smelled like woodsmoke and sourdough. Ignored the sound of a kid laughing near the bakery. Ignored the second and third glances that came with every passing step.

"Hey—could we put in an order for eggs again?" someone called.

"Are you still offering lessons? For riding?" another asked.

She didn’t even glance back.

The boots on her feet were scuffed, the laces half-tied, flapping against the road as she crossed past familiar porches and people and the town that suddenly felt too small.

Joel’s house wasn’t far behind her. Ironically, they lived on the same street. Three houses apart. Close enough that some of the kids in town assumed she stayed over because she hated walking.

But now, it felt like each footfall away from him echoed too loud.

When she finally reached her front porch, she shoved the door open harder than she meant to.

It creaked.

Her father looked up from where he was standing in the living room—gear laid out on the dining table, rifle strap half over his shoulder, sharpening knife in hand.

His brows furrowed the second he saw her.

“You look like hell,” he said softly, voice gruff with sleep but lined with something else. Concern.

She didn't respond at first. Just kicked off her boots and hung up her coat too forcefully. Her cheeks were red—not from cold.

He watched her.

And suddenly, it was like he was looking at her through time.

Eight years old. Hair tangled, face smudged with ash after she'd nearly burned her sleeve trying to start a campfire in a storm. He remembered the way she'd clenched her jaw, refused to cry, even though her hands were shaking.

He remembered her first time gutting a rabbit, how she threw up behind a tree and then came back five minutes later and finished the job.

How she’d screamed at him once—really screamed, the first time she realized they weren’t ever going home. She’d been furious. Livid. Her fists balled at her sides, lips trembling, demanding to know why he wouldn’t “just fix it.”

And now here she was again. Same fury, same heat.

But older.

Harder.

Wearing it like armor.

He set the knife down slowly. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

“No.”

She headed straight for the bathroom, washed her hands like she was trying to scrub the whole morning off her skin.

When she came back, he was still at the table.

“You wanna come on patrol with me?” he asked, voice quieter now.

She blinked. “What?”

“Jack’s prosthetic acting up. The hinge is jammed again. He can’t move right, not for long distance. Said he’ll sit this one out.”

She hesitated.

“You don’t have to,” he added quickly. “Just figured maybe… we haven’t had time. Not real time. Thought maybe it’d be good.”

She stared at him.

And suddenly, she felt that ache again.

Because he was right—they hadn’t spent time, not like before. Not since Joel.

She’d missed him. Missed the way they used to ride side by side and make jokes only they understood. Missed how safe he felt, like a damn anchor in a world full of wind.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Yeah. I’ll go.”

They made their way to the stables.

Sunlight cut through the frost as the gates opened, creaking slow. She led the way, boots crunching over the path as the scent of hay and leather settled around them.

Willie was already there, tongue lolling, tail wagging furiously when he saw her.

And right beside him—Ellie.

Perched on a hay bale, picking straw from her sleeves like she was bored and avoiding every adult in a 50-foot radius.

Willie trotted over, licking at her hand. She crouched to pet him behind the ears, ruffling his thick coat.

“Hey,” she said to Ellie.

Ellie looked up. “Hey.”

“I’m heading out for patrol. All day.”

Ellie blinked. “Oh.”

“Watch Willie. Keep him with you.”

The girl nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

A beat passed.

Then Ellie asked, more hesitant now, “Does Joel…does he know?”

She looked at her.

Long. Hard.

“You should go see him yourself.”

She turned without waiting for a reply.

She and her father mounted up, swinging easily into saddles they’d used a thousand times. Her mare, Juniper, pawed at the dirt once, already ready to move.

They rode to the gates in silence.

And just as the guards waved them through, her father leaned over slightly.

“Don’t let whatever he said eat you alive,” he murmured.

She didn’t answer. Just clicked her tongue and nudged Juniper forward.

The gate creaked open.

And they rode out.

Joel saw her just as the gates were swinging wide.

He’d gone looking for Ellie. Knew she’d be at the stables—she always hid in familiar places.

And there she was, talking to her.

And there she was—his girl. The woman he let walk out the door again, and now… she was leaving.

Her hair was pulled back. Her coat was hers again. No trace of him left on her.

He felt something twist in his gut.

Watched her ride away.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t see him standing there, in the morning light, fists clenched at his sides, face unreadable.

But he saw her.

And it hurt like hell.

Joel stood outside the stables for a long minute, boots rooted in place like the dirt might swallow him whole if he stayed still enough. The wind had picked up, dry and cold, carrying the scent of snow that hadn't yet touched the valley.

She was gone.

Out there, somewhere beyond the walls, riding beside the man who raised her like a soldier and a survivor. He had no doubt she could take care of herself. Hell, she’d proven that the moment she shoved a knife to his throat the night they met. But knowing she was out there with her heart splintered by him made everything inside his chest twist and curdle.

He hadn’t even stopped her. Again.

And now she was gone.

Joel scrubbed a hand over his face, jaw clenched, then turned toward the barn. He already knew where Ellie would be.

The stables were warm, quiet, filled with the steady breath of horses and the soft clink of tack hanging from hooks. Willie was lying near a hay bale, head up but not alert. His tail thumped once as Joel stepped in.

Ellie was crouched near one of the stalls, rearranging feed buckets with very little urgency. She didn’t see him at first.

Or maybe she did and just didn’t give a damn.

When she finally turned and spotted him, her shoulders dropped with a groan.

“Oh, great,” she muttered, tossing a brush onto a bale of hay. “Let me guess—you're here to yell or do the disappointed-dad speech thing.”

Joel narrowed his eyes, voice low. “I oughta do both.”

Ellie stood up, wiping her hands on her jeans. “It was just outside the gate. We weren’t going that far—”

“You were high, Ellie.” The word cracked out of him, rough and sharp.

She froze.

“You snuck out stoned, in the middle of the goddamn night. That ain’t just reckless. That’s suicide.”

Ellie opened her mouth to argue, but Joel kept going, stepping forward.

“You think because nothin’ happened, it wasn’t serious?” he snapped. “You think I’d be standing here if it wasn’t? You could’ve gotten hurt, killed. And if Tommy hadn’t shown up at that door last night—”

“Then you would’ve slept like a baby,” Ellie muttered.

Joel’s jaw ticked.

“I care about you,” he said, slower now, words grinding out like gravel. “You know that. I worry because I give a damn, not because I want to control you.”

Ellie’s face softened a hair—but not enough to lose the stubborn edge.

Then he said it.

“She should’ve woken me up.”

Ellie blinked. “Seriously?”

“She should have,” he repeated, quieter but still firm. “She let me sleep like nothin’ happened.”

“Because you were dead on your feet, Joel,” Ellie snapped back. “You looked like shit when you got home. You were limping, your knuckles were cut up, and your damn eyes were bloodshot. She cleaned your hands, remember? Scraped dried blood off your nails. You couldn’t have handled it.”

Joel’s mouth opened—then shut again.

“She did it because she loves you,” Ellie said, louder now. “Because she didn’t want to pile more on you. And what, you punished her for that?”

Joel looked away, throat thick.

Ellie crossed her arms, jaw tight.

“Why is she on patrol with her dad?” he asked after a pause. “That wasn’t planned.”

Ellie shook her head. “I don’t know. She didn’t say. Just told me to take care of Willie.”

Joel swallowed hard.

“What happened this morning?” Ellie asked. “What did you do to her?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t want to.

But the silence between them stretched out, tight and strained.

So he said it. Flat. Quiet.

“I told her we weren’t together.”

Ellie’s brows pulled down. “What?”

“I told her… that she wasn’t your mom. That we weren’t together.”

Ellie stared at him.

Her expression didn’t change, not at first. But something in her eyes shifted—like disappointment curling slow in her chest.

“Wow,” she muttered. “Real smart.”

Joel didn’t defend himself.

He couldn’t.

She walked past him, grabbed a broom, and started sweeping grain out of the aisle, the sound scraping against the wooden floor in slow, steady drags.

Willie followed her loosely, ears twitching, but stayed near.

“She cares about you,” Ellie said after a beat, still not looking at him. “Like—actually cares. She makes you better. And you—you just pretend none of this means anything the second things get real.”

Joel clenched his fists. “That’s not true.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

Joel didn’t answer.

Ellie turned around, broom in hand. “I know she isn't my mom, okay? I’m not stupid. But I like her. I like Willie. And you love her.”

Joel opened his mouth. She cut him off.

“And don’t you dare say you don’t.”

She went back to sweeping. Like the conversation was over. Like she had a hundred other chores to do and no energy to deal with the emotional wreckage Joel had left behind.

Joel stood there for a long moment.

Watching the kid who had become like blood to him sweep grain that wasn’t hers to sweep.

In a barn she didn’t own.

Caring more than she wanted anyone to know.

And it hit him again—how badly he’d fucked this up.

He’d let fear talk.

Let it poison the one good thing he had left.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t sure if she’d ever let him fix it.

Joel left the stables not long after that.

The conversation with Ellie sat on his shoulders like wet concrete—heavy, cold, and unrelenting.

“Go get breakfast in the mess hall.” he muttered as he pulled the barn door shut behind him. 

Ellie didn’t say much. Just gave him a tight nod and scratched behind Willie’s ears as the dog settled beside her, confused but loyal.

Joel didn’t say anything else. Didn’t trust himself to.

He stepped out into the sun.

It was later in the morning now, that slow golden stretch of time where the snow started to melt off rooftops and boots left wet prints on the porches. The sounds of Jackson picked up around him—hammering, kids shouting, voices drifting from the community garden, someone playing a scratched up Patsy Cline record from a radio on their windowsill.

Joel didn’t stop moving.

Work was waiting.

Maria had assigned him different jobs over the next few days. Normal stuff. Things that kept the community running without falling apart at the seams. It was quiet work. Repetitive. The kind of thing that he needs to fill his hours today.

Because of her.

The first stop was the Coopman house, just down the street. Their front gate had gone crooked in the last storm—hinge snapped clean from the weight of the snow. Joel found the supplies already stacked up from the day before: new hinges, rusted nails replaced with newer ones someone scavenged off a wrecked department store.

He got to work. Hammer in hand. 

For a while, he focused. Let the rhythm of the work keep him grounded. Nail. Hammer. Realign. Tighten.

But it didn’t last.

His mind drifted—slow and relentless like floodwater.

He thought about her.

About the look on her face when he said they weren’t together.

That flash of stunned silence, followed by something quieter. Deeper.

Hurt.

She hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t cursed him out.

That almost made it worse.

She just… left.

Pulled herself out of his clothes and walked out the door. And he didn’t stop her.

Not even when she turned on her heel and left the house like it didn’t hold her scent, her laughter, the imprint of her body tangled in his sheets the night before.

God, he was a coward.

A fucking fool.

She had survived without him for twenty damn years. She’d carved out her own life, raised by a man so intense it would’ve broken anyone else. But not her.

She grew strong.

Capable.

Fierce in ways that reminded Joel too much of himself—and not enough. Because she had hope. She cared.

He’d watched her wipe blood off his knuckles without flinching. Watched her throw her entire weight behind protecting horses she saw as family.

Watched her love him in a dozen quiet ways she never had to say out loud.

And how did he repay her?

He threw her heart on the floor the moment he got scared.

Gate fixed.

Joel wiped sweat from his brow and moved to the next job.

The community pipes that fed water into the mess hall were clogged—or something. Maria had asked him to check the junction under the main street. It wasn’t glamorous work, but he was used to that.

He grabbed a wrench, flashlight, and descended into the narrow crawlspace under the street.

It was cramped. Damp. Cold.

He ducked under a beam, muttering under his breath as he maneuvered his way to the valve box.

As he worked, the silence got louder.

Only broken by the distant creak of metal and the water shifting through old, corroded pipes.

And his thoughts.

Always her.

He wondered where she was now—how far past the northern patrol markers she'd gone.

If she’d worn her warmer gloves.

If she had remembered to pack the little tin of dried mango slices he left on her saddle yesterday morning. He hadn’t said anything about it—just slipped it in, knowing she always craved something sweet on the trail.

She probably found it already. Probably made some snarky comment about it.

He smiled—soft, involuntary. Then frowned again.

He wondered if she was thinking of him at all.

By the time he climbed out of the crawlspace, his back ached and his hands were covered in grime. But the pipes were working again. He tested the pressure valve, nodded to himself, then packed up and moved on.

The next job of the day was helping renovate a small house. Some family was expected to arrive next month from the east. Survivors Tommy had traded with out near Denver.

Joel worked with three other men—quiet, capable. They didn’t talk much. Just handed each other tools, adjusted beams, and replaced old boards.

But every time Joel lifted a plank of wood, drove in a nail, sanded down a jagged edge—he thought about her.

Thought about how she'd sat on his workbench just two weeks ago, legs swinging, while he carved a replacement saddle stirrup. She’d picked up one of his chisels and started absentmindedly etching her initials into a scrap of pine.

He’d watched her the whole time.

Watched how the light hit her jaw, how her mouth tilted when she was focused.

She didn’t ask him to talk.

Just existed with him. Peaceful. Steady.

Like he belonged to her without ever being asked.

When Joel went on a break, he found himself walking home with hands sore and boots dragging.

But he didn’t go straight inside.

He stopped on the porch.

Turned.

Looked down the road toward her house.

It was quiet.

Still no sign of her.

And that ache settled deeper.

Because no matter how much he tried to fill the day with hammering and labor and wrenching through pipes—nothing could shut out the truth.

He loved her.

And he’d hurt her.

And now he wasn’t sure how the hell to bring her back.

When the gates of Jackson groaned open behind her, and cold air slapped across her cheeks, she didn’t flinch.

The silence out there was sharp. Honest. There were no murmuring neighbors asking about eggs, no questions about riding lessons, no sideways glances from townsfolk trying to piece together why she ran out of Joel's house this morning.

Just snow and breath.

She exhaled, saw it curl in the air, and gripped the reins a little tighter. Her horse, Juniper, snorted softly beneath her, picking her way along the frozen trail like she’d done it a thousand times. Because she had.

Beside her, her father rode in silence.

His posture was still military—straight-backed, eyes always scanning the tree line. His rifle rested across his saddle in easy reach. His jaw worked the way it always did when he was thinking.

They hadn’t spoken since they left the stables.

But she could feel it coming. The question. The one he was probably choking down since the second he saw her this morning, cheeks flushed and eyes rimmed red.

They rode for a while in that cold quiet, the town slowly disappearing behind them as the trail curved west, the horizon wide open and blanketed in white.

Then, finally—

“You okay?”

His voice wasn’t sharp. Wasn’t accusatory.

It was soft. Tired. Familiar.

She didn’t answer right away.

She wasn’t sure what to say.

She just kept her eyes forward.

He let a few more hoofbeats pass before he said, “Did he hurt you?”

That made her blink.

Her fingers twitched on the reins.

“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “Not like that.”

He looked at her, but didn’t press. Just gave her room.

That was new.

A few years ago, he would’ve demanded names, details, maybe marched up to whoever's house with his shotgun cocked. But today? He waited.

Maybe he was tired too. Maybe he finally realized she wasn’t that kid holding his hand through broken cities anymore.

Still.

“It was just a fight,” she added, eyes still on the trail.

“Seemed bigger than that.”

“It felt bigger.”

He nodded once, understanding that kind of weight.

They kept riding, hooves crunching against the snow. Birds scattered from a nearby tree, and somewhere far off, a wolf howled low and lonely.

She didn’t flinch at that either.

Eventually, her father spoke again.

“I know you don’t want to talk to me about your… relationship,” he said, like the word itself had sharp edges. “But I’m trying.”

She glanced at him.

“I know,” she murmured.

“I just…” He rubbed a hand across his beard. “I don’t get it. I don’t understand what you see in him. Not fully.”

She could’ve laughed.

Could’ve snapped something defensive like she used to when she was sixteen and pissed off.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she said, “He’s kind to me.”

Her father blinked.

“He doesn’t act like it all the time,” she continued. “He’s rough. Grumpy. Stubborn as hell. But he’s kind. And he tries. Even when he’s tired. Even when he thinks he’s broken.”

Her throat went tight.

“He looks at me like I’m not a liability. Like I’m not too young. Not too much.”

Her father was quiet again.

She didn’t look at him.

“He treats Willie like a person,” she added quietly. “Like he’s family. He always brings me things from patrol—tea, jerky, a scarf when he noticed mine was falling apart. He never makes it a big thing. Just does it.”

The wind picked up, whistling through the trees ahead.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” she said before he could speak. “That he’s too old. That he’s dangerous. That he’s made mistakes. That he’s not safe.”

Her father sighed. “I’ve made mistakes too.”

That made her finally glance at him.

He was staring ahead, jaw tight.

“You think I don’t carry that?” he asked. “Leaving my post. Abandoning my unit. Running with you into God knows what because I couldn’t face the idea of losing you?”

She went still.

“That guilt eats me alive,” he admitted. “Every day. But I’d do it again. A thousand times.”

She swallowed hard.

He met her eyes now.

“So I get it. Loving someone even when it doesn’t make sense on paper.”

She didn’t say anything.

He exhaled.

“You love him?”

She didn’t want to answer.

Didn’t want to feel how raw the word sounded in her mouth right now.

Not after what he said.

But the truth was heavier than the silence.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “I think I do.”

They rode in silence after that.

Not cold. Not tense.

Just quiet.

The way they used to be when she was a kid, crouched next to him in a field, learning how to track rabbit prints in the snow. Back when the world was louder but they were safer in each other’s orbit.

They went farther than most patrols ever did.

Beyond the ridge. Past the old ski lodge. Into the deeper forest where the snow clung thicker and the wind had teeth.

Her father didn’t slow.

Neither did she.

Their horses kept pace, moving like they’d done this dance for years.

They passed the twisted wreckage of an old pickup, long abandoned, the doors ripped open and moss growing from the seats. They circled a frozen creek where deer tracks disappeared under the ice.

No signs of infected. No movement at all.

Just the two of them.

She didn’t mind.

Out here, the ache in her chest dulled.

Out here, she didn’t feel like she’d shattered anything beyond repair.

And if she had…

Well.

There was still time to figure out what pieces were worth picking up.

She pulled her scarf tighter around her face as the snow thickened, settling into her lashes and catching on the edges of her hood. Her father clicked his tongue, signaling left.

She nodded, tugged her reins.

And they kept riding.

Farther.

Into the white.

Into the cold.

Into the quiet.

Together.

The snow let up sometime around mid-afternoon.

They had pushed deep past the outer patrol lines—far enough that the trees grew tighter together, their branches long and bony, and the wind held a different kind of silence. A heavier one. It reminded her of the nights they used to camp in the Rockies, just her and her father and the fire they built like a barrier between them and the dark.

The abandoned town appeared like a ghost from the trees—quiet, still, frozen in time.

It was the kind of place Jackson patrols didn’t bother with anymore. Everyone knew it had been picked clean years ago. Not just by Jackson scavengers but by other groups who’d passed through long before. Fireflies, raiders, nomads. Whoever had come through had taken what they wanted and left the bones behind.

But her father didn’t stop.

So neither did she.

Their horses moved cautiously through the main street. Buildings leaned at odd angles, some half-collapsed from snow rot, others still standing like they might just be waiting for someone to open the door again. She spotted an old diner sign hanging sideways, a mailbox rusted through, a toy truck half-buried in a snowbank.

“Feels haunted,” she muttered.

Her dad gave a short grunt. “World’s haunted.”

They rode toward a general store at the far end of the street, dismounted, and tied their horses out front beneath a busted awning. The snow crunched under her boots as she followed him up the cracked sidewalk. He tried the door. Locked.

She stepped forward with a small crowbar from her pack.

“Let me.”

With one good pop, the door creaked inward, releasing a draft of stale air and mold. They entered slowly, rifles raised—not because they expected trouble, but because expecting it had kept them alive this long.

They moved like a unit. Like always.

She went left. He went right.

Only when they met back at the center of the store did her father speak again.

“You’re strong, you know.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I never told you that enough when you were younger.” He was quiet for a moment, eyes scanning a collapsed shelf. “You always were. Stubborn as hell, too. Used to stomp through the snow like you were mad at the earth itself.”

She snorted. “I was.”

“I know.” His voice softened. “I always thought you’d grow up one day and find someone who saw that fire in you. That strength. And didn’t try to put it out.”

She looked at him, breath catching.

“And if that’s Joel for you” he sighed. “Then I’ll get over myself.”

She opened her mouth to answer.

But then—

Click.

Her blood froze.

Her father’s head snapped toward the back of the store.

Click-click-click.

A sound like dry bones grinding together. Like a death rattle with teeth.

Then came the second one. Another clicker. Then a third.

She didn’t speak. Just moved.

They both did.

She crouched, hand gripping her rifle. Her father motioned toward the side aisle, and she followed without a sound, boots gliding across broken tile. Through the broken glass, she could see them—shadows moving jerky and wrong, heads twitching toward the smallest sound, fingers curling like claws.

Three clickers.

Maybe more.

The back door had collapsed. They must’ve slipped through in the cold. Nesting in the dark.

Her father reached for a bottle on the ground, threw it hard across the room.

It shattered against the counter.

The clickers screamed.

They turned—horrible, violent, faces split open with fungus and fury—and tore toward the sound.

That was their chance.

Her father hissed, “Go.”

They sprinted.

Through the store. Out the front.

She didn’t stop to check behind her.

Didn’t stop to think.

She vaulted onto her horse as her father did the same, and they tore down the street with the sound of inhuman shrieks behind them, snow flying up in thick white sprays.

One clicker made it out behind them. Then another. Then more.

Too many.

Their horses galloped hard, fast, trained for this—ears back, muscles straining, hooves pounding snow like drums.

She looked over her shoulder once.

Saw them.

At least six.

Maybe seven.

Crawling from the shadows like something birthed from hell.

“Shit,” she muttered, pushing her horse harder.

Her father shouted, “North! Ridge trail!”

She followed him, adrenaline slicing through her veins like fire. The cold vanished. The ache in her heart forgotten. All that mattered now was the sound of breath, hoofbeats, the familiar rhythm of survival.

They didn’t stop.

Not even when the screams faded behind them.

Back in Jackson, Joel ran a hand down his jaw and stood from the porch.

He’d just finished fixing a cracked pipe behind the bakery—a job that took longer than expected because the pipe had half-frozen inside the wall. He’d worked in silence, jaw clenched, eyes tight, letting the rhythm of labor soothe the knot in his chest.

Now, the sun was beginning to dip behind the mountains.

And she wasn’t home.

He looked down the street.

Her house—their street—was quiet. He thought about walking there. Just to see if she was back. Just to check.

But instead, he grabbed the toolbox and walked to the next house on his list. Another gate. Another hinge. Another thing to fix while his hands itched to do something useful.

But every time his fingers touched the cold metal or wood, he thought of her.

Of the way her nose scrunched up when she was deep in a repair.

Of the way she always smelled like hay and cedar.

Of how she drank her tea too hot and didn’t flinch.

He thought about how she left that morning. Not just left—but walked away from him. Took off his flannel like it was nothing. Didn’t even look back.

He should’ve stopped her.

God, he should’ve.

But he hadn’t. And now she was out on patrol, probably somewhere far beyond the safe zones, riding into God knows what with her father.

He’d checked in at the stables earlier. Ellie had refused to speak more than a few words to him. Said she was fine. Said Willie was fine. Said nothing else.

He’d wanted to ask more. Push more.

But Ellie wasn’t talking to him either.

And Joel?

Joel wasn’t good at saying the right thing on a good day.

But today?

He just wanted to hold her. Tell her he was sorry. That he was hers. That he’d lied this morning not because he didn’t believe in them, but because he was scared. Because he didn’t know how to do it right. Because every time he pictured a future with her, he felt like the world might just take her away, too.

She wasn’t Sarah.

She wasn’t Tess.

She was herself.

And she was his. In every way that mattered.

He’d bring her tea in the mornings even if she never forgave him.

He’d fix every fence and every damn window in Jackson if it meant she felt safe.

He’d wait.

Even if it broke him a little every day she wasn’t beside him in that bed, tangled in those sheets, snoring soft with her head tucked under his chin.

He didn’t need grand gestures.

He just needed her to come back.

Safe.

Whole.

Still his.

And far beyond the gates of Jackson, with blood in their mouths and snow on their backs—

The clickers kept hunting.

And she kept running.