gothams youngest milf

You agree on that, listening when Joel tells you to stay put and walks around to your side of the car. He opens the door for you, holding his arm out and allowing you to intertwine yours with him. He leads you up the restaurant, which from what you can tell, looks pretty expensive just from the decor. There’s a doorman at the front who leads you in towards the host where Joel gives his name for the reservation. 

You can already feel it just from being in public with him for a few minutes – the energy he exudes, it’s indescribable. There’s something about him that makes you safe as he leads you through the restaurant, following behind the host to your table. It’s towards the back of the room, more secluded and intimate. The area is dimly lit, a small candle in the middle of the table. Joel pulls out your chair, of course he does, and makes sure you’re comfortable before taking his own seat.

“Quite the gentlemen, aren’t you?” you tease.

He shrugs, unable to hide his cocky grin. “I do my best.”

Chuckling to yourself, you pull out your phone to scan the QR code for the menu that stands in the middle of the table. Joel watches you intently before pulling out his own phone, copying the same thing you do… but he struggles. You reach your hand out, offering to do it for him silently. He clears his throat, passing it to you and allowing you to pull up the menu for him. Handing it back, you feel his warm skin brush against you, sending goosebumps all up your arm.

“I think the QR codes are stupid anyways,” you say, trying to ease his slight discomfort. 

He hums, nodding. “Makes me feel old.”

You reach your hand across the table, feeling inclined to touch his. “I think it’s really sexy, Joel.”

He laughs breathily, lips quirking upwards. “Shut up.”

There’s a few moments of silence as you both look over the menu, you try not to react too much at the prices. In all honesty you’d be fine with Joel taking you anywhere as long as you’re in his company. But it’s a nice change from the usual dates you’d go on; there’s nothing low effort about him and you feel taken care of. 

“Red or white?” Joel asks, his eyes gazing over the menu.

“Red – but we can get anything you’d like,” you add quickly.

He rolls his eyes playfully. “We’ll get red. I prefer it as well.”

When the server comes back, she looks about as impressed as you were when you came across his Tinder profile. You watch her smile, addressing Joel when she asks what you both would like to drink, and her eyes trail over him a bit too long for your comfort. She doesn’t even realize you’re looking at her; but when you turn your attention back to Joel – he’s only looking at you as he speaks. 

“We’ll take the Keplinger Cabernet Sauvignon.”

“Two glasses?” 

“The bottle.” He nods.

You raise your eyebrows at him but his demeanor doesn’t waver. 

“I’ll be right back with that, sir,” the server says, pretty much gawking at him before she walks away from the table, swaying her hips. 

Your mouth falls open in amusement, looking back at Joel. “Wow.” You breathe.

“What?” He asks obliviously. 

“She was checking you out,” you note, glancing down on the menu to the bottle of wine he just ordered. 

“Who?”

You look back up from your phone, head tilted at him with a smirk, “The server.”

Joel’s head is tilted down, his eyes low while he looks up at you, then he reaches over the table grasping your hand in his, admiring you as his thumb rubs over your skin gently. “I was too busy looking at you to notice.”

You let out a shaky breath, shaking your head slightly as your body temperature raises. You catch the price of the bottle, heart skipping a beat. “Th-this is way too much, Joel.” 

“Why don’t you let me worry about that, yeah, baby?”

“Okay,” you whisper, finding it hard to keep strong eye contact. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

The server returns after a few minutes, setting down two wine glasses and presenting the bottle to Joel. He gives a polite nod before she pops it open, pouring a little bit in his glass. He brings it up to his lip, tasting the dark liquid before nodding again, a quick thank you to the server as he watches you. She fills up your glass as well before taking both of your food orders from Joel.

“Can I get you anything else?” She asks, her fingernails ghosting on the table, her body angled towards him.

He glances at her briefly. “No, thank you.”

“Please, don’t hesitate if you need something.” Her words linger in the air for a moment before she’s off again.

You chuckle as she disappears, picking up your wine glass and holding it towards Joel. He brings his up, clinking it against yours gently before you both indulge in a big sip. It’s smooth, glides down smoothly, and you hum in satisfaction. 

“You like it?” He smiles.

“It’s perfect.”

Despite the server’s over the top behavior, you find it nearly impossible to be uncomfortable, not with the way Joel pays attention to you – the way he notices your expression. It stirs something deep inside of you, that feeling you had when you first got into his car. You lick your lips nervously, feeling entranced by just how in control he really is. You might’ve thought you had the upper hand in this situation at first, but it’s clear now. You were wrong. 

“Can I ask you something? You can say pass if you don’t want to answer.”

“Shoot.”

“Sarah and Ellie’s mother; is she in the picture?” You ask, picking up your glass again and gulping. 

Joel nods, as if he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Sarah’s mom isn’t in the picture, no.” When he says it, there’s no sign of discomfort or resentment in his tone. “When she got pregnant, she wasn’t necessarily ecstatic, so I kind of saw it coming,” He begins to explain. “Then when Sarah was born, she wanted no part in her life. I wasn’t willing to force her into a life she didn’t want, you know? That wouldn’t have been fair to Sarah.” “So, you raised Sarah on your own?” You confirm.

“I did,” he says with a smile. “There was no way in hell I was leaving my baby. I mean, I was in love before she was even born.” You laugh softly at the thought of it. “It was fuckin’ hard, don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t change anything, though.”

“It sounds like you’re lucky to have each other.” You beam, looking up at him. He nods proudly, another sip of his wine. 

“And Ellie,” he starts, laughing just from saying her name.

“Did you have her with someone else?”

“No, no,” he says quickly. “Ellie’s not my biological daughter. I adopted her.”

You’re left speechless, waiting for him to continue. 

“Ellie grew up in the neighborhood, she’d always been friends with Sarah – in the same classes and such. She had a rough home life, honestly, she spent most of her time with us.” You feel your heart clenching as he explains, your brows knitted at the pain in his voice at that detail. 

“Anyways, long story short, when she turned thirteen, I asked her if she wanted me to adopt her; one of the happiest days of my life,” he reminisces on the memory. “It was a long, hard process, tons of paperwork and days in court – but worth it nonetheless.” 

“That’s incredible,” you mutter. “You’re a really good person, Joel.”

He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “That’s my kid, you know? I’m sure she’ll tell you the full story one day.” Joel’s words make your chest tighten. One day. As if he knows it’s bound to happen, as if he’s planning on keeping you. 

“I’d like that.”

There’s a few moments of silence, both of you lingering in the special moment of his vulnerability.

“Tell me something about you I don’t know,” he says, perking up.

“Hm,” you think for a moment, sipping your wine. “I really like writing.”

“Yeah?” He raises his eyebrows. “What do you like to write?”

You shrug, biting your lip. “Mostly romance.”

“You’ll have to let me read,” Joel says, setting his glass down. 

“I’ll send it to you when you’re alone.” You snicker, waiting for him to catch on.

He looks confused for a moment. “Why when I’m alone?” 

Shaking your head, you wave your hand to brush him off. “You’ll see.” 

“So, what’s your process for writing?” Joel asks, seemingly interested.

You feel giddy at his question, always looking for an opportunity to talk about it. “Well, usually, I’ll have a small idea, then most of the time I’ll mention it to one of my good friends, Heather, who writes too – you’ll most likely meet her soon – and then we kind of bounce off of each other and fall down this rabbit hole of ideas. After that, I’m feeling super inspired and then I kind of gotta set the mood for my writing –” you breathe, stopping yourself. “Oh, sorry, I’m rambling.”

“No, no,” he replies quickly, “Please keep going.” 

You notice the darkness in his eyes, the way he’s looking at you while you speak and you feel your blood pressure rising again. “So I – I… set the mood... with some music… and kind of zone out for a few hours.”

He gives you a crooked grin. “What’s wrong, angel?”

“Nothing, I –”

“Don’t tell me I’m making you nervous,” he teases playfully. “After what we’ve just done?” 

You huff, stealing his line. “Shut up.”

You enjoy the rest of the dinner, both of you unable to stop smiling as you share more and more about each other. Neither of you want to get too far ahead of yourselves, but things just feel so good, so natural and you can't get enough.

When Joel asks for the check, the server holds it out for you to take and he laughs awkwardly, reaching his hand for it.

"Oh, I'll take that."

She narrows her eyes at you before giving it to Joel. "Lucky girl."

"Jesus," Joel mutters as she walks away, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

You shrug. "She's not wrong."

–

Joel is pulsing with excitement after you finish up and he’s walking you back towards his car. It’s later in the night now, and he shoots a text to the girls after confirming with you that you’d be coming home with him.

Joel: Is everyone okay with my date coming over?

Ellie: HELL YEAH

Sarah: yes teehee 

Joel: Be nice, she’s nervous

Ellie: hahahaha

Sarah: awww why is she nervous? we’re so cool 

It’s a short car ride and Joel spends the entirety of it showing you his favorite songs. You don’t mind at all, happily listening and laughing at the way he bobs his head to the beat of every song. Joel parks in front of the house, coming to your side before opening the door and leading you up the walkway. Before you can even get close to the door, it swings wide open with Ellie and Sarah standing there, goofy smiles on their faces.

“Good evening, kids,” Ellie smirks as they walk towards you both, hand in hand.

You gulp, hands sweating at the thought of meeting Joel’s teen daughters. It would mean so much to you to actually gain their approval. 

“Hi,” you say softly, introducing yourself. “It’s really nice to meet you guys.” 

“Likewise,” Sarah beams, settling your nerves slightly. “Did you guys have fun?

“We did,” Joel interrupts, eyes narrowing at them. “What are you two devils up to?”

“We’re gonna go to Riley’s to watch a movie.” Ellie winks dramatically and Joel’s eyes widen as he clears his throat uncomfortably.

“Okay, do her parents know?”

“Yup, we’ll text you later,” Sarah says, nodding. 

“So nice meeting you.” Ellie smiles and then guides Sarah, walking away.

“Be safe!” Joel calls after them.

“Love you,” Sarah says, turning her head back for a moment.

You let out a laugh once they’re far and Joel shakes his head, sighing. “They’re too much.”

“You have cool daughters,” you say.

He hums, smiling proudly. “I know.”

–

You walk slowly into his bedroom, eyes wandering as he closes the door behind you and you hear the click of the lock. His room is different than you’d pictured – dark furniture and curtains, lots of picture frames, a plugged in fan facing his bed. Standing almost awkwardly in the middle of the room, your arms crossed, you watch Joel take a seat on the side of his bed, tilting his head as he looks at you. 

He pats his lap. “Come sit, baby.” 

Walking over shyly, you settle into his lap, his arms instinctively wrapping around you as you hold your hands behind his neck. His face tilts up towards you as he looks at you – really looks at you, noticing you, your body language, the blush on your cheeks.

“You know, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Joel reassures. “We can just sleep… or I can take you home.”

You lean in, placing a soft kiss on his lips, the scruff of his beard on your face. “I don’t want to sleep. It’s just – I don’t want this to be a one time thing.”

“What gives you that impression?” His tone is amused now.

You roll your eyes, shrugging timidly. “Don’t know. I’m overthinking, I guess.”

“There’s nothing for you to worry about,” Joel tells you. “Now, tell me what you’ve been thinking about.” 

You feel so small in his grasp, so powerless, it makes the words get caught in your throat. You feel like you can’t even breathe with him looking at you, with his hands on your body and his hard cock twitching beneath you.

“You want my fingers? My tongue on your clit? What about my cock in your little pussy?” He examines you, the way you squirm at his filthy words, how much you love it when he talks to you like that. 

You nod, it’s not enough for him. “Tell me.”

“Yes. All of it. Need you,” you say, almost a whisper.

He keeps one arm wrapped around you and brings the other up to hold your cheek as he pulls you in again, parting your lips with his own. Kissing you softly, so sweetly, tongue massaging against yours as he runs a comforting hand up your back. You begin to feel more confident with his initiation, twisting your fingers in his hair and pulling him deeper into you, wanting to be impossibly closer to him. 

You whine as his kisses trail down your chin, to your neck, and he finds a sweet spot, biting and licking there repeatedly. Tilting your head, you allow him more access and he relishes, wanting to taste and savor every single part of you. You’re a mess in his lap, squirming in his hold and you feel your panties becoming uncomfortably damp. 

“Quit your whining.” You feel his warm breath against your skin. 

Please, please, please. He lifts up with you still in his lap, your legs wrapping tightly around him. Turning around, he tosses you onto the bed, looking down at you, between your legs where your dress rides up. Your pussy is throbbing, aching for him as he gets down on his knees, grabbing at your ankles and pulling you forward to the edge of the bed. You cry out at the feeling, the way he throws you round and does what he wants with you – it’s too fucking good. 

“You like it when I treat you like this, huh?” Joel teases, kissing from your ankle, up your legs and towards your inner thighs. You nod rapidly at that. “I’m gonna make you cum so hard, baby.” 

Finally, he’s right where you want him, face between your thighs as he breathes against the damp spot on your panties. He bumps his nose against your covered clit, inhaling deeply as he runs his hands up and down your sides underneath your dress. Keeping one hand on your torso, he moves the other to pull your panties to the side, groaning deeply at the sight of your bare pussy. He quickly pulls down the fabric and you’re soaked in anticipation, lips puffy and glistening. 

“Fuck,” he curses. “Look at that.”

You whimper, pushing your hips up towards his mouth. He looks up at you, a playful smile on his face as he leans down with his eyes still on you, tongue sticking out to lick through your folds. Your eyes are filling with tears now and his tongue moves agonizingly slow up and down over your clit. Joel watches you closely, sucks your clit between his lips, pulling on it and massaging it with his tongue. Your hands are in his hair, tugging as you grind upwards into him.

There’s something so different about the way Joel eats your pussy – sure, it’s for your pleasure, but he’s really fucking enjoying himself. You can’t take your eyes off of him, the way he’s moaning as you gush onto his sheets, slurping and licking, shoving his tongue into your tight hole. You’re so entranced that you don’t even notice his fingers until two are shoved all the way inside of you, immediately thrusting rapidly while your body jolts against the mattress. 

“It’s too much,” you pant, “So much.”

He peaks up at you, a wicked smile on his face. “Oh, baby, but I’m just getting started.” 

Joel wastes no time getting his fingers and tongue back up to a fast pace and he does it with intention now, you’re gonna cum. You nearly lose it when he brings his free hand to your lower belly and presses down, increasing the tightness and pushing you to your orgasm. You’re screaming his name, feeling the vibrations from him groaning into your clit while your pussy squeezes around his fingers.

“I’m cumming, I’m cumming,” you choke out, your body writhing. 

He pops your clit out of his mouth to talk to you. “That’s it, you’re doing so well for me. You’re cumming so much, baby, fuck.”

“So good, Joel,” you cry as he continues to work his fingers inside of you, gradually slowing and then pulling out when he’s satisfied. 

“Take that dress off and get comfortable,” he says, getting off his knees and taking off his shirt. 

You can’t help but stare as you remove your own clothing, getting a first look at his figure. His skin is tan, glowing under the warm lights of his bedroom. His biceps bulge, his abdomen toned with a small belly and a patch of hair leading down to the hem of his jeans. Joel notices you staring and it makes his cock twitch as he discards his jeans and boxers carelessly onto the floor. 

You crawl back towards the headboard, leaning onto your elbows with your legs bent and feet flat against the sheets. He joins you on the bed once he’s naked, his cock angry and hard as he crawls towards you, between your legs. He pushes your bent legs up, one hand near the side of your head to hold up his weight and the other on your hip as his cock brushes against your entrance.

“What is it, baby?” He asks once he notices your knitted brows and places sweet kisses on your collar bones, making it hard for you to focus.

“It’s been a while since I’ve…,” you say, almost embarrassed for being worried about the pain you were bound to feel from the large size of him.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” Joel whispers against your warm skin, and then he’s pushing the tip in. You’re already gasping at the feeling and he’s soothing you, making you feel comfortable. “You’re okay, baby, hold on to me.”

You reach for him, gripping his muscular back as he continues to slowly push inside you until you feel the hair above his cock brush against your clit. There’s a burning feeling, your pussy tensing and clenching up on him as you do your best to get used to the size. You’re both moaning at the feeling of him being fully inside of you as you keep eye contact, the pain disappearing and you begin to grow desperate for more. 

“Please, please.” 

Joel pulls out all the way and fills you deeply again. He glances down to where he’s stretching you – making you his, and his eyes roll back at the sight of you, so perfect for him. You’re squeezing his cock again and he halts, grunting now. “Fuck – baby, please don’t, I’m not gonna last if you do that.” 

“Fuck me,” you beg, “Just fuck me.”

He starts snapping his hips into yours expertly, your jaw dropped as he moves to find your g-spot, and he takes notice of the way your breathing changes when he finally hits it.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” He asks, a coy smile as he licks his lips. 

“Yes, yes, it’s so good.”

“I can tell, baby, just by that look on your pretty face.”

Joel focuses on that spot for a long while, pulling out completely just to slam back into you at full force, and your body is so tense from the feeling, you’re clawing his back in desperation. Joel’s face is contorted with pleasure and you can tell he’s holding back a bit, he refuses to cum just yet, you feel too fucking good like this. He’s gripping your hip so tightly, and you welcome the pain, knowing you’ll be happy to wake up to the evidence of him tomorrow.

“Your pussy is so good, shit.” 

Joel pulls out of you, flipping you over onto your stomach like you’re some sort of ragdoll. He grabs both of your hips, bending you at the waist to pull your ass up towards him. You keep your depraved sounds quiet, desperate little pleas as you feel him lick from your clit up to your asshole, “Fuck, Da –” Oh, oops. You shut your mouth, eyes going wide at your slip up and you’re grateful that he can’t see your face that’s pressed into the pillow. 

He groans into your cunt, lifting up and spreading your cheeks. You hear him spit and feel the saliva drip down to your hole. “That’s okay, you can say it.” You feel your face go red at that, embarrassed at the fact that he knew what you were aching to call him. Breathing out a shaky breath, you stay quiet as he rubs his spit over your hole, dragging his thumb back to your asshole and putting pressure right there. “Go ahead,” Joel coaxes, rubbing the tip of his leaking cock and pressing it against your entrance. He teases you there, pushing in just barely.

You whimper a low, “Daddy.”

“Fuck,” he drags the word out, feeling defeated by you. “Such a good fuckin’ girl.” Joel starts to push his cock in at that, the tip stretching you open. 

Both his hands are gripping your hips tightly, his tip notched at your dripping hole. You fist your hands in the sheets as he thrusts his cock all the way inside you, burning as he stretches you and bumps against your cervix. Instinctively, you push forward, trying to crawl away from him – this position makes him feel so much deeper, but no, his big hands are holding you in place. 

“That’s a lot, huh?” Joel grunts, holding you right there, stuffed with his cock. “You can take it, you’re such a good girl. I wish you could see the way your pussy looks all nice and full of me.”

Joel leans forward, getting deeper as he places kisses along your back with his hands running down your sides. He’s fucking into you so quickly, and you can feel his heavy balls slapping against your clit. Grabbing a fistful of your hair, he keeps your head pushed to the side to get a better look at you – eyes squeezed shut with your mouth open, nearly drooling while he keeps you steady. 

You release straggled, desperate moans while his cock beats into your cervix, and he doesn’t let up for a single moment. Your wet heat is pulling him in, gripping him tightly as he focuses on making you cum and delaying his own orgasm. He hums in pleasure at the sight of your legs trembling, and he grabs your hips with both hands, supporting your weight and making it easier for you to go limp as he relentlessly fills you. 

“Daddy,” a sob as you call for him, reaching your arms back.

“Yes, baby?” He reaches forward to hold your hand, rubbing his thumb against it soothingly. 

“I can’t, can’t –”

“I’ve got you,” he grunts, his eyes rolling back at the sound of your broken voice, “You’re gonna lay there and take it, you’re okay.” 

The tone in his voice is clear; he’s gonna give you exactly what you’d been asking for and he isn’t gonna stop until he’s satisfied. You’re screaming his name over and over as your vision starts to fade, your orgasm pulling you under and taking over your body. You don’t have to tell him you’re cumming either, he can see the ring of your cream around his cock. The obscene sight of you has his balls tightening and then he’s pulling out of you in one swift motion, aggressively jerking his cock now. You can see him out of your peripheral vision as he gets up on one foot to shoot his hot cum all over your back. His mouth is open, body shaking as he releases and you think that it’s impossible for a man to look so fucking good. 

“Just give me a minute, angel,” he says breathily, not bothering to clean his cum off your back before he’s turning you over and leaning down to eat your pussy again, lips immediately wrapping around your clit to suck gently. 

“Wait – we’re going again?”

He chuckles at that, lazily licking you as his hand comes to his semi-hard dick. “You’re so cute, baby. We’re not finished until I say so.”

You whine, your pussy so sensitive now as he stimulates you. All the while, you're mesmerized by him slowly beginning to stroke his cock, he thumbs the wet head, hissing at his own touch. He buries his tongue into your fucked out hole as his grip on his cock tightens, pumping faster now and your pussy is getting all wet and sticky from watching. He looks up, catching the fact that you’re so focused on his hand that he can’t help but hum, pulling away to get up on his knees and taunt you. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, staring at his big cock in his hand.

“You like watching me, huh?” 

You’re pouting now, doe eyed while you nod quickly. “Mhm.” 

You can’t help yourself, just the sight of him — he’s so big, frame towering over you as he tugs on his cock and your fingers find your clit. It’s his turn to watch you, the way you rub little circles over yourself with your mouth agape. You use your other hand to form a V, spreading apart your pussy lips and giving yourself better access. His stomach tightens with that, a bead of precum sliding down the head and he aims it over your pussy, letting it drop onto your clit. 

“Give me some, baby,” he says, staring down at your cunt.

You hum, pushing your fingers into your opening and gathering up your slick. He moans as you reach forward, rubbing your wet fingers over the head of his cock, thumbing the slit for a moment. It immediately pulls another drop of precum from the tip, and your orgasm is building at the pornographic sight of him. He looks ravenous, watching you rub your little pussy for him and he spits again, his saliva hitting your clit. You can’t help it, you start cumming, lifting your head off the bed and crying out as your whole body tenses with your orgasm. 

He almost cums again with that and he pulls his hand away from his dick, shaking his head and letting out a breathy laugh. “Fuckin’ hell.” 

“Sorry,” you blush, chuckling with him. 

Joel sighs, rubbing his hand up the middle of your torso until it finds your throat, holding you there without any pressure. “I gotta fuck you again, baby. You can take more, yeah?”

“I’ll take anything you give me.”

“Such a sweet girl,” he says, completely enamored by you and how well you fit him. 

Joel doesn’t let another moment pass before he’s bringing both hands beneath your thighs, spreading your legs wide open and pressing them into the sheets. He gets further on top of you, the weight of him on you and your head lifts up at the stretch he’s giving you. You’re fully exposed for him, pussy gaping as he lines his cock up once again. The air gets knocked out of you when he shoves himself all the way inside – feeling more split open if it’s even possible. You cry out, leaning back onto your elbows to stabilize yourself and watch his cock slip into your needy cunt. 

“It’s so deep – so fucking deep, Joel.”

“Fuckin’ take it like the good girl you are,” he grunts.

You feel you can't breathe, every thought you’ve ever had being silenced by the pounding of his cock. Fully submitting, you allow yourself to give into the pleasure, your body going limp against the mattress once more while he fucks you roughly. He watches you closely, smiling at the way you give up, the way you hand yourself over to him. There’s tears streaming down your face now, and all that can be heard is the wet slapping sound of skin and your little choked sobs. 

“Mhm, that’s my girl,” Joel sighs, “So pretty when you cry for me, baby.” 

You can’t respond, barely processing his words and feeling so dumb from his cock. Completely overstimulated, the tears continue to flow and your pussy is aching now, teetering between pain and pleasure. 

“I swear, I’m gonna make you mine,” he half-laughs at the thought of it, feeling so sure of you in that moment and all you can do is nod up at him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Yes, yes, yes.

“Mhm,” you hum again, biting your bottom lip so harshly you feel like you might draw blood. 

“I need you to give me one more.” 

You think there’s no way it’s happening, but he’s really not asking you at this point. You’re screaming when he brings a hand to your clit, barely applying pressure as he rubs but it’s more than enough. Your body begins to squirm uncontrollably as he coaxes your fourth orgasm of the night out of you, your pussy leaking on his cock. 

“That’s it, baby. Oh, fuck – keep cumming on my dick.” 

You’re gasping for air, coming down from your orgasm and he’s pulling out of you, allowing your legs to slump down. He quickly grabs you by the arm, drags you off the bed with him and pushes you down to your knees. You sit back onto your heels, unable to hold yourself up as you look at him; your eyes red, face puffy and lips swollen. 

“I know how much you like my cum down your throat,” he mocks, grabbing the hair at the nape of your neck and tilting your head back. “Open your mouth.” 

You whimper, sticking out your tongue and grasping onto his thighs. He jerks his cock fast, cursing and grunting as his seed finally spills out of him. He keeps the head on your tongue, slapping it there and allowing his release to squirt into your mouth. You’re groaning at the salty taste of him, keeping yourself wide open and taking every drop of him.

Joel lets you close your mouth and you swallow it all, chest heaving up and down. He’s breathing roughly, stroking your hair with his eyes closed as the orgasm gently fades away. Letting his hand move downwards, he holds your cheek and you lean into him, desperate for his comfort and he lingers in that moment for a little while longer.

He hooks his hands under your armpits, lifting you with ease to your feet and then wrapping his arms around your waist. You let him hold you there, breathing in his scent for a few seconds before he’s pulling back to look at you, a smirk playing on his lips. 

“You okay?”

“Mhm,” you smile lazily. “Gotta pee.”

He nods, releasing you and sitting back on the bed. “First door on your right.”

“Okay,” you whisper shyly, even after all of it. 

You start walking towards the door, unaware of how weak your legs are and you stumble into his dresser. Your face heats with embarrassment as you gather yourself, gripping onto the wood and glancing back at him awkwardly.

He laughs, head tilted at the adorable sight of you. “You good, there?”

“Yup.” You huff, then speed walk to the bathroom

–

Joel grabs his phone, opening up Find My IPhone and seeing that the girls are still at Riley’s. He swipes to his messages with them as he heads towards the kitchen, grabbing some water for you while he waits for you in the bathroom.

Joel: It’s late, come home.

Ellie: sure thing father

Joel: Should I come get you?

Sarah: we’ll walk lol

Joel: My date is staying over BTW.

Ellie: HHAHAHA did she teach you that abbreviation?

Joel: 🙄

Sarah: omg stop 

Joel: LMK when you’re home.

Ellie: LMFAOOO

Sarah: bye. 

Joel heads back up to his room, waters in hand and finds you sprawled out over his bed. He chuckles happily at the sight of you and places the glasses on the nightstand. You mumble as he climbs into bed next to you, pulling you into his body and wrapping his arms around you tightly. You throw a leg over his body, nustling your head into the crook of his neck.

“You keep fucking me like that and you’re gonna end up in one of my stories,” you croak, tilting your head up to smirk at him. 

His chest vibrates with a laugh. “Do I get a cut of the payment?” 

“Is ass not enough payment for you?” you joke, and he makes a face, mocking you.

“Wow, it’s like that?” 

“Yup.” 

“What’s your next week looking like?” He asks, kissing your forehead.

You sigh sleepily into his skin. “Just working but I’m free on the weekends.”

“I’ll plan something for us then –” he’s interrupted by a small snoring sound. He cocks his eyebrow, looking down at you in amusement. “Did you just fall asleep?”

Silence.

Joel shakes his head, kissing your forehead once more. “Sleep well, baby.”

part three

I'm not ready to let go of tinder joel so this is not the last you'll be seeing hehe

You chuckle to yourself and go upstairs throwing your dirty, ripped clothes in the hamper, thinking you’ll visit Maria later and see if she could help you think about how to mend your jeans, maybe you could turn them into shorts or a mini skirt, or give them a distressed look and rip the other side as well. You’ll definitely ask for advice on how to give a second or maybe third or fourth chance to your flannel. She had always been good at coming up with solutions and good ideas. No wonder Jackson is a thriving community. Maria and her father had put their everything into making Jackson what it is now. You don’t remember exactly how or when you and Maria became close, but you’ll never forget Tommy’s face when he first saw her. Wide eyes and, a shy smile and he stayed quiet for the first time since you met the guy. You’d seen Tommy flirt with women before, he’s a charmer, always had a cheeky comment under his sleeve that would have women giggling and twirling their hair,, having women eating from the palm of his hand, but Maria was different. She’s strong, independent, and a little intimidating if you were honest, since as far as you two were concerned when you first met her, she was the boss around Jackson. Tommy was stunned. If you had to explain love at first sight, you’d tell the story of Tommy falling for Maria.

The hot water eased your sore arms and tense neck and washed away the mud, dirt, and blood. The mix of water and soap made the little cuts and your scraped knee sting a little, but you needed to clean the wounds for them to heal properly.

After your shower, you make your way to your friend’s house, hoping to spend some time with Maria before Tommy gets back from whatever he’s up to, maybe you could have dinner at the canteen.

You knock on their door twice, like you’ve always done, and soon enough, right before you can knock again, Maria opens her door, welcoming you with a small smile. You can tell she’s tired, the bag under her eyes and deep sighs.

“How’s everything going?” Maria asked, inviting you in.

You hesitated a little on what to tell her, “You know, more of the same I guess. How are you doing?”

She gave you the same small smile as she did when she opened the door, “I’m good,” Maria sighed. “Just a little worried” It took Maria a few seconds to answer. Showing her vulnerable side wasn’t easy for her.

“About what? Is the baby okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, this lil nugget is fine and dandy” She smiled thinking of her child and how quickly time has passed, her due date getting closer. “It’s, we’ll you know, Jackson’s safety. Our safety” She said, rubbing her round belly. “I’m sure you’ve heard, infected are pretty much on the clear, less of them have been seen, pretty much back to normal numbers, but raiders are still an active threat” She looked down.

You didn’t know what to say. You’ve obviously heard about it, this wasn’t something she could control for once around Jackson, yet, she felt responsible for everyone, the community she helped to build, and giving people and herself a second chance at a normal life, felt like it was about to slip through her fingers any second now.

“What can I do to help?” You asked. That was probably a silly question. Something you were taught to ask in this kind of situation out of courtesy, but still wanted to be there for her.

“We were gonna ask you this soon anyway, but we need pretty much everyone to go on patrol full-time,” She said.

You nodded as an instinct, straightening your posture, wanting to seem a lot more confident than you really felt. You cursed yourself, why did you have to ask? You could have waited a few days until they told you on their own.

“Of course” You extend a hand to Maria, which she took and squeezed.

“Thank you, honey,” Maria said. She looked at you grateful, knowing she broke the promise she made to you when you two became close.

“Hey, I was thinking maybe we could go and have dinner at the canteen. Today they’ll serve your favorite” you said, wiggling your eyebrows.

She smiled at you and nodded. “Sounds like a plan”

You two walked through Jackson, arms linked, admiring the sunset, talking about anything but the Miller brothers, safety threats, drifting in conversation about mending clothes, cravings, and baby Miller’s possible names.

“Okay, what about Cameron?” you asked, trying for what seemed like the 10th time, trying to guess at least one of the baby names that had made it to the list.

“Nope,” Maria said, emphasizing the n. “You’ll know when the time comes”

“Come on! And Brianna? Brianna Miller sounds good”

“Oh hell no” Maria answered, scrunching her nose, “I caught my prom date kissing a girl named Brianna in the middle of the dance floor after I left for 5 minutes to go to the restroom”

“No way!” you gasped.

“Mhm. Heard they got married after graduation or something” She giggled at the memory.

You continued trying to guess and even begged a little, but she didn’t budge, only telling you that they had already picked two names for a girl and two for a boy, but they’ll choose the one when the baby is born.

The canteen was busy as ever, it seemed like all of Jackson decided to have dinner there that day. You two picked what you wanted to eat, and were looking for a table that had two empty seats, but it seemed impossible.

“BOO!” someone said from behind you, making you almost drop your food. You turned around quickly, to see who it was

“Oh my god, Ellie!” There she was standing, an amused smile on her face.

“I’m sorry. Too easy of a target” Ellie laughed. “Hey, I’m here with Joel, why don’t you come sit with us?” She asked, looking at the two of you.

“You sure about that?” You asked her, definitely not wanting to be rejected by the man, or maybe making him leave, which would be unfair, considering he got there first.

She shrugged, “Yeah, why not?” She wasn’t oblivious to Maria and Joel’s relationship, which has improved a lot over the past months. They talk more and spend a little more time together as the family they now are, but according to Tommy, Joel still is scared of Maria, a fact that amused the girl, but a sign that there’s a lot they need to work on still.

Ellie was also aware of the way he never really acknowledged you, but she didn’t really care about that, she thought Joel could get over whatever problem he had like the big boy he is, and be civilized enough to sit through a meal with you two without Tommy’s presence.

You looked at Maria and she gave you a subtle nod “Alright then, lead us” You said, smiling to Ellie.

“Let me help you with this,” She said, taking Maria’s plate off her hands and turning around, telling you to follow her.

“Look who I found, old man,” Ellie said, taking a seat in front of Joel who was waiting for Ellie to come back to start eating. “Your sister-in-law Maria, and your uh…” She hesitated for a second, squinted her eyes as she thought about your relationship with Joel “Patrol partner” she said, adding your name.

He looked up at Ellie, then to Maria and you.

“And they’re sitting with us”. Ellie finished, not leaving room for Joel to protest. She was sure he wouldn’t say no but still wanted to make it abundantly clear, just in case.

He nodded. “‘Course” Joel cleared his throat before asking “Where’s Tommy by the way?”, directing his attention to Maria.

“He’s at a meeting. They’re planning a new patrol route. Guess he’ll try to go first and check it out himself before sending others that way,” Maria explained, sighing, as she adjusted her chair, not wanting to hit the table with her belly, sitting right next to you. You sat in front of Joel and Maria sat facing Ellie.

“This smells so good,” Maria said, before taking the first bite of her food.

You agreed with her, but you couldn’t find your fork, just your knife. “Oh shoot, I forgot to grab a fork,” You said, ready to stand up and get one.

“Here, use this one,” Joel said, giving you a clean fork.

“Thank you,” you said, taking it from his hand, his fingers brushing yours. That whole gesture surprised you. You weren’t expecting it at all, he has never been anything close to nice to you. Joel wasn’t a monster, you’re sure of it. He’s a kind guy underneath his hard exterior. Tommy has told you about that warmer side of him, you’ve seen it yourself in the way Joel treats Ellie, he just isn’t like that with you and that’s fine, you guess. He didn’t need to be, he didn’t owe you that at all.

He nodded again before he stood up to get one for himself.

The rest of the meal was spent with mostly you, Maria, and Ellie talking. She told you about everything Dina, Jesse, and she did that day, spending most of the time with the horses, sheep, and cows, Dina teaching them how to tend to them and feeding them apples, vegetables, and hay.

It was nice to see Ellie enjoying herself, and finding her place in Jackson, being able to be a kid, even in the middle of the end of the world, having friends her age that she could spend her time with.

As you listened to Ellie’s day, you felt Joel’s leg brushing against yours, so you moved your leg away, but after a little while, he moved his leg closer to yours. You moved your leg away from his again, trying not to touch him, but Joel moved closer to you once more. His right hand accidentally brushed yours when he grabbed the salt and when he put it back at the center of the table, stealing glances at you, and you’re sure he smiled when you made a joke that made Ellie and Maria laugh, and the girl congratulating you, telling you “you’re almost as good as me with puns”, making your cheeks feel hot. You tried to stay focused on the rest of the girl’s story and on your food, paying no mind to what he was doing. It wasn’t much in all honesty, Ellie and Maria didn’t seem to notice anything, and if it was anyone else, you would have never thought twice about it, but this was the man that had pretty much avoided you since the day you met all those years ago, the guy that has barely said ten words to you in all these months since he arrived to Jackson and then began going on patrol with you. You continued repeating to yourself that it was nothing, just you overthinking things.

After dinner, as you were getting ready for bed, you couldn’t help but think about the way his subtle touches felt on your skin, it was nice. His hand was warm, you were sure, heat almost radiating from him from how close his leg was to yours, you couldn’t work out if his hands were as rough as they looked, maybe one day you’ll find out on your own. You felt so silly thinking about this, so you turned off the lamp on your nightstand, closed your eyes, and fell asleep.

———

Over the next couple of weeks, being on patrol full-time began taking a toll on you, more mentally than physically. Longer routes meant having more chances of facing danger. Luckily, all you’ve seen so far are infected in different stages, most of them stalkers or clickers. Fast and disgusting but still predictable. Maybe the fact that they had fungi growing out of their heads made it easier for you to shoot them, stab them or cut their throats, showing no mercy for these damned, soulless-looking creatures, trying to save your ass from the infection. You didn’t want to face humans though. You didn't feel capable of killing a human being again, those memories were kept deep, deep down, only revisiting them in your nightmares, sometimes finding comfort in the thought that you had to choose between you or them. You asked yourself what you’d do if you were faced with that choice again? You shook your head, as if that would make you forget all about this, as if not thinking about it would reduce all the chances of having to decide to kill or not to kill another human to zero.

The only thing that helped you ease your mind off everything was spending time with your friends, staying after dinner to play board games, and focusing your attention on Monopoly, Pictionary, and Boggle, laughing at the way Ellie and Tommy made fun of how bad Joel actually was at the latter.

“You were not kidding when you said you fucking suck at this” Ellie said laughing, peeking at the scores you were writing down on a notepad, Joel clearly losing.

“They say years make you wiser, guess is not your case, brother,” Tommy said, earning a loud laugh from Ellie.

Joel scoffed and shook his head.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want, I still beat your asses at Monopoly” Joel defended himself.

As Ellie rearranged the letters for a new game, you caught Joel glancing at you, meeting his gaze, which neither of you let go of until Ellie announced everything was ready for the new round of the game.

These little moments were a daily occurrence now. He’d offer to do the dishes with you, drying them and putting them away, under the excuse of letting Tommy and Maria rest. He wouldn’t lose any chance he got to gently brush his fingers with yours, or bump into you accidentally in the small kitchen, apologizing every time, or trapping you under his larger frame when Maria would ask him to grab something from the cabinets that were over the sink, apologizing to you for the inconvenience.

These didn’t feel like coincidences anymore, but you still weren’t sure. So you chose to indulge in that game, ignoring everything that told you not to even look his way, considering he’s always been mean to you for no apparent reason, but what’s the worst that could happen? He’s made you feel awful before by just looking at you. You’re ready for anything Joel Miller could say or do to you.

When you were getting ready to go on patrol near the gates, checking you have everything you’ll need with you, you’d touch Joel’s bicep, squeezing it softly before asking if he was ready, he’d nod and clear his throat before telling you to go, ready to follow you, repeating the same move after you handed your guns after patrol, wishing him a good day or afternoon, reminding him you’d see him later at Tommy and Maria’s, exchanging glances his way whenever you had the chance, giving him a shy smile, just to change things a little. You had absolutely no idea about whatever was going through his mind, Joel would sometimes look away, or huff before distracting himself with something else. Even if this leads to nowhere with Joel, it’s been fun so far playing a little with him.

You figured this is a thing that has basically stayed between you and Joel since Tommy hasn’t mentioned anything about his older brother, and he’s usually very open about these kinds of things, not losing any opportunity to tease you or Joel.

———

Tommy had told you all about that new route he and the other people had planned, wanting to know where all those raiders were coming from. You’ve discussed this over dinner, all of you trying to convince him that it wasn’t a good idea, that he should go with a bigger group, that he didn’t need to be a hero or prove himself to anyone, but he didn’t listen, even after Maria had begged him not to go.

Now, the night before his departure, you and Tommy were talking, drinking a glass of the good scotch. It wasn’t your favorite, but you chose it was far better than the moonshine and other crafted drinks Jackson’s tavern offered.

“We need to cut the problem at its roots,” Tommy said, tightening his jaw. Since the couple found out Maria was pregnant Tommy changed. He’s always been protective of his loved ones, always going above and beyond for them, knowing what actions he can take to keep them happy and safe, but when Maria told him he was going to be a dad, in this world, in the middle of the apocalypse, some things completely escaped his control, and raiders were one of those things. Jackson has been the oasis in the middle of that mayhem that allowed him to live a normal life, finding himself a wife and the opportunity of starting a family, keeping this place safe for the sake of his family was personal. He wouldn’t forgive himself if anything happened to Maria, his baby, Joel, you, or Ellie, especially if he didn’t exhaust all the possibilities.

“Do you really need to go, Tommy?” You asked, sounding like a broken record. Your gut told you this wasn’t the best idea, but then again, anything that involved the outside world was a bad idea according to you.

He nodded, “Yeah,”

“No you don’t, Tommy,” you said, raising your voice. “Maria will give birth soon, you need to be here for her”

Tommy shook his head “I don’t trust anyone else with this exactly because of that. I need to try everything until this town is safe again, I can’t hand over my family’s safety to anyone else,”

“Are you sure, Tommy?” You asked one last time.

Tommy sighed, “Pretty much,”

“Did you at least make up your mind about going with Joel?” It seemed like the most obvious option. Tommy and Joel were a powerful duo. He’s told you all about the things he and his brother did before they arrived at the Boston QZ to survive. They weren’t good things and Tommy was ashamed of most of them, things that eventually he taught you how to do to keep yourself alive, but in this time and after years of running and hiding from infected and cruel humans, no one’s innocent.

“No, he gotta stay with Ellie,”

“Really? Did he just agree to stay?” You asked in disbelief.

Tommy chuckled, keeping his sight set on his glass “No, I made him. That stubborn old man. Joel insisted, and— you know how he gets. Had to stand my ground but” He took a deep breath “I just couldn't let him go. Not now. This is, well” Tommy hesitated for a second before continuing, “ Hell. This is his second chance. Their second chance. Won’t make the same mistake twice. Can’t afford that to happen again.” He looked at you, with glossy eyes.

You understood, and your heart clenched. That mistake has been part of your late-night conversations many times over the years. The weight of outbreak night was still heavy on his shoulders, all those what-ifs, the regrets of not making it to Joel and Sarah just a second earlier, he should have never let them go on their own, he should have just followed them, keep them safe.

And Ellie. She needed Joel as much as Joel needed Ellie. That girl had won everyone’s hearts. She would never replace Sarah, but Tommy already considered Ellie her niece, and he’d do anything in his power to ensure her well-being.

For Joel, his little brother’s safety has always been a priority, if not his only priority after the outbreak, making it abundantly clear every time they argued back in the QZ, but this was Tommy’s way of taking over Joel’s place for once. Tommy is now aware that his brother has done everything in his power to protect him, even when he never asked, even if it took Tommy years and endless arguments with Joel to realize it. This is a way of thanking him for everything he’s done for him all his life, ever since he was a little kid who looked up to his big brother, and a way of asking Joel’s forgiveness, the last words he snarled at Joel before leaving him at the QZ still haunted Tommy. Many what-ifs surround that last dispute, too.

Continuing this discussion was pointless. Tommy is set on this, he’s a stubborn man as well, and it definitely is something that runs in the Miller genes.

The next day, you went to cover your shift as always, seeing Tommy and Oliver, his partner, next to their horses ready to go, saying the last goodbyes to their loved ones. Maria was talking to Tommy, you could hear her telling her husband to be careful, and Tommy reassured her that everything would be okay, as cocky as always, which you’ve learned that’s Tommy's way to keep his own fears at bay, he smiled and grabbed her chin, whipping away a couple stray tears. He crouched and kissed Maria’s round belly, whispering something to his unborn child, he then kissed and hugged her one last time.

Joel arrived shortly after, and before Tommy grabbed his horse reins, he waved goodbye to you and his brother.

You noticed Joel’s fist tight around his backpack’s strap and a worried expression on his face. He was a man of few words, but his face showed everything he wanted to hide. You wanted to ask how he’s feeling or remind him of what Tommy’s capable of, but you knew he would ignore you or just snap at you, and you really weren’t in the mood to deal with Joel Miller.

Needless to say this shift, your little game was forgotten.

———

The plan was that you’d stay with Maria for the few days Tommy said he’d be away, keeping an eye on her and keeping her company just in case baby Miller chose to come to this world a little earlier than expected. Tommy and Oliver told everyone this new route would take them two days tops, considering all the mishaps that could happen when new territory is explored.

It’s been four days already, and people in Jackson began talking, whispering all around what might have happened to Tommy and Oliver. They wanted them to come home safe, but no one was sure they’d be coming back, considering how many men and women have died on patrol lately.

The town felt bad for the Millers. Maria, who's about to give birth, is now probably a widow who will join the fast-growing group of people who have lost their partners and will have to raise a baby all by herself while mourning her husband. Joel, on the other hand, had just reunited with his little brother, the guy who traveled across the country to find Tommy and pick up their relationship, had lost him again in the blink of an eye, but now it’d be forever. They’d talk about Ellie too, knowing the kid’s story and when she finally found a family, it shattered in front of her.

And you.

The girl who arrived with Tommy, and seemed to be joined by the hip. Wherever Tommy was, you were there too, and wherever you were, Tommy was right next to you. The best friends in this whole fucked up world, and now it seems like you were back to being just you, all by yourself again.

All of you had been pretending there’s nothing to really worry about, that Tommy and Oliver probably got lost and are just making their way back, maybe they were too sure of themselves and underestimated the area and miscalculated the whole thing, but they’re fine, just taking a little longer than expected, that’s all. Maria tried to think about all those options as well, trying hard to convince herself, this being the only excuse that helped her rest for a few hours at night, trying to stay as calm as possible, knowing that her worries could affect the baby, she didn’t want to even think about giving birth without her husband by her side.

Joel, being Joel, isolated himself, barely going out of the house to continue with his duties and responsibilities, trying to distract himself a little, and then going back home as soon as his shifts were over, politely declining invitations to the Tipsy Byson, trying to avoid awkward conversations, and questions filled with pity from his neighbors, staying away from prying eyes.

Ellie had been going to spend time with you and Maria, making herself useful, helping with chores that she didn’t even do at her own home. She forced Joel to go with her to check on Maria and spend time with her, reminding him every time about his sister-in-law, telling him “Don’t be fucking selfish, Joel. She’s worried too, and she’s pregnant, she needs us. She’s family.”, earning a glare from Joel. He knew that. Of course he fucking knew that, and he wanted to, but if it wasn’t for Ellie, he wouldn’t be physically able to move, feeling like a failure all over again.

The morning of the sixth day, you made your way through Maria’s house, wanting to make breakfast for the two of you, even though you weren’t hungry, and hadn’t been for days, but she needed to eat. The smell of toasted bread made you nauseous, you tried to have a cup of coffee but you could barely swallow it. Your hands shook as you poured orange juice into a tall glass, almost knocking it down.

The house began to feel small. Too small for your liking, it was uncomfortable staying there, your lungs felt tight, your heartbeat racing and your hands felt sweaty. You needed to move, do something. Anything.

You left a note on the kitchen counter next to the food you made for Maria, letting her know there’s fresh juice in the fridge, boiled water in the kettle if she wanted tea instead, and reminding her that you’ll be back around noon.

The morning air calmed you a bit as you made your way to the gates. People had been going a little further during patrol just in case anyone saw or found Tommy or Oliver, or maybe clues that could lead to their whereabouts, so if anyone had heard anything about Tommy, they would have come to tell Maria, so you lowered your expectations that maybe there was any sort of news about them.

As you got closer, you saw commotion, and Joel pinching the bridge of his nose, cursing, turning around, pressing the hill of his hands against his forehead. You trotted over there, wanting to know what was going on.

You grabbed Joel’s arm, making him turn around “Is it Tommy?” you asked,

Joel shook his head. “Oliver. They found his backpack and jacket”.

Your stomach dropped. You couldn’t lie to yourself anymore, feeding yourself lies just to give you peace of mind, they didn’t just get lost or were way too confident in themselves, they were in trouble, and you chose to leave it at that not wanting to think about Tommy or Oliver being dead or infected.

“We gotta do something, Joel” You almost pleaded. Joel looked at you, a softer expression on his face, almost as if he wanted to comfort you, wanting to tell you that it’ll be okay, that he’ll fix it.

“C’mon,” He murmured, making his way towards the gates, expecting you to follow him.

———

You walked for a long, long time, following exactly their route, the route Tommy studied with his brother.

This time, Joel walked right next to you, which was odd but felt good, much better than having him following you. There was so much going through your head, that you decided to break the agonizing silence.

“Joel?”

He hummed, not bothering to look at you.

“Do you think they’re all right?”

Joel took his time to answer. He didn’t know what to say. One part of him wanted to stay positive, needing his brother to be okay, but if there’s one thing that life has taught him, and in the most painful ways, is that no matter how much hope one can have, destiny always finds a way to fuck everything up, snatching away everything and everyone that made life worth living.

He looked at you, wide, teary eyes looking back at him expecting an answer. He swallowed hard. “Yeah. ‘Course they are. Just lost” He cleared his throat before continuing, in an attempt to make you feel better, less worried maybe, “You know how Tommy is. Always too sure of himself, probably wanted to go further and eventually got lost. That’s all”

You nodded, clenching your fists, your nails digging the soft flesh of your palms, trying to make the lump in your throat smaller, making an effort to believe him and ignore the gut feeling that has been telling you for days that they’re not just lost.

The full moon slowly made its way up in the sky, keeping you and Joel company, its light showing you the way.

“We should stop and rest. This looks like a good spot”

You couldn’t agree more, even if Joel wasn’t really asking. You needed to sleep for at least half an hour, rest your legs, and eat something. Luckily you had a sandwich packed that Maria told you the night before you should take with you. She had noticed the little food you’d been eating, saying something along the lines of not wanting you to faint on patrol. As you sat down next to Joel, placing your bag next to you, massaging your shoulders the best you could, relieving some of the tension and the discomfort from carrying your bag all day long, you missed the warmth of a fire and almost mentioned it to Joel, but you knew better than that, so you hugged yourself, trying to forget the cold air that sneaked through the thin denim of your jacket. You opened your backpack, and took out the sandwich, feeling your mouth water at the sight. You took off the wrapping and split it in two offering Joel a half.

You nudged his arm, and he squeezed his eyes a bit, trying to focus his sight.

“Thank you, ‘m fine,” he said.

You nudged him again, “I’m not asking,” You said, giggling softly at his stubbornness.

Joel sighed, “Thanks,” he hummed as he took the first bite. “You made this?” He asked, mouth still full.

“Yup. Well, Maria helped and forced me to bring it with me,”

“It’s really good,” He said before he took another bite.

“Thanks,” you said, trying to hide a smile. You’ve spent many dinners together and he has tried your food before, but you have never heard him say he likes your food out loud.

Joel quickly finished his half of the sandwich, he noticed your tired eyes and almost consecutive yawns, “You should sleep. I’ll keep a watch”

You turned around, to look at him “No no, don’t worry about it. I’m good” You weren't. You were fighting to keep your eyes open at that point.

“Sure ‘bout that? Saw you almost falling asleep a minute ago” Joel said, an amused tone in his voice.

You couldn’t deny it, he was right so you took the opportunity to rest, not really sure if you’d sleep for long “Alright. Wake me up if anything happens or whenever you want to sleep. We can take turns,” You offered.

“Will do” Joel cleared his throat, something he usually does when talking to you, “You, uhm you’re probably cold. Take my jacket” Joel began taking off his trusted leather jacket, the one he got in exchange for helping Grace with her old sewing machine and many things that weren’t working properly in her house, even after she told him he didn’t need to do it, it was enough fixing her machine, Joel insisted.

His offer took you by surprise. The reason as to why he was being nice, was unknown to you, his action baffled you. The man who’s been mean, cruel, and cold for years had complimented your cooking and now offered you his jacket to keep you warm. This made no sense. You chuckled before politely declining his offer, not sure how to act.

“No, thank you Joel I’m fine. Ju— just let me know when you wanna sleep for a while” you said before laying on the ground, facing the opposite direction from your patrol partner.

Joel just nodded, tightening the grip on his rifle, his jacket still on the floor next to him.

As soon as your head touched your backpack, you were out, too tired to even overthink things. You’re not exactly sure when or why your body began to feel warmer. Maybe the cold made your nerves go numb, or that’s what the body does when it falls asleep but if it meant that you’d stop shivering, you were fine with it.

The sound of dry leaves and twigs breaking near your head startled you, making you wake up, grabbing your knife from your back pocket.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s me,” Joel said, in a calming voice.

You looked around, the sky a dark purple shade, meaning you’ve slept for hours. Then you noticed his jacket falling off your arms, landing on your lap. You looked down and then looked back at Joel.

“I— Thank you” You muttered, giving Joel his jacket back, the smell of leather mixed with his scent lingered on your clothes. He hesitated a moment before grabbing it, his eyes scanned your face. “Did you sleep at all?” You asked, right before Joel could say anything else.

He shook his head, “It’s fine. We should get goin’ anyway,”

“You should rest,” You added, grabbing his hand, in an attempt to prevent him from standing up. The signs of fatigue on his face were obvious, but he ignored you, gently removing his hand from your grasp, picking up his backpack, and securing his rifle over his shoulder. He wouldn’t have been able to rest anyway, feeling exactly the same way he did back in the QZ when he relied on pills and alcohol to get some sleep.

This left you no other option but to stand up and catch up with him.

The sun was shining above your heads, and judging its position and the way the light hit the trees, it must be a bit past noon, you continued looking for clues that would eventually lead you to Tommy and Oliver.

You could see a thick forest, a short distance from where you were, a couple cabins hidden in between the trees and vines that had made their way around the small houses, stopping to try to get a better look of the setting, catching faint laughs coming from one of the cabins.

“Joel” You mumbled, grabbing the sleeve of his flannel.

He turned around concerned, waiting for you to elaborate. You thought the sounds were obvious but remembered about Joel’s hearing problem, the one Tommy told you about.

Your lack of response made Joel ask an exasperated “What?” Shushing him immediately, placing your finger over your lips, pulling his sleeve harder this time. You pointed to the cabins “There’s people there” You whispered.

Joel turned his head around to use his good ear to listen to people talking and laughing.

“What do we do?” You asked, trying to make as little noise as possible. You knew you had to go there, check for any sign that could lead you to Tommy, even if that meant you’d have to go back to your old ways.

Joel took a deep breath, and without mustering any words, he began walking towards the cabins, signaling you to follow him, picking up his rifle, and getting it ready to shoot if necessary. You did the same with your own gun, feeling your hands tremble slightly, fearing you’re bound to relive your worst nightmares.

As you made your way behind the cabin that seemed to be the quietest, you spotted a horse, a tall, black stallion, the one Tommy told you he dreamed of owning when he was a kid. He’d ask for a black horse every year on Christmas, and his parents always told him Santa couldn’t fit a horse in his sleigh, to ask for anything else he wanted, and as Joel grew up, he tried every year to convince him to ask for something else to avoid the disappointment, but Tommy insisted, believing next year he’d get lucky. The best their parents could do was to take him and Joel to a family friend’s ranch to spend the day with the horses and other farm animals the next day.

The beautifully crafted dark saddle Tommy had specially made was on the horse’s back. You felt your heart in your throat, you were closer to finding Tommy, but for all you knew, this could mean they had killed him and kept his stallion. You tugged Joel’s jacket making him take a look at the horse, sharing a knowing look, the damn horse Tommy never shut up about, understanding it was now or never, having to check every corner of these cabins, doing whatever you had to do to find them.

You walked around the first two cabins, making your way through the trees and bushes, remembering how things were done with Tommy when you had to sneak around the QZ and different buildings across the country using shadows to your advantage. You checked through the broken windows if there was any sign of Tommy or Oliver, maybe more of their belongings would be there, but all you found were a few old mattresses, empty drawers, and broken furniture, leaving the last cabin to check. From where you were standing, you could see the first floor was where most of the people were, you could count five, all drinking and laughing loudly, on the second floor there wasn’t any movement, and there were two men outside guarding the perimeter, so seven men at least.

Seven men with guns and whatever else they have to defend themselves. Seven people that wouldn’t hesitate to kill you or Joel as soon as they could, as soon as you become a threat, which the world you’ve been living in, isn’t hard. Everyone and everything is a threat until proven otherwise.

“Fuck” you whispered to yourself, closing your eyes, as you crouched down and hid behind a wall.

Joel could see worry on your face, the beads of sweat forming on your forehead, around your hairline.

“Do you trust me?” Joel asked, and you nodded. How could you not?

“D-do you trust me?” You knew how little Joel thought of you. In the years that you’ve known the guy, Joel never lost a chance to let you know his opinion, how much of a burden you probably were to Tommy, even after Tommy told Joel about your abilities and skills, defending you from his sharp tongue, you weren’t a helpless little girl, but in Joel’s eyes, you’d only put Tommy in danger, but now you needed to know, you were in this together and there’s no going back now.

“Yes,” Joel answered without hesitation in his tone but he looked down at his rifle, not being able to look you in the eye.

You took a deep breath and nodded. You fixed your hair, pushing stray hairs away from your face, drying the sweat off of your forehead. You’ve done this before, uncountable times but all of those times you have had a plan, this time it felt like you were basically improvising. What if you killed the wrong man, the one who had all the information about Tommy, or maybe that man would run away and you’d lose your only chance or maybe they killed Joel and how are you supposed to fight all of them on your own? This whole thing could go south very quickly.

You remembered what Tommy, Joel, Tess, and the rest of their group used to do before the QZ, tricking people, ambushing them and then taking what they wanted and getting rid of those people in the way it was more convenient for them. Maybe it could work, it didn’t seem like an awful plan so you asked him, having nothing to lose, “What if we trick them? I could pretend to be wounded, I can cut my hand and smear blood on my clothes and face, and then collapse in front of them,”

“No.” Joel said.

“But it’s easy enough. I know you two used to do that all the time. Tommy and I even had to do it a couple times,”

“I said no” Joel insisted, looking at you, brows furrowed and jaw tightened.

“Why? They’ll take me, you can do your part and—”

Joel quickly interrupted you. He knew what those men could do to a woman, even if you’re not really injured and could probably free yourself from them, he knew, he’d seen what people do to women. “Fuck. You don’t listen, do ya? I said no” And before you could protest again, “They could do horrible things to you. I can’t risk you getting hurt in any way.” He saw the way your eyes opened, curiosity, and shock filled your eyes, realizing what he just said, “I— I promised Tommy” He finished.

“Now, stop overthinkin’” Joel murmured. You looked back at him with a confused look in your eyes. “We’ll get these two first,” He said pointing at the two men that were guarding the last cabin, “Then, we’ll go in. If this cabin is like the others, you’ll stay in the kitchen and I’ll go in from the hallway” He paused for a second, inspecting your face, figuring there were probably too many emotions going through your head. “Jus’ …try not to get killed. I’ll take care of them. Got it?”

You wanted to feel anger rising up your neck and fists. Years ago you would have told anyone that talked to you like that in a situation like this to fuck off, he didn’t need to be so patronizing, but now? You didn’t feel like arguing, there’s too much going on, too many things to worry about so all you did was agree with Joel, a barely audible “Okay” left your lips.

As you got closer to the cabin, Adrenaline began to fill your body and cloud your mind. You tried your best to push all your fears and worries to the back of your brain, in an attempt to allow your old self to somehow take control of your whole body like that day during your first patrol shift. You needed to feel as brave and capable as you did back then, when having to fight three men on your own was a piece of cake, letting your survival instincts guide you through danger without hesitation, clean and sharp moves with your knife, perfect aim with your revolver.

The plan was going smoothly, Joel managed to take down one of the guards, choking him and breaking his neck, as you punctured the other’s throat, not allowing him to alert anyone, letting all his blood spill out of his body. No one from the inside of the cabin noticed what you two just did, too focused on whatever they were doing, their own loud conversation and laughter concealed the altercation outside.

You made your way in through the kitchen’s back door, trying to be as quiet as you could, trying to avoid the creaking of the wooden floors, following Joel’s steps. The conversation could be heard more clearly as you walked through the house.

“Those assholes didn’t know what hit ‘em,” a man said.

“They’ll come looking for us,” Another added in a mocking tone, making the group laugh.

You peeked to the other room through a tiny hole in the wall, between the wooden panels. You were right, there were five men who were oblivious to your presence in their house and continued their conversation. You noticed a couple guns on the table, a radio, cards, and poker chips scattered around, and empty bottles of what seemed to be liquor all over the place. One of the men piqued your interest, he was wearing a familiar hat, one you’ve seen countless times around Jackson on Oliver’s head. That man seemed to be the one in charge, his clothes looked much cleaner and new, his boots shiny and barely any mud around the soles, compared to the other men's clothes and shoes that looked like they would break apart any second, full of stains and holes. That was the guy you needed to keep alive.

You signaled to Joel about the information you gathered the best way you could using your hands and mouth, not making a sound. You showed him your hand with your five fingers up, letting him know there were five guys, then leaving three fingers up and pointing at your gun, informing him about the number of weapons you’ve seen and then you circled your head a couple times with your finger, mouthing “Don’t kill him”, hoping he’d understand you mean the one with the hat. Joel looked at you and seemed to get the message, as he nodded, clenching his jaw.

Joel pointed to the kitchen, signaling you to go back there, to begin with the plan.

It was now or never. This had to be quick and effective, kill the ones that seemed a threat and find a way to deal with the one wearing Oliver’s hat, without harming him too much, in hopes he knows about the pair. The question you’ve asked yourself all these years finally had a clear answer, it had to be them, there is no other choice, you couldn’t let them get away with it, you had to get to Tommy and save him.

Joel peeked through the same hole in the wall, seeing how relaxed all of them were, understanding what you meant when you pointed at your head, analyzing their movements, as he chose what he thought was the right time to begin shooting.

It seemed like it all happened in slow motion. The way Joel moved, shooting precisely in the middle of the head of the men, not allowing either of them to pick up a gun, their drunken state didn’t help either of them to aim at Joel or you, even though they tried to multiple times before they got killed. You made your way from the kitchen, walking from behind the guy wearing the hat, you picked up a bottle of liquor, hitting him on the head in one swift movement, making him fall down of his chair, little pieces of glass embedded on his skin around his forehead and cheekbone. A man that was standing near you tried to stab you, only managing to cut through your clothes and flesh of your upper arm, the pain made you turn around and shoot him in the chest. The commotion made two other men come down the stairs, coming right behind Joel.

“Behind you!” You shouted, alerting Joel but they were quicker than him.

One of the men put his arm around Joel’s neck, choking him. The other began making his way to you, pointing his rifle at you. You aimed at his head but his erratic movements made the bullet hit him in his shoulder.

“You fucking bitch” he hissed. He pulled the trigger but you were faster, now your bullet hit him right in the eye.

Joel was on the floor trying to get away from this other man, his gun was long forgotten on the floor far off for him to get it. He managed to punch him right on the nose, freeing himself from the other guy’s grip. Joel began punching him in the face, at times too weak due to the lack of oxygen, blow after blow, he managed to leave him unconscious at least, his face pretty much disfigured.

You made your way to Joel, checking how many bullets he had left before handing him his rifle. He looked at you, face still red, noticing your ripped jacket and bloody arm, grabbing it a little too carelessly, wanting to inspect your wound. You hissed, yanking your arm back. “Later,” you said.

“But your arm,” Joel tried to grab your arm again.

“Said I’m fine. C’mon, help me with these two. Let’s tie them up before they wake up” You instructed Joel. He effortlessly dragged the guy he punched in the face, taking him to the kitchen, tying both his hands and feet, tying an old piece of fabric around what was left of his mouth, then he proceeded to help you with the other man, the one you knew would tell you where Tommy and Oliver are.

Joel helped you get this man to sit in the chair he was using before you hit him, his body still limp, you tied both his hands to the arms of the chair. You picked up Oliver’s hat and put it on your own head, wanting to give it back to his rightful owner, or god forbid, to his family. This last thought almost made a knot form in your throat, making you swallow hard. You had no time to waste, needing him to regain consciousness fast, finding a bottle that still had liquor in it, splashing it on his face. The liquid quickly woke him up, the alcohol probably burning the wounds on his face and head.

“Oh look, sleeping beauty is up!” you said, looking at Joel, who was standing behind you, rifle ready to shoot if necessary, his left ear towards the front door.

“Let me go,” The man demanded, looking down, seeing his hands and feet tied to the chair. You shook your head took your knife from your back pocket and began tracing soft lines on his hand.

“We have two ways, the easy or the hard way. Which one is it gonna be, big guy?”

“Tell your bitch to let me go” He shouted, looking at Joel. You felt in control at the moment, feeling as safe as you could in a situation like this with Joel guarding your back.

“Wrong” you whispered in his ear, as you put your knife on his middle finger, moving it to his nail, twisting your knife, making the nail separate from the finger, making the man scream in pain. “Okay, okay, the easy way!” He hissed, breathing quickly, looking at you with fear in his eyes, in return, you gave him the sweetest smile.

“Good. So where are they?” you asked, making your way with your knife to his ring finger now.

“Who?” He asked.

“Wrong answer” You simply said, pushing your knife into his finger, hearing how his nail hit the wooden floor as another scream filled the room.

“Okay! fuck, I— I don’t know,” He said. Before you could say another word, a voice came from the radio. Joel picked it up, turning the volume up.

“Johnny, you copy me?” The phrase was repeated a few times.

“Are you Johnny?” You asked, and the man nodded, not wanting to lose another nail. “Good, so you’re gonna tell them you’re fine, that everything’s good. If you don’t I’ll slice your throat open. Understood?” He nodded again. A mix of blood and sweat ran down his face. Joel put the radio near him, pushing the button allowing communication with the other side.

“Johnny here,” He said, trying to stay as calm as possible, feeling the cold edge of your knife on his skin.

“You good, man?” A guy asked from the other side.

“Yeah, just lost a round of poker”

“That’s ‘cos you suck,” The man said chuckling “Anyway, wanted to check when are you coming so we can be done with these two fuckers. The one with dark hair is being too much of an inconvenience. We gotta get rid of him as soon as possible. They’re fucking useless.”

You looked up at Joel. They’re alive, you thought to yourself, a smile threatening to form on your lips.

“You’re tellin’ him to leave them alone, that they need to go somewhere else. Everyone who’s there gotta leave right now. Make something up.” Joel said, still pointing his rifle at the man, and you pressed your knife harder, making a small cut in his skin that soon enough began to burn as sweat traveled down his neck.

“Leave now. Me and the guys will get there and take care of them, but I need all of you to go check the areas up north and come back after sundown. We’ll discuss everything tonight”

“You sure? we can get rid of them now. I know Julian is dying to show the blond one who’s in charge”

“Leave now and do what I say, god damn it! Now go tell the others and do what I just said. Leave them the fuck alone, they’re not worth it. If I find any of you fuckers over there I’ll kill you myself”.

“Right, okay. Out” The man on the other side of the line said.

“Good boy, Johnny” you mustered, coming back to face him, forcing Joel to take a step back, as he let you continue with what you’ve been doing. “Now, pretty fucking please tell us where they are so we can get going,” you said now pressing your knife to his pinky finger. Johnny took his time before talking, “We don’t have all fucking day, Johnny” Your knife began splitting open his nail,

“East” he whispered, the pain beginning to be too much.

“What was that?” You said, pressing harder.

“They are in a small settlement to the east of the river. A few miles from here.”

Joel took out his map and forced the guy to point exactly where the settlement was.

“Are we going to find trouble over there, Johnny?” You asked, pressing your knife to one of his fingers.

He shook his head quickly and stuttered before continuing “No, ma’am”

“Good boy,” You said, ruffling his hair. “You messed with the wrong people. You know that?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m so sorry. Please, let me go, I-I have a wife a-and kids” he stuttered “I’ve told you everything I know and told the guys to leave your friends alone” He swallowed hard, trying to ease his heavy breathing “Please don’t kill me, I swear I won’t do this ever again. My god. I’m sorry.” Johnny pleaded, tears forming in his eyes.

You laughed, shaking your head. This had already taken longer than you originally planned. “I’m no God yet, Johnny. It’ll be quick though, I promise,” You said, pinching his cheek, you cleaned your blade on his jeans, smearing his own blood on his clothes before leaving the room, passing by Joel, and putting your knife in your back pocket. You could hear Johnny plead for his life one last time, screaming so loud you think he must have ripped his vocal cords right before Joel shot him, not hearing anything else than his heavy footsteps making their way to you.

You walked to the horses and began your way to the place Johnny pointed on the map. You followed Joel, riding Tommy’s horse. Everything that just happened filled you completely with adrenaline, never in your worst nightmares you thought you would have been faced with the need to torture another human for information, but Tommy and Oliver were a priority, and you did what you had to do.

You and Joel tied the horses' reins to a tree, preparing yourselves for whatever kind of trap they had set. Luckily, Johnny’s men followed his instructions and there was no one there to fight. You walked a short distance and got to the settlement Johnny mentioned, only seeing a few houses that had succumbed to the passing of time, only one of them still standing that looked like the ceiling would collapse any minute, broken windows, and a crooked front door. You couldn’t believe this is what they consider a settlement. Joel’s contractor instincts kicked in, making you stop before entering the house, tapping the walls and checking the old wood, squinting his eyes when a piece of drywall fell off. He sighed and shook his head signaling you to follow him.

You checked the first floor of the house only to find old furniture and a few empty cans of food, then proceeded to go to the second floor, following Joel as you made your way up the rotten staircase.

As you opened the last door, you saw Tommy and Oliver sitting on opposite sides of the room, both had their hands and feet tied with plastic zip ties. Relief filled your body, a weight had been lifted off your shoulders.

“Tommy” your voice barely audible. You quickly cut the plastic straps, releasing him and hugging him as tight as you could, earning a groan from Tommy, who was obviously hurt. You pulled back to check on him, Tommy had his bottom lip completely busted, his jaw slightly swollen, a broken nose, and a black eye.

“‘s good to see you,” he said. “Good to see ya too, Joel” Tommy chuckled before coughing, making him wrap his arms around his midriff.

Joel just looked at him as he cut Oliver’s ties. He was happy to see his baby brother alive, after days of expecting the worst, but his mind and heart wouldn’t be at peace until he saw him fully recovered back in Jackson next to his wife.

Oliver, who was sitting on the other side, seemed barely responsive, he had two black eyes, a cut on his cheek, and dried blood that had stained his light-colored hair and had run down his face.

You and Joel helped them out of the house. Oliver needed more assistance, so Joel was there to help him since he couldn’t keep himself up, Tommy still needed assistance to walk, limping after he got out of the house, but apparently Oliver had it worse.

“Took you guys long enough,” Tommy said as you helped him get on his horse.

“Oh fuck you, Tommy. No wonder why they wanted to kill you first. You never know when to shut up, do you?” You said as you began your way back to Jackson.

Tommy laughed softly. Once again, he used humor to deflect attention from his real feelings and worries. “We would've got ‘em first, right Oliver?”

Oliver, who was riding with Joel, just groaned as an answer, letting all his weight rest on Joel’s back.

The return to Jackson was silent, mostly Tommy and Oliver complaining when one of the horses stopped too abruptly or moved a little too fast. You stopped a few times to let the horses rest, seeing the bright lights of the gates hours after sunset.

The men and women who guarded the gates quickly identified Tommy’s black horse, being able to listen from a distance how they announced your arrival, all the shuffling and commotion from the other side.

The gates opened letting you in. You could see there were all the familiar faces of your neighbors and friends, and you searched for Maria’s face in the crowd, seeing a few of Oliver’s family members, who quickly thanked you and Joel.

A few men helped the pair get down, and judging only by their visible injuries, they were placed on the rustic stretchers that the small Jackson clinic had.

Soon, Maria made it to the gates, not knowing that her husband had already been taken to the clinic to be examined and his wounds cured.

She gave you a tight hug, “Thank you,” she whispered in your ear, and then looked at her brother-in-law, hesitating for a second before she hugged him with the same force, thanking him as well. She took your hand and his, looking at the both of you, “Thank you for bringing him back to us,”

You felt the familiar sting in your eyes, but again, you closed your eyes, preventing them from falling. “That’s what we’re here for”

Joel was taken aback, he didn’t mind Maria hugging him and definitely didn’t need her to thank him, he wanted to say that saving and protecting Tommy has been his lifelong duty, reminding her of his responsibility as a big brother, but he chose silence once again, giving Maria’s hand a squeeze and a small smile, hoping she’d understand that he’d do anything for family, and now she’s family.

“Now go to your husband,” You said, ushering your friend to go to the clinic.

“Right, yes,” She said, staying true to her character, her voice stayed calm, now directing her attention to Joel. “By the way, Ellie’s at mine sleeping, too tired to even wake up from all the noise”

“Thank you, Maria,” Joel said.

Maria left to go see Tommy, walking as fast as she could.

After everyone left, there wasn’t much else to do, but to go home and rest. You hesitated between going with Maria to see him, maybe you could get the doctor to check your arm, but it could take them a while to check Oliver and Tommy before they could get to you, so you decided to take care of your wound yourself for now. After all, this isn’t the first time a knife had done that kind of harm.

As you began to make your way back home, you could hear Joel walking right behind you.

Memories of what happened earlier filled your mind, the smell of gunpowder still on your skin and clothes made your stomach churn, if you thought about it enough, the smell of rotten wood, blood, and sweat was too real, and his pleads for mercy still rang in your ears, a shiver ran down your spine. The wound on your arm began to sting and hurt, a clear sign of adrenaline slowly leaving your blood flow, feeling safe back in Jackson and seeing your home so close made all your survival instincts turn off, the old you slowly left your body, going back to where she belongs. Suddenly the cold wind became too cold for you, feeling your hands and feet tingle, soon your legs felt too weak to keep you up, your vision became blurry and you collapsed.

Joel walked behind you, wanting to give you space to process everything that happened. He was well aware of the promises Maria had made to you, he knew about your fears, Tommy had told him everything when he asked him to be your patrol partner and Joel had insisted that you wouldn’t work well together. Tommy knew you’d kill him if you knew he spilled your secrets to Joel, but it was for the greater good. He knew by the look on your face after Maria left to see Tommy, that this had taken a toll on you, your eyes became dull and the smile you had for Maria quickly left your lips. He watched your every move, wanting to remind you to check the wound on your arm, assuming that you’ll probably need stitches. He saw how you fidgeted with your hands, making a fist and then relaxing them until you fell all of a sudden.

He ran to check on you, tried to wake you, saying your name over and over again, touching your cheeks and shoulders, to no avail. Joel checked your pulse, and he was no doctor but has had to deal with a lot of unconscious people throughout his life and his experience told him there was nothing to worry about yet, but still knew he had to be quick. He looked around for someone who could help, but the street was silent, most houses had their lights off.

Joel put your backpack on his shoulder before he picked you up bridal style, being careful to keep your head supported against his shoulder, your forehead against his neck, he could feel your soft breaths against his skin. Joel hesitated a second, deciding whether he should take you to your house or his. He didn’t want to disturb your place, maybe you wouldn’t be comfortable with having him there when you woke up, you two lived practically across the street from each other so it didn’t make too much of a difference, he thought.

He took you upstairs to his bedroom, taking off your thin jacket and shoes, before he placed the softest blanket he had on you, hoping it could keep you warm and comfortable, then, he went to his bathroom, opening the faucet damping a washcloth that he then gently put on your forehead, hoping the contrast of temperature and texture could help to wake you up. As he cleaned your skin from the sweat, dirt, and tiny specks of dried blood, he realized he had never been this close to you, Joel inspected your features, noticing little details on your skin, thinking how pretty your eyelashes were and complimented the shape of your eyes, he would have thought you were peacefully sleeping if it weren’t for the way your eyebrows were slightly furrowed. Joel then followed the trail of a drop of water that ran down the perfect curve of your nose, passing by the corner of your lips that were slightly open, falling on your chest, he kept his eyes focused on the way you were breathing, the slow rise and fall. Out of pure instinct, he pushed back a few strands of hair, caressing your cheeks and hairline as he tried his best to tame the flyaways that had escaped the restraint of your ponytail, feeling your soft skin under his, a contrast he enjoyed in the past few months in that little game he started and that he noticed how you also took part in it.

Joel noticed through his peripheral vision the wound on your arm, he couldn’t help to feel guilty, angry even, thinking that maybe if he had been quicker, no one would have had the chance to cut through your skin, adding a new failure to his long list of things he could have done differently but failed. He inspected the injury, it didn’t seem too deep, but the sleeve of your shirt was getting in the way and he couldn’t see very well, considering the darkened fabric, all the dirt and grime that had stuck to it, and the dim light of his nightstand. “Fuck” He cursed under his breath, as he remember he needs glasses. His eyesight could be worse considering his age, considering both his parents needed reading glasses when they were around forty and he was still a teenager. Joel needed to take off your shirt to clean and put a bandage on your arm, but that could mean crossing a line, even though he doesn’t have any ulterior motives, he didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. Another decision to make. He took a deep breath preparing an apology as he ripped off the sleeve of your flannel, giving him a better look at the cut on your arm. He adjusted his weight on his knees, another reminder that his body isn’t what it was years ago, and opened the drawer of the little nightstand table next to his bed, taking out a basic first aid kit. He cleaned your wound with saline solution and a clean gauze, you stirred a little when Joel first put the cold gauze on your skin and complained in your sleep which startled him a little, he continued wiping the surrounding area, being as gentle as he could, not wanting to hurt you. He wrapped around your arm a sterile bandage that Joel didn’t know if it was still sterile since the expiration date was June of 2005, but it’s as good as it gets considering the circumstances. Noticing blood isn’t soaking the white bandage, he tucked your arm under the blanket. He felt tired needing to sleep at least for a couple hours, before going to Maria and Tommy’s to check on Ellie, but at the same time Joel wanted to be there when you woke up, even though he felt it would be easier for the both of you if he wasn’t there, saving the both of you awkward explanations and apologies. Before he left you alone in his bedroom, he went downstairs to get you a glass of water that he planned to leave on the bedside table for you to drink when you woke up.

He crouched back to take one last look at your face, caressing your skin one last time to remember how it felt against his, to keep the sight of you sleeping in his bed, in his house deeply ingrained in his memory, just so he could revisit this image as often as he pleased.

Before he could stand up, you moved, stretching, adjusting your posture, eyes slightly open, until you opened them completely trying to figure out where you were.

“Bunny,” he whispered.

You looked at him confused, you wanted to ask what he said, why he said that, but your headache was stronger. You pressed your brow bones with the heel of your hands, squeezing your eyes, as the pain subsided a little. Before you could ask him questions, Joel began speaking,

“You collapsed, and I brought you here I didn’t know if you’d want me to be in your home and—“

“Thank you, Joel,” you interrupted him. The headache was still there, but still tried to give him a smile. You looked over your left arm, noticing the sleeve of your shirt was gone, but your wound was all patched up. “Thank you for this, too,” You said.

“You should go tomorrow to the clinic though. I ain’t no doctor” Joel said, in a little playful tone, in an attempt to not sound too patronizing in the suggestion he just made.

You nodded, smiling still.

Oh how he loved that smile of yours, if he could, he’d carve it into his brain, just to make sure he couldn’t forget it. As quick as this thought came, he pushed it back to where it belonged, locked in the depths of his heart.

“Left some water for ya here” Joel pointed at the little table, “It’ll help with your headache,” he cleared his throat, feeling slightly embarrassed, “I— Uh do you want to go home? I can walk you home if you’d like or you can stay here,” He finished. You had never heard him speak that fast, you couldn’t tell if his neck was red due to the dim light illuminating the room. You didn’t feel like walking home just yet, still too weak and dizzy. The images of Tommy and Oliver, the man you tortured, the smell of gunpowder the sound of guns, and the sight of death were still too fresh in your mind.

You shook your head, “I don’t feel ready to go home yet,” you said softly without taking your eyes off his.

Joel nodded, “Well, if you need anything I’ll be on the couch downstairs,” He said, standing up. He felt immediate relief in his knees and hips, having had the weight of his body on his knees for too long. As he turned away, he felt your hand in his

“Wait,” You squeezed his hand a little harder, making him turn around, he looked at you with expecting eyes, “Stay. Please.” You whispered as if you were afraid of waking someone up, as you didn’t want Joel to hear your plea.

Joel felt like his knees were going to fail him, his throat went dry, but knew he had to say something soon, “Sure,” He said, going back to the floor, he could sleep on the wooden floor, he had done that before when his back pain was too much and many times before Jackson when he didn’t have access to a bed.

“No.” You stopped him. “You don’t need to sleep on the floor,” You said, still not letting go of his hand. Joel understood. He took a deep breath that he hoped you didn’t notice, as he walked around his bed, making his way to the other side. The bed creaked under him, he took off his boots and jacket, he placed it on the bedside table he rarely used, and was there just to keep the symmetry of the bedroom.

You rearranged the blanket Joel had put on you earlier so you two could share. He fluffed the pillows on his side of the bed and as he was lying down, his bones cracked, almost as loud as the bed.

You thought about making a joke but decided otherwise considering Joel had been nice enough to let you stay and take care of your wound, you didn’t want to try your luck.

“This is a nice blanket,” you added, as you pulled the blanket up to your face, feeling the fuzzy fabric tickle your face.

“It is,” Joel simply answered before he closed his eyes. He could feel sleep taking over him very quickly, his whole body resting, even though he felt he could combust any time now. Joel thought about going to the bathroom and taking the pills that helped him sleep, but he had you there. He never thought that after the day you two had, facing one his biggest fears, he’d end up in this position, having you sleeping next to him, smelling the chamomile of your shampoo still on your hair, your colder body against his. He didn’t mind one bit the contrasting feeling, in fact, this is exactly what he’d imagined countless times, he just hoped that you wouldn’t notice his rapid heartbeat.

“What time is it?” You asked.

“Must be ‘round 3 or 4 am, why you ask?” he said, keeping his eyes shut.

You hummed, “We have time,” you said, before scooting closer to Joel, seeking the warmth of his body, slowly feeling your body warm up. Your head was close to his chest and could feel his scent more intensely, the leather of his jacket and the faint trail of his cologne made you forget about the aromas of the day, feeling you could forget, at least for tonight about the day you had.

“We have nothin’ but time, sweetheart” He whispered to your ear before you drifted off to sleep.

———

You’ve seen it happen before. Rebar right through his belly. It should have killed him. It would have killed anyone else. You’ve pulled more bullets out of Joel than you would care to count, and swaddled him in probably several football fields worth of bandages over the years.

Still, nothing like this.

Because Joel has always been lucky, even when he hadn’t wanted to be. 

Lucky, in all the worst ways. 

That fucking rebar, you think bitterly. It should have hit at least one organ, should have severed his fucking spine. But it didn’t. He walked it off, really, mostly, at the end of it all. 

This though — to see him tortured, beaten, bleeding to death slowly—

Your edge of your vision tips black, like your mind is already refusing to go back to that room, like you’ll pass out if you think of it for too long. 

A part of you wonders if maybe it’s your fault. Maybe you forgot to stick lavender in his pocket before he left that morning, like you always do.

Someone pushes the door open, snow swirls in against the tile. Voices, rising and falling. The cold that rolls through the tiny waiting room is frigid. 

It’s still so red, his blood, even dried and crusted around your fingers and up your wrists. 

Tommy is still bleeding and even Maria hasn’t been able to convince him to sit down and let someone look at him. No, all attention needs to be focused on his brother. Anyone with any medical know how, has to be with Joel. 

You agree. 

Tommy, you, anyone else—can fucking wait. 

Ellie is sitting next to you, looking just as numb and shocked as you feel, her fingers twined with Dina’s. 

The chatter reaches a crescendo. Something about the worsening storm, something about tracking folks with that big of a headstart through a storm like this one, something about the rapidly deepening darkness, night coming on, something about well who could do something like that anyway? Who the fuck would we even send? 

The quiet that follows is painful. 

Joel. 

Joel is the one you send. Joel is the one that could get a job like this one done, the one that could track people through a blizzard with a dogged determinism, with pragmatism and infallibility. 

“What did they want?” Someone asks the room at large. You aren’t sure who asks, you can’t make the shapes in the room resolve into people you know. “Why us? Why Joel? They wanted something right? Who were they?” 

You and Tommy look at each other, Ellie makes a half muffled, pained sound beside you. Joel crossed a lot of people, maybe there wasn’t any sense in guessing. 

No one answers. You look at your hands again and wonder if the crimson will ever fade.  

Someone says your name and you look up. A coat is tugged over your shoulders. You didn’t realize you were shivering and you don’t know what happened to your own coat. One of the patrolmen is looking at you, his name slips your memory but Jesse is standing behind him, Maria on the other side. 

You feel the ghost of Ellie’s hand against your arm. Odd, you think distantly, because she hates you. She has for a long time. 

“What happened?”

You look around, but Tommy isn’t where he’d been standing just a moment ago. Did they ask him, too? 

There’s a dark hole in your memory. 

“I don’t know.” 

And it’s the truth. 

There’s no one more dedicated, more involved, in keeping Jackson safe, than Joel. 

Aside from Tommy, maybe.

Joel is an effective killer, like an executioner with a mission. It’s the thing that scared Tommy the most about his brother, and it’s also the thing that had kept him alive long enough to get his second chance in Jackson. It’s the thing you have always loved most about Joel, the violence born of necessity. 

And, you suppose, that’s what he’d been. Dispatcher, destroyer.  

Protector. 

At the heart of it all, the meat of it is, that it had always been that with Joel. It had always been in the name of protect, provide, survive. He never shied away from telling you of his days as a hunter, or, something close to a hunter. And even then, it was keep Tommy alive, it was survive until Boston, it was we needed fucking food. 

Survive and provide and protect. 

Joel. 

Jackson had been wary of him, at first. The stories of his dealings with infected and raiders alike at odds with the way he moved in the commune, with kindness and a certain gentleness, a competency and dependability, with something so soft in his gaze when it came to that little girl he arrived with. 

That reticence and worry had dissolved as quickly as it had come. 

They describe him as quiet and funny, because he’s prone to good natured teasing. They describe him as fierce and short to anger, because no one can say a word about him or his. They describe him as wonderfully dependable, ask Joel for something on a supply run and you would have it in short order; sigh about the state of something in your home and it would be taken care of, fixed, the very next day.

Jackson loves Joel.

Especially that softened up, gentle creature that had emerged in the wake of everything that had happened between Boston and Jackson. Joel had always had a soft interior, trotted out in brief glimpses over the years, but the shell he wore had been so thick and sharp it was near impenetrable, nearly unknowable. 

Ellie is around plenty in those first couple of weeks after. She even takes to sleeping on the living room couch. She doesn’t say much to you or Joel, hardly anything at all, but she’s there and you figure that’s what matters. It seems like she isn’t sure what to say, and desperate for the connection that nearly shattered. 

The first few days when Joel comes home from the clinic, someone knocks on the front door every couple of hours and you open it and have the same conversation over and over and over again. It’s always people worriedly asking after Joel’s wellbeing, dropping off food, expressing their anger that something like this could happen to one of their own, that it could happen to someone so widely and wildly beloved.

When the knocks finally stop coming, and you can convince Tommy to go home to Maria, before Maria has to walk over and collect her husband again, you take the stairs slowly up. 

You’re exhausted. You hardly sleep and when you do, you have nightmares of Joel. Formless, mind numbing dreams that you can never remember when you wake up gasping. You aren’t sure if Joel dreams of it, too. He’s always mumbled in his sleep, eyes flickering behind closed lids, so it’s hard to tell. 

And he hasn’t really been coherent enough, awake enough, to ask, anyway. 

“Hey,” Ellie says when you round the doorway into the bedroom, lowering the comic book in her hands. She’s beside Joel, sitting on your side of the bed, back against the headboard. “Sleeping again.” 

“Was he awake?” 

“A little. Drank some water.” 

Despite the tension of the last few years, you know she’s thinking of another time that Joel had slept a lot, injured and only half alive. 

Now isn’t like then, but in some ways, it’s worse. 

You nod and take a seat at the edge of the bed by her feet. “That’s good,” you reassure her. “It’s a good thing that he’s sleeping. He needs it.”

Ellie just holds up the comic in her lap and then jerks her chin at the box on the bedside table, Joel’s glasses and book about space pushed aside. “I, uh, found them in the study.” 

You shrug. “He always picked up any he found on supply runs.” You watch her from the corner of your eye and then shift your gaze to Joel. The slow rise and fall of his chest is reassuring in its steadiness, though you hate how still he is. 

The skin by his temple is puckered and red, the stitches a neat little row up to his hairline. It still looks raw as a live nerve, the swelling extending to his eye, purple and shadowed in a dark bruise that trails down his cheek and jaw. 

“He never said—” She stops and shakes her head. “So stupid.” 

“Well,” you scoot closer and pat her extended leg. “You didn’t exactly want to talk then. We tried giving them to you, once. Left them outside your door. They got a little rained on.” 

“Yeah,” she says, mouth twisting to the side. “Some of them are. . .can’t fucking peel the pages apart.” In that moment, she sounds like that little kid you left Boston with, being told not to touch something and doing it anyway.

That might have been when you fell in love with Ellie, watching her snap at Bill, and watching Joel react like any father would. It had come back to him so quickly, so naturally. 

There’s a long pause in which Ellie flips rapidly through the comic book and doesn’t say anything, her fingers nervous. She looks how you feel — exhausted. “Why don’t you go get some sleep in your own bed?” You ask, reaching out to twitch a fallen lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “You’re just across the yard. If anything happens, you’ll know.” 

She looks up at you, eyes flicking over your face. “I was fucking mad at you too, you know,” she whispers suddenly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You drop your hand and shake your head before looking back at Joel. He sleeps deeply now, deeper than you thought possible for someone like him, even drugged and injured. 

There’s a knot tangled in your chest, that only tightens further with her question. “It wasn’t my place. He didn’t. . .he didn’t say anything to me about it for a long time, either. Wouldn’t explain what happened while we were separated. He told me the same lie. And you were going to be mad at me, too, no matter what. It had to be between the two of you.” 

“And you think he was right,” she accuses hotly. 

“And,” you level your eyes to hers, “I think he was right.” You dip your head. “I wouldn’t change anything, Ellie. I wouldn’t. You know Joel wouldn’t either. You matter more than that.”

Her bottom lip trembles for just a second. “Even knowing this happens?!” She gestures around the room, maybe just the situation at large. 

Some of the tension knotting up your shoulders bleeds away. “He’s still here. It’s not too late.” She glances away and sucks in a harsh breath. You wait until she meets your eyes again. “And Ellie, it is not your fault. It’s not. None of it.” 

“It almost was.” Her voice is strained. “Too late.”

You shrug. “He knows you care. Trust me, he does.” 

She scrubs roughly at her eyes with the sleeves of her hoodie. “Yeah, uh, well, I’m still gonna sleep on the couch.” 

“Why don’t you just stay right here, then? With Joel?” You ask and stand. “I’ll take the couch tonight.” 

It is the ultimate admission of how scared she is, that she does not argue, doesn’t even try to.  

For the first few weeks after the attack, Joel is in and out of consciousness. He sleeps much more than he’s awake.

And, it’s hard to tell, at first, why he’s sleeping so much. The pain medicine? That carefully doled out, nearly impossible to come by miracle drug — was it just knocking him out? Was he just sleeping because that’s what his body needed? Or, was it something deeper? Brain damage? 

“He’s fucking. . .old!” Ellie says to you one morning around a mouthful of toast. It’s kind of odd, how easily she’s taken to old routines. And how weird the old routine is, because the third piece of your puzzle is missing, sleeping. “Old people take longer to heal, right?” 

Right. 

But he’s also Joel. And he isn’t that old. 

It feels wrong, that he’s so still and silent. 

“It’s not—” Her fist opens and closes. She sets down the toast in her other hand on the plate and turns, pacing the length of Joel’s kitchen, fidgeting with her fingers as she goes, white morning light slatting over her. You eye the toast. It’s hard to get her to eat, these days but you figure most of one piece is better than nothing. “His leg. It’s not infected or something, right? We’d know if it was.” 

“It’s not infected,” you agree. When your own hands start to shake, you set down your mug, afraid to drop it or spill hot tea all over the floor, and make Ellie even more anxious in the process. 

You don’t like to talk about it. You don’t like to think about it. The memories are like a hot brand. 

The staircase creaks with the heavy thud of footsteps, before Tommy appears in the kitchen archway. You’ve always thought Tommy and Joel resembled each other, but now you see similarities in the kinds of expressions they make, too, the quirks in their movements that only siblings could share, and Tommy is sometimes a little hard to look at. 

“Heading out?” 

“Yeah, he’s, uh, sleepin’ again.” He leans against the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest.

Ellie doesn’t say anything, just slips past Tommy and heads up the steps. Tommy looks after her and then back at you. “She won’t say it but she doesn’t like leaving him alone,” you explain. 

Tommy nods and then pushes away from the door to settle at the kitchen table. “Well, I don’t like the idea of it either. Good she’s with him.” He tips the chair onto its back legs and tilts his head. “How ya holdin’ up?” 

“Probably about as good as you are.” 

He huffs a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Maria told me you want off partols.” 

You swallow and look away from him as you take the seat across from him at the table. “I - I know we’re down people already but I can’t. . .Tommy I can’t even look at the goddamn gate without feeling like—” You shake your head. “I just don’t think I can do it. I’d get somebody killed.” 

“All right,” he says, not unkindly. “We’ll figure it out. It’s okay.” 

A burn starts at the back of your eyes so you stand again and swipe your fingers against your cheeks. “You want coffee before you head out?” 

“Nah, save that for Joel.” Then, “How you think this is gonna go? When he’s awake more?”

“I don’t know. You’d know better than me.” 

Tommy laughs. The chair scrapes against the linoleum as he stands. He looks tired, and worried. It’s an odd look on him. It isn’t like Tommy at all. You and Tommy have always bonded over teasing Joel. There’s none of that now. 

“Like hell. You’ve spent the last fifteen years with him, not me.” 

“He’s your brother.” 

“And you’re the love of his damn life.” He pauses and leans on the counter next to you. 

That makes your mouth twitch, the pleasantly warm feeling in your chest consumed in the next second by a lancing pain that can only be an approximation of grief for someone and something that still breathed. 

“I just can’t help worryin’,” he continues. “This might be enough for us, but not for him. If Joel can’t ever do anything again—”

“He just needs time, Tommy,” you cut him off quickly. Not able to stomach the thought. “We’ll figure it out. He’ll figure it out,” you say with more conviction than you feel. “We can probably figure something like a prosthetic out. People have been making them for thousands of years. We can do it. It’ll be fine. But it’s going to be different.”

Tommy’s right. You’ve spent the last fifteen years with Joel. You aren’t sure who you are without him anymore. You aren’t sure you know how to get along without him anymore. And you never want to have to find out. “He’s alive,” you finish with a nod. “Everything else, we can figure out.” 

He nods. “You think we shoulda went after ‘em?”

“Maybe. But this is more important.” 

Before he goes, Tommy wraps you in a hug. “So long as you and that girl stick around, it’ll be all right.”

“Ellie’s been playing the guitar up there,” you answer. 

He nods and pulls back, one big hand clapping down on your shoulder. “See? Things might be all right yet. Always told Joel she’d come around eventually.” He releases you and heads toward the door then. “And get some sleep. Y’look terrible,” he calls over his shoulder. “Orders from Maria.” 

For the first time in weeks, Joel wakes with some semblance of clarity. The bedroom is warm and dark, the tiniest pool of light washing over the form next to him from a little light plugged into the wall.

It’s the nightlight he found for Ellie when they first got to Jackson and her nightmares gave her more grief than she cared to admit to. 

His whole body aches. He feels sick. 

The sharpness of the pain is disorienting. He’s only been awake in brief, muddled flashes, the dulled fingers of drugged pain lancing through him and consuming most of his thoughts. He’d only been awake long enough to eat or drink or be helped to the bathroom like some kind of damn—

He remembers Tommy at his bedside. He hears the ghost notes of music in the air, your voice in his ear, the gentle slide of warm fingers over his skin. He remembers Ellie reading aloud, curled on her side next to him, like she used to do when she was younger, like when they’d stop for the night on the road.

That can’t be right, though. She hasn’t done that in years. She wouldn’t do something like that. Not anymore. 

You’re next to him now, face tilted against the edge of his pillow. It’s hard to make you out in the dark, the shape and slope of your features hidden in the dim light. 

When he says your name, you twitch, the slightest wrinkle to your nose, the tiniest spasm of your fingers against the sheets. “Darlin’,” he tries again. His voice grinds, catches and snags around his teeth. It feels like he hasn’t spoken in years. 

He reaches for you and it’s agony, because his shoulder must be broken. His ribs contract painfully right, like the shrapnel of the bone is digging up into his lungs, piercing his heart. But your skin is soft and warm, pliant, beneath his fingers. It smells like you’ve been burning sage again. He wants to burrow his fingers beneath your skin, you’re so warm. 

The cut of your cheekbones are sharper, the angle of your jaw reminds him of winter in the QZ, winter traveling with you and Ellie. Discolored circles line the space beneath your eyes like little hollows. You look exhausted, wan. 

You blink, slowly at first, then more rapidly. “Joel?” Your voice is a whisper, like the dark is stealing it away. 

Your fingers slide through the backs of his against your cheek when you shift closer, so careful about it, until you’re pressed to his side. “Joel,” you repeat, eyes sliding shut, forehead against the edge of his sore jaw.

He breathes you in, the warm scent of your skin, the smells of hearth and home, lavender and sage and woodsmoke. He closes his eyes for just a second when you shift up and tilt your forehead against his, breath whispering against his chin. “Joel.” 

“You all right?” His voice still sounds rocky but clearing it doesn’t seem to help any.

Slowly, you sit up, hand still in his when you pull it away from your face. “You’re asking me that? You’re kidding, Joel,” your voice creaks. You’ve never really been a crier, but there’s a thickness in your mouth, softening out the vowels and snapping at the consonants. “Are you - We didn’t want you to be in pain. But you’ve been sleeping for so long, we gave you a lower dose so that—” 

“I feel okay,” he interrupts your fretting, sweeping his thumb against the back of your hand. “Considerin’.” 

You swallow and nod. “Hungry?” You glance at the window, where a gray, pale morning light is starting to leech into the room, the color of dirty snow. 

“Yep.” He wishes you’d keep your eyes on him. “If you’ve got somethin’ ready.” 

“We have anything you want,” you assure him. “Anything.” 

Joel nods and attempts to push himself up next to you, chest and shoulder aching something awful. He bites back a groan but it still pushes past his teeth.

“Careful,” you say sharply. Before he can protest, you’re up and around the bed, one hand behind his back. “Your shoulder is broken in a million places.” 

“A million?” He grunts. 

“Three.” 

“That ain’t a million.” 

You don’t laugh and your hand doesn’t move from his back. “And broken ribs. Now lean back.” He does as you ask, real careful about it so you don’t worry.

An odd feeling creeps up inside his chest, dulled by the lighter dose of pain medicine coursing through his veins. It ain’t just a sick feeling, but something else. A helplessness, maybe. It feels wrong, in more ways than one. 

Joel becomes acutely aware of what he already knows, every single injury, the graveness of them. He knows about the broken shoulder and ribs that had to be reset, torn skin that had to be stitched together, that he has internal bruising but by some miracle no internal bleeding. His face throbs suddenly, his temple tight with pain. He feels his heartbeat behind his eye and in the swelling in his cheek. 

And, the worst of it, leg amputated to just above the knee. Sick crawls up the back of his throat. He doesn’t dare look. 

The feeling in his chest swells until it chokes him. 

Helpless, useless — something hard and fanged digs into his mind. It feels like grief, but what is he supposed to be mourning, exactly? 

Everything, maybe. 

His whole damn life. 

“I’m fine,” he grunts suddenly. Sharply. “Quit fussin’.”  

He feels like fucking crying. 

“Just - shut up, Joel,” you snap back. “You almost fucking died.” 

A fist curls around his throat, warm and tight. He almost can’t breathe through it. “Yeah,” he croaks, voice breaking the word in two.  

“Yeah,” you snarl. “So shut up and let me fuss.” 

You turn and leave before he can say anything else, footsteps rapidly descending the stairs. Voices trundle up, creased and folded, rising but muffled. You’ve always been mean when you got scared, ever since Joel can remember. You were mean as hell when he first met you, a hissing kind of frustrated, new to the QZ and new to trying your hand at smuggling. 

You’ve softened up over the years. He hasn’t seen you like this in a long time, maybe not since you got separated in Salt Lake City. 

More footsteps, this time heavy, stomping, coming upwards. 

Ellie appears in the doorway a second later. Her hair is messy; her eyes are wild. She’s in sweatpants and a shirt that’s too big for her. She looks tired but unharmed. The knot tangled up around his lungs eases just a little. “Hey, kiddo.” He tries not to sound surprised. 

Her eyes flick over him and then away. She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t leave either. Instead she picks up a book from the corner of the dresser and settles in the chair across the room. 

A firm but unyielding presence. 

He closes his eyes, tips his head back against the wall, and tries to push down the feeling of failure rising in his throat like a tide. 

Joel’s fingers are clumsy. 

He can’t walk, can’t work, can’t do much of anything without irritating every ligament and tendon and bone in his body. 

But even worse than that, he can’t remember how to play the guitar. 

And nothing makes him feel so helpless as that. 

Even after not playing for twenty odd years, the notes and the placement of his fingers on the strings and frets had come back easily to him, almost like he’d never stopped playing at all. 

Now, it doesn’t. 

In part his shoulder is to blame. Even nearly healed, it’s stiff. But the other part of it is that he can’t remember how to play. Every note seems wrong, and he can’t decide if he’s hearing it wrong, if there’s something wrong with his hearing, his perception, or if the note really is just wrong. 

Ellie plays for him, instead. 

It’s easier than talking. Neither of them are really good at that, anyway. He’s just glad she’s around at all. 

He can’t help but think of that last conversation he’d had with her on the back porch, that she wants to try to forgive him, even if she thinks she might never be able to. He supposes this is her way of trying her hand at that.

Sometimes he wonders if it would be like this if he hadn’t almost died, if he wasn’t collecting sympathy from everyone like there was some kind of shortage. Maybe that conversation on the porch would have meant nothing, otherwise. 

The thought hurts him, no matter how glad he is that she’s there. 

One evening, pretty late, as snow peppers down through the early winter black that curtains the window, she stops playing. 

The living room is quiet, aside from their breathing and the crackle of flames in the fireplace. 

“I was going to invite you over to watch a movie.” 

The metallic twang of the last note she plucked hangs in the air. 

“I was - I was going to fucking ask you to watch a movie with me. That night. One of those dumb action movies you like. Like the ones we used to watch, remember? Curtis and Viper 2.”

She doesn’t look at him. She stares at her fingers, idly, nervously, twisting the tuning pegs of the guitar. “Think I saw that one before,” he answers, voice a little choked. “Pretty good.” 

Ellie rolls her eyes and doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. “Yeah, you would think so, old man,” she replies eventually but still doesn’t look up, her mouth twisting to the side. “I just - don’t want you to think I’m only here because you—” She shakes her head, and props the guitar against the wall before she stands and paces the room twice, toying with her fingers in that way she always has. “I never wanted anything bad to happen to you. Even when I was really mad.”

“Ellie,” he says but she doesn’t seem to hear him. “I know.” 

“Anyway, I meant what I said.”

“Ellie.”

“I wanted things to get better. I wanted to try. I was going to.” 

“Ellie.” 

She spins suddenly toward the front door, one hand on the back of her neck, rubbing awkwardly. “I gotta get going.” 

“Kiddo.” This time she turns and finally looks at him. The scent of pine and smoke fills the room. The red of the flames flash across her face, so serious and anxious. 

When they first came to Jackson, they spent a lot of nights on the couch together. His neck always ached the next morning from sleeping upright but he’d never complain about it. Then the distance between them had grown, and he doesn’t know when the last time something like that had happened. 

But that same distance is slowly shrinking now, even if things might never, never be the same again. 

So many times when he looks at her, he still sees that fourteen year old kid. He’d had the same problem with Sarah, looking at his twelve year old and seeing her at five and eight. It was just how it went, being a parent. 

“I know, Ellie,” he reassures her. “I do. It’s all right. Even if you didn’t mean a word of it, it’s all right. I meant what I said, too.”  

And even though she said she needed to leave, she nods and sits down again. She plucks a few notes out on the guitar when she pulls it back into her lap. 

“D'ya still wanna watch it?”

She does. 

Joel is whittling.

It is decidedly not going well. 

He’s too distracted for it. He never realized how much pressure settled on his shoulder, how much it pulled at the muscle around his ribs, from doing something as simple as this, and he doesn’t like the nausea that comes with the pain. 

But it’s something he can do, so he does it. 

It’s snowing outside again, wind raking against the siding, rattling the window panes. There’s a thin stream of air coming in around the window’s frame, cold. 

His hands are chapped and raw, blood pooling at the seams of his knuckles. 

The fix would be easy enough, but everything he needs to do it is in the basement. And the basement is a near impossible location for him to reach, so he puts up with it, hands growing more frustrated by the second because he wants to fucking fix it. 

You use the office, his work space, often enough, and it’s one thing for him to be cold and uncomfortable, but another thing entirely for you to feel that way. 

But he can’t make it down to the living room without help these days, let alone down two flights of stairs to the basement, and then back up them, too.

“Joel?”

He glances over his shoulder to find you standing in the doorway. You have a pair of shears in your hands. 

“Still want me to cut your hair?”

He wants to do it himself. But you’d offered earlier, because you’ve been doing it for him for a long time, for years and years now. And he’d always liked it because your hands are kind with it and you’re better at doing it, anyway. But now it just feels like one more thing he can’t do for himself, one more thing he’s relying on someone else for, and that makes guilt and shame choke him. 

Joel can’t seem to do a damn thing, not for himself, but, worse, not for anyone else either. 

“Joel?” You ask again when the silence stretches until it’s uncomfortable. “I don’t have to; you can do it yourself.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s all right, darlin’.” You start forward when he labors up from the chair, teeth gritted, but quickly stop when he meets your eyes, warning you away with a glance. 

You don’t say anything else, just back out the door and pad down the hall to the bathroom. 

He isn’t sure if your feelings are hurt or not, all his focus directed on hauling himself upwards and then limping down the hall with one crutch under his arm. Feeble threads of pain lance up his leg, centering in his joints, the hinge of his knee. The space under his arm is sore too, from the crutch, even wrapped in cloth. 

Joel is used to pain. He’s used to temporary aches, the sharp stab of healing wounds, the quick rip of a bullet or knife through skin, chronic pains from age and long healed injuries. On cold days, his side aches something fierce, like that rebar never really came out of him. 

But this pain is different, without origin, and he’s having a hard time adjusting to it. Or maybe he’s just having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that this is not a healable injury, at least, not in the way he wants it to be. 

For the rest of his life, he will be disabled. He’ll never get back to himself, never be what he once was. 

The bathroom light is gold. It washes his skin into a better color, not so pale and strained and pained looking. 

He hates looking in the mirror now. Joel never considered himself particularly good looking, never thought about it much, really. And, for most of his life, looks haven’t really mattered anyway. 

But seeing his reflection now is a reminder of his failures. It’s a reminder of everything he can’t do.

His whole body is nothing but reminders. 

He is a patchwork quilt of scars. 

He doesn’t know how you can stand to look at him. But you just brush your hands through his hair when he leans the crutch against the counter and sits heavily on the stool you dragged upstairs. 

The bathroom is thick with the scent of lavender and earth. Every winter it turns into a makeshift greenhouse, all the plants that can’t survive the winter dragged inside for the season. 

The feeling of your hands through his hair is soothing and the tension in his shoulders slides away. 

“I can do it myself,” he grumbles, despite himself, and without conviction when you run a comb through his hair. 

You hum under your breath, not really paying him any mind. You know he doesn’t really mean it. Even if he feels like a fucking burden for it, it’s something you’ve always done for him, so it’s a little easier for him to accept. “I know. I like to.” You tilt his chin up and Joel steadfastly avoids looking in the mirror. “Besides, I’m better at it. You take to it like it’s a hack job.”

The trim doesn’t take long, since he keeps his hair longer anyway. It’s mostly an excuse for you to rake your fingers through his hair. 

“The window needs fixin’,” he says when you slide in front of him and set about trimming his beard without asking. That’s fine, too. “I know you been, uh, kinda cold in that room.” 

“It’s not so bad,” you say when you finish with him, brushing your fingers against his cheeks and then through his hair. You smile, eyes crossing his face, tracing his features like a well known map, before you twitch a lock of hair away from his forehead. “You gonna fix it for me or what?” 

“Mighty big ask of ya,” he grouses, irritation itching at the edge of his mind. 

You’re still smiling faintly, touching his face, the curl of hair behind his ear, the scar along his hairline and then the one over his nose. 

“I just can’t see how,” you say and Joel almost snaps. He wants to. He wants to say you don’t fucking get it, that you don’t want to get it, that it’s different now. He wants to say he’s not the man you’ve always known, that shit ain’t as easy as it’s always been. He can’t do shit for you, anymore, and isn’t that the reason you’ve stuck around all these years? 

But then you continue. “I left that damn caulking gun on the side table three days ago.” 

“You what?” 

You shrug. “Thought you might have noticed it too. And I’ve always been so bad at that stuff.” 

The guilt that settles in him is heavy, but familiar. The shape of it is different, but it's still like shrugging on an old coat, it’s so natural and intimate.

He must be destined for some kind of failure, born under a bad star, something.

Everything he touches falls apart, no matter what he does. Everyone he holds dear, leaves him, one way or another, somehow. His mama, Sarah, and then Tommy, and then Tess. Most recently Ellie, though maybe things there were being mended. Maybe you were next, soon as you came to your senses. 

Joel has spent most of his life taking care of people. And when he wasn’t taking care of people, he was moving, working. He hardly ever sat still. He didn’t have time to sit still. 

Not before the outbreak, and certainly not after. 

Even in Jackson where the pace of the world is slower, he was always busy. If he wasn’t on patrol, he was on wall duty, looking after Jackson’s security. Or, he was fixing something for someone, building something, helping with the horses. If he wasn’t doing any of that, he was improving his house, he was working on a new carving, he was playing the guitar.  

Healing up, it’s involved a whole lot of sitting still and feeling useless. It had involved a lot of other people fussing over him. 

A lot of sitting still and feeling like he was failing everyone he knew. Like he had already failed everyone he knew. For all the effort he put into it, it would never be enough. He cares wrong, he loves wrong, and now he can’t even do that. 

He fails you in this, too. Of wishing he could accuse you of all the things he thinks of himself. 

Joel knows you think of it too, you just haven’t gotten frustrated enough with him to say it yet. You haven’t had the full weight of his broken, uselessness on you, yet. 

That day will come. There’s no way it won’t, because he can’t do for you what he’s always done, what he was put on this god forsaken earth to do. The one thing he’s always been able to do. Not just for you, but for everyone. Ellie, Tommy and his family, Jackson at large. 

It’s always been the thing he could point to and say look, this is why I am like this, this is why you need me, why I’m around. You survived because of me. Because I made sure you did. 

So he’s not worth much now, really, and all the promises he made you and all the promises he made to himself, he can’t keep them anymore. And isn’t that why you stuck by him all these years? Despite all his shortcomings? 

“Sorry, darlin’,” he cups your face in his hands, smoothes his thumbs over your cheeks, the hinge of your jaw. “I’ll get right on fixin’ that for you.” 

“I know you will. Thank you, Joel.” The full weight of your head tips into his hands, and your eyes slide shut. His hands are large against your jaw, scarred and calloused, harsh. Reminders, maybe, of what he used to be. He looks at the hollows beneath your eyes, the raw, worried skin of your bottom lip. 

You don’t sleep anymore and when you do you have nightmares. You hate to leave the house. And sometimes you flinch even when nothing is happening around you, like memories are snapping at your heels. 

He did all that to you, too. Terrible gifts he’s given and can’t take back.

When he glances back up to your eyes, you’re staring at him, a worried, anxious kind of look lodged there that he absolutely hates. 

“What?” He asks, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks and then the delicate hinge of your jaw.

“Nothing.” Your eyes shift away from his, and you twitch in his grasp. He already knows what you’re about to say, because you’ve never gotten better at saying it, just like him. He doesn’t need you to say it, but you do anyway, and he hates how much he likes hearing it. It’s like a ray of golden sun. “I love you, Joel,” you murmur and hook your hands around his wrists.  

For a long time, you just look at him, the silence is heavy with unsaid words, but he isn’t sure which of you is the one not saying something. “That enough?” He eventually grunts. “For you?”

You frown. “Why wouldn’t it be? Do you think it’s not?” 

It shouldn’t be. All those promises stack up in his mind again, everything he can’t keep.  

“It shouldn’t be.” 

You pull his hands away from your face with a shake of your head and lean in to kiss him. Your lips part softly against his, the hitch of your breath sweet against his mouth. The heat of you is so close and intoxicating, it’s something he never wants to have to give up, not when your thumbs are pressed to the pulse in his wrists, and not when you taste like apple, honey. 

He shakes one of your hands away to wrap his arm around your back and pull you closer, until the warmth of your body is pressed securely to his chest. Your tongue slides against his, teeth nipping gently at his bottom lip. Something warm floods his cheeks and his chest goes tight. 

When you pull back, you tug on a piece of his hair then touch the blush pinking on his face. “You look real handsome, Texas.”  

He tucks his forehead against your collarbone, and you fold your hands against the back of his head. “It’s enough,” you say. “Always has been.” 

The next day, he finds that most of his tools have been relocated upstairs, either to one of the cabinets in the living room, or to the office upstairs. 

Either way, he no longer has to traverse two staircases down and back up. 

He isn’t sure when you had the time to do it, or why he didn’t at least hear you doing it. 

Joel’s chest swells with love for you, right alongside the guilt that does nothing but grow. 

He fixes the window. 

Some days are easier than others.

He has good days and bad, and some of the bad days are worse than others. He sows the feelings up inside himself, cocoons the bad away inside his chest. It’s easier that way. And it’s necessary now. It’s just another thing you’d have to deal with. 

He’s never been good at saying the things that needed said, anyway. 

He tries not to snap at you. He’s trying not to get mean, and he can’t just walk away like he used to be able to when his mind got messy. But he’s been failing because he wants you to fight with him, wants you to hate him. 

Joel wants you to say that he fucking failed, that he’s been failing his whole life at the one thing he was supposed to be able to do. The one thing he’s really good for. 

“Stop it,” Joel snarls one day in the spring, when you offer your hand down the steps to the living room. 

He doesn’t mean to snap at you like that, but he doesn’t take it back either. He’s in too much pain. And he doesn’t want to admit it. 

The smile slips off your face as you step back from him, a stoney expression sliding over your face instead. It’s routine, you helping him, and maybe that’s the problem. He grits his teeth, that look reminds him of Boston, reminds him of the time before you used to trust each other. 

“I ain’t helpless.” 

You raise your hands and take another step back, looking away from him as you do. 

The breeze that comes in the landing’s open window is cool. It isn’t quite warm enough for the window to be open but the house needs airing out after such a long winter, such a hard winter. The air is crisp with the scent of pine and the lavender hung in dried clumps above each doorway. 

“I know, Joel.”

When he looks at you, you visibly brace yourself. 

A wave of self-hatred so hot it burns immediately follows the guilt. But it also doesn’t stop the angry, frustrated pulse beneath the surface of his skin, pressing against the back of his teeth. 

“I don’t know why you didn’t just leave me there.” The words are bitter, poisonous. Accusatory. “You should have left me to fuckin’ die.”  

Whatever you might be expecting him to say, it isn’t that. Your breath catches hard. 

You can be cruel, too. He waits for your anger, the burn of words he deserves to hear, something mean and hateful but true. 

But the words don’t come; your anger doesn’t come. You just look tired and empty, sad. 

You pace the landing, the soft shush of your footsteps echoed by the creaking of the floorboards. Your silence pricks at him. He wants you to scream at him, blame him, for failing, for being so fucking stupid. 

“What if it was me?” 

Your voice is so low, he almost doesn’t catch your words. 

The quiet of your footsteps come to a halt. “What if it had been me, Joel? It could have been. It could have easily been me. They knew who you were. We’ve done a lot of the same shit. We’ve made a lot of the same enemies over the years.” 

Your hands are shaking, your breath comes in quick little pants. The acrid, bone aching feeling of cresting anxiety and panic floods the little landing. “Me and you and Tess, we were kind of a package fucking deal. So, what if it was me?” 

The breeze sliding through the open window feels different now. Colder, older, more brutal. 

“That’s fuckin’ different and y’know it,” he snarls. 

“Why?” Anger floods your face, the curl of your fingers harsh against your arms when you cross them. “Why would that have been different? Because you think I always need to be taken care of?” 

He doesn’t answer. He looks away from you, but he can’t go anywhere. He’s at your mercy and you both hate it.

Joel leans heavily against the wall, his right hand curling around his left wrist, a nervous, anxious tick he’s never been able to shake. 

“Tell me,” you beg. “Say it, Joel. How is it different? Why?” 

He shakes his head once, slowly, and doesn’t look up at you. “You can say it,” you continue, your voice eerily quiet. “You never trusted me to have your back.”

That ain’t it at all. 

It’s not your failure. It’s his, in every single way. He doesn’t blame you or Tommy or Ellie or anyone else. He doesn’t believe for a second that you don’t know that. 

It would have been better, probably, if he died. 

He doesn’t understand the guilt you feel. 

He can’t take care of you anymore, can’t protect you anymore. 

Worse, he can’t do that for his kid. 

If he’d died, maybe that final sacrifice would have been enough to make up for everything else. Maybe it would all just be done.

He’s the one breaking promises, not you, just like he always has been. 

Sometimes, when he thinks of Sarah, he can only remember her final moments. He can’t think of anything else but her blood, how red it was in the dark. He can’t think of anything else than what could have been. He can only see the halo of that mounted flashlight glaring into his eyes, his own voice pleading. Please don’t. 

If he’d just been shot, he would have died first, he wouldn’t have ever known how bad he failed in that moment. He would have died first, like a parent was supposed to. No good father should ever outlive his kid.

Maybe, this had been his second chance, to finally die first. 

Born lucky, bad star, like always. 

So, what would he do, if it had been you? He’d have taken care of you, just like you’re doing for him. But that is not anathema to him; that is just how things are supposed to go. It wouldn’t have been a failure. 

He’s no use to you anymore, no use to anyone.

He doesn’t say any of that. 

Instead, he nods. 

“You’re right.” He shrugs and pain splinters across his shoulders. “It would have been different.” 

Your expression flickers blank and you turn away. It would have been easier to stomach if you screamed at him, if you slammed a door. 

But you’re just quiet. 

Once, during the late autumn, when you were traveling with Joel and Ellie, you noticed Joel wasn’t eating. 

Food was in short supply. None of the houses or buildings you looted turned up anything edible, and wild game had been elusive for weeks as the weather turned wetter and chillier. 

You’d noticed him doing it a few times before, but nothing like then. Joel would dole out carefully rationed food and not allocate any to himself. The bags under his eyes deepened. His temper was shorter. He’d gotten pale and hollows appeared in his cheeks that meant he hadn’t been getting enough. Joel had always been huge, broad and strong and tall, with thick arms and thighs, but when he dropped weight, it always showed in those little hollows first.

Then, one evening, after clearing out a barn of infected, he’d stumbled, hand to his forehead, pale as you’d ever seen him. “Christ,” he’d mumbled. 

“Joel?” Ellie’s voice had pitched up with worry. She’d looked at you, and said, “He hasn’t been eating.” The words were all a rush, accusatory and begging for you to do something. 

“Ellie—” He’d growled. 

“I know she’s right, Joel,” You’d interrupted with a snap. “You think we wouldn’t notice? You think I wouldn’t notice?”

He’d gotten pissed off and marched off into the woods to the stream to refill your canteens. You’d given him a wide berth for several hours, making the newly cleared barn into something livable for the night with Ellie. When dark had started to set in you went after him, boots crunching through frozen leaves.

He’d been sitting by the creek bed, an inscrutable expression on his face. “We ain’t got enough,” he’d said, not looking at you. “You and Ellie need it more. I’m fine.” 

“But you're not. You can’t just not eat. You can’t take care of us if you aren’t okay, Joel.” 

The air had smelled like earth and decaying leaves and stagnant water and ice. The scent reminded you of better times, of apple cider and cinnamon and new beginnings, of autumn fairs and coffee shops. 

You’d sat behind him, pulled him against you for just a moment, chin on his shoulder, and said, “It’s all right to let me look after you, too.” 

You figure that even with the change in circumstances, things are still like that with Joel. He’s always doing the metaphorical equivalent of making sure everyone else eats first, even if it means he’s starving.

He’s never been one to give up or give in or let go. When Tess was bitten, Joel hadn’t wanted to leave her. He’d wanted to stay and fight. To fight a useless and unwinnable fight. That mindset was never going to fade.

You don’t speak for a few days. Guilt swallows the whole of your heart and leaves you dry and empty. Joel blames you, you think, even if he won’t say it. 

He comes to you late one night. 

It’s dark and the bedroom is overly warm. He sits heavily but without help at the edge of the bed. He’s getting better at that, even if he doesn’t think he is. 

His hair is longer and it falls into his face when he leans over you, fingers against your forehead and temple and then your cheek. 

“When I was real young,” he says. “My dad died. We didn’t have much money and my mama worked all the time.” 

You turn on your back and try to make his face out but his expression is unreadable. 

Joel hardly ever talks about his folks. 

“I got my first job when I was fourteen, to help with the bills. Money was better on account of half of it not bein’ drank away, but we still needed the cash.” Joel pauses and you scoot over. It takes a minute for him to find a comfortable position with you but when he does, he continues. His voice echoes against your ear, the beat of his heart pounds against your cheek. His chin rubs against your forehead, one large hand splayed across your shoulders. 

“Since she worked so much, I was always takin’ care of Tommy, of damn near everything else. And my mama, too, sometimes.” He swallows, and you feel the bob of his throat against your forehead. His chest is warm beneath your cheek, even through the two layers he always wears. “So I knew I was young when Sarah came along, but I didn’t really feel it. I took care of her and her mother, ‘til she went her own way. Just the way I always had.” 

The rise and fall of his chest is steady. He cups his free hand around yours and tucks your palm against his heart. 

“I know I’m not easy, in any sense of the word. I never have been.” A heavy tug of shame weighs his voice down. “Too mean and bitter, I guess.” There’s a long pause, and you want to protest but you’re sure if you interrupt, Joel won’t finish saying whatever it is he needs to. 

“So anyway,” he continues. “I try to make up for it. By doin’ what I always have, even if it means I end up alone. I wouldn’t change anything. I don’t know what I’m good for if—” His hand slides up your spine, thick fingers resting at the base of your neck. “And I can’t do it anymore. Can’t take care of ya. So, it woulda been different, if it had been you. Because it’s you we’re talkin’ about.” 

Joel goes quiet after that. His palm continues its nervous path over your spine. The bristles of his beard are soft against your temple. The rhythm of his breathing is still slow and even, but you feel the prickle of nerves in the way he touches you. 

It isn’t easy for Joel to say the things he feels, even to you, even all these years later. 

His body is so familiar to you, so warm and strong beneath you. Comfort, in short, in its purest form. 

You aren’t expecting him to say any more, but he does. “Things. . .they always have a way of fallin’ apart, in the end.” 

When you lift your head, he doesn’t look at you. You press a finger against the edge of his jaw, turning his head gently until his eyes meet yours. “Joel,” you touch your forehead to his. You aren’t good with words either, but you try. “You are more than that. More than what you can do for people.”

He’s quiet for a long time, eyes fluttering closed, his breath a calm pool against your mouth. “And I’m more than that? To you?” 

“Joel, if I only wanted some guard dog, I would have gotten one that could listen better.” 

He snorts, and a little of the tension melts away. “Yeah, I reckon you would have.” 

The dark is a warm cocoon of things less easily said in the light.

“Yes,” you say quietly after a long, peaceful silence. “Joel. You’re so much more to me than that.”

It’s late spring again. The Wyoming air is mild, and heavy with the scent of blooming life. 

Sage grows in dense clumps up in the mountains, deep between the ridges of the sharp peaks. The smell of it, earthy and crisp, chases itself on the breeze, all the way down to Jackson. It twines with the smell of flowers painstakingly planted along his front path. 

Arrowleaf. Goldenrod. 

Lavender, right by the mailbox, courtesy of some superstition held onto from before the outbreak. 

It’s thick, cloying, pungent. 

It’s overripe, rotting. It smells like death. 

It’s making Joel fucking nauseous. 

He squeezes your arm, a warning without words that he needs a break. 

It’s the smell. 

It’s the sun and the gentle breeze. 

He tells himself the sick, crawling pain mixing sourly in his stomach has nothing at all to do with his newly fitted prosthetic leg. 

Slowly, without a word, you turn and guide him back through his familiar backyard to the porch. 

He sits heavily on the steps, just inside the cool pool of shade, and pulls in deep breaths that rattle in his lungs and do nothing to stave off the dizziness, or the pain. 

Your hand slides up and down his back before your palm settles against the back of his neck and urges his head down between his knees. 

Joel feels like a fucking kid. His hands are shaking. 

“Damn thing is useless,” he growls after a minute when the nausea passes and he can lift his head, because it’s the only thing he can do, because it’s goddamn humiliating. 

Everything is, these days. 

You just bump your shoulder into his and hum low under your breath, used to his attitude, used to his bark that only sometimes has a bite. 

You’re patient with him, but tough, not willing to indulge his foul moods. “It’s just something you have to get used to,” you assure him. “It’s not going to be like before.” 

Joel doesn’t want to admit that he wants to take the prosthetic off. It’s like admitting defeat before he’s even gotten a chance to fight. 

And he’s tired. 

Exhausted, really. 

“Hey,” you dig your nails into his wrist. He meets your eyes, pragmatic, practical, his match in everything. “We aren’t supposed to go at it so hard anyway, remember? You did really well.” 

He doesn’t want to admit that, either, that your praise washes pink in his veins, that he likes to hear it, thrives on it. If he’s doing right by you, good in your eyes, things can’t be awful as they might seem. 

That’s what he latches onto. Your pride. Your acceptance. 

“This was just the first time, Joel,” you continue. “You’ll get the hang of it.” 

He ain’t so sure about that, not with the way his leg aches. A leg that isn’t even there anymore, chopped off right above the knee, to save his life, apparently. It’s part of why it hurts so goddamn much. Feels like he’s pushing his calf into something it can’t fit in, like the long gone meat and bone are getting ground up into his thigh. 

But if he gets the hang of it, then things will be better. He’ll at least be able to move on his own. He might be able to find some way to work again. Wall duty was looking pretty good, because all you really have to do is sit there and watch the horizon and be able to shoot pretty well. 

There is hope in the future. There is hope in you reminding him of that, realistic to a fault, pragmatic to your core. 

And unlike Joel, you’ve never had it in you to lie. 

Joel tightens his hand on your forearm again, pressure on your sun warmed skin. It’s a poor substitute for the thank you that you deserve. You seem to get his meaning though. Your hand feathers through his hair again and the sun doesn’t feel so abrasive, and the smells of spring don’t seem so weighed down by death. 

“Ellie’s coming for dinner,” you offer. “Said she’s got a movie or a game or something that she wants to show you.” 

Yeah, so maybe the day ain’t so bleak as he thought it was. 

“All right.” 

You offer him a hand up, and slip your arm behind his back. He carefully drapes his arm around your shoulders, mindful, even now, of his weight against yours. “What a strong thing you are,” he comments, not able to stop the corner of his mouth from twitching. You look so determined.

It’s the way you always look, when put to task.  

You roll your eyes. “Lucky for you.” 

“Lucky for me,” he says, soft about it.  

The stairs are the worst part of getting back inside, but it's much easier than it had been before. 

It’s a relief to collapse into the couch and take the prosthetic off. The phantom pains still ache and stretch painfully tight, like the skin is being pulled taut, like there was a knot that just needed massaged out. He grits his teeth and represses the urge to reach down and rub sore muscle that no longer exists. 

It’s a relief to collapse into the couch, even if guilt punches him in the chest for it. 

It’s an even bigger relief when you press yourself into the space next to him. He doesn’t know how you stand it sometimes. How you can look at him and still not hate him for every mistake he’s ever made. 

“Knee always fuckin’ bothered me anyhow,” he comments, turning his head so his words brush against your temple. “Don’t gotta worry about it gettin’ stiff now, I reckon.” 

You reward him with a snort, the scrape of your fingernails against his cheek, a kiss. 

It’s easier to get around, with the prosthetic that he hates. 

But he’s slow. Slower than he’s ever been in his whole life. And sometimes, most times, it frustrates him. 

Being able to walk is one thing. It’s a fine thing. But he needs to be able to do more than that. Run, fight, shoot. A fucking pipe dream. But he’s back to building, carpentry, and that’s something at least. Something useful. 

Joel has tried asking you about that day, because he doesn’t remember a whole lot besides the pain. But your chest goes fluttery with panic, the rise and fall of it unfamiliar to him. You don’t get nervous. You never have, not over anything. 

But when he asks about that day, you mutter something about Tommy and blood, and he can’t get anything else out of you. Tommy does the same, eyes cast to the side, thumbs hooked in his belt, foot starting a nervous rhythm. 

He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with either of you, what the goddamn problem is. 

In some ways, Joel’s always thought you were tougher than him, a balance of brutal and rough and unforgiving with softened sweetness. Bash the skull of a hunter in with a metal pipe, then use your unsullied hand to stroke back Ellie’s hair, to offer help to strangers, to pat the nose of your horse gently. 

He would never want to be on the other side of the wrath you kept wrapped up inside your heart. 

But, now, you don’t leave Jackson anymore. You haven’t been outside Jackson’s walls since that day. 

Tommy tells him you can’t even bear to take a shift on the wall, which mainly comprised of sitting at the top of the wall and doing a whole lot of nothing, looking at the horizon, shuffling your feet to keep warm.

It’s unlike you. You love to patrol, just like him. 

That’s his fault, too. Your nightmares, your sleeplessness.

Ellie plays the guitar for him, even after he gets the hang of it again, even after he’s walking on his own again, the chords coming back to him easier and easier. They don’t have to talk much, that way. 

She’s still mad, but he almost died, and she’s willing to try with him. 

She comes over for dinner. She always brings a movie. 

It gets easier. 

And slowly, by the end of the summer, she smiles when she sees him.

He’s gotten the hang of walking again, which is never a sentiment he thought he’d have about himself. Joel always assumed he’d be killed before something like really old age could set in, or something like this, a disability he doesn’t want to learn to live with. 

It’s rained recently and the yard smells like perchitor and the ever present mountain sage. The grass is just a little muddy from the many loops around the yard. “You’re going to fall and break your neck, old man.” 

“Breakin’ my neck can’t be much worse than what it is right now. We ain’t goin’ around the yard anyhow. Now c’mon, put your shoes on, kiddo.” 

“It’s still raining,” she complains. 

“Means no one’s outside to see me humiliatin’ myself.” 

Ellie only rolls her eyes but does it anyway. He doesn’t need a hand anymore, but he’s shaky sometimes and despite your best efforts he’s still refusing a cane. But he also hasn’t been using the track in the yard in weeks.

That, and he actually has somewhere to be these days, figuring out better security for Jackson, looking after the patrol teams, assessing who was ready to be put into rotation. Managing is what he should be calling it, though he doesn’t care for it. He and Maria butt heads too often for it to be anything close to enjoyable. 

When they pass the mailbox, Ellie points to the lavender. “I never thought to ask about it before. It’s everywhere. Some nailed above the door and everything.” 

“Some kinda thing about protectin’ the home,” Joel explains. “Far as I remember, it protects from bad energy. Somethin’ like that.” 

“I thought that was sage?”

“Sage you burn,” he explains. “And we get plenty of that too. Whole damn house smells like it.” 

“Seems like the kinda thing Dina would do,” she says and then seems to realize who she’s said it to. But she doesn’t change the subject. “Didn’t take her for the superstitious type. Doesn’t seem like it really works anyway.” 

Joel shrugs. “She was before the outbreak, I guess.” He watches Ellie from the corner of his eye. She’s steadfastly not looking at him, but she also doesn’t usually say so much to him. “Didn’t have reason to think of it for a long time. Lavender wasn’t exactly in high supply in Boston.” 

Ellie nods.

“She used to, uh, put some in your backpack when she knew you was goin’ out. Same with me, always put some in my pocket.” 

There’s a long silence. Jackson’s streets are oddly empty in the pouring rain. Lights glow in the windows; inviting, homely. “She didn’t have to do that.” 

He shrugs and his shoulder only aches a little for it. “It’s just the kinda thing parents do, even if it don’t make any damn sense.” 

“Yeah,” Ellie agrees as the turn toward the center of Jackson. “You wanna stop in the Bison?” 

“Sure,” he agrees. “For a minute.” 

“Full schedule?” She teases. “Aren’t you supposed to be in your sunset years?”

“Well, gotta have something to fill up the days, kiddo. Maybe one day you’ll actually be able to keep up.”

She just scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Yeah, whatever."

Joel tries not to smile.  

Being mobile again, busy again, feels good. 

It feels good, but it also means he’s in near constant pain.

He tells himself it’s good, that pain sharpens him, makes him better. 

Until he’s slumped on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night, heaving his guts up from the ache in his leg. 

You find him there, sweaty and panting, with a glass of water in hand. Joel pushes himself upright against the wall with a sigh as you close the lid of the toilet and flush it before sitting beside him on the cool tile. 

“You’re overdoing it again,” you say, not unkindly.

“I ain’t tryin’ to,” he mutters and takes the glass of water when you offer it to him. 

“I know.” You cover his free hand with yours. “Wanna get up?” 

You smell faintly of peppermint, burned incense. 

When he shakes his head, you stretch to flip the light switch over your head. He’s plunged into darkness, alone, for just a moment, before you settle again. The warmth of your head against his shoulder feels stolen. 

For a long time, neither of you say anything. He breathes through the pain still crawling around his knee, the phantom flesh of his calf. 

“I was a goddamn fool,” he whispers into the silence. “You know what I was thinkin’ that day?” He’s not sure where the words come from, the confession. It feels a little like the words are being pulled up out of his body, yanked right from the center of his chest. 

“Tell me,” your nose is warm when it bumps against his collarbone. 

“‘Bout Ellie. How I’d want someone to help her, if she needed it. So I helped that girl. Almost got all of us fuckin’ killed.”

You don’t answer, not at first. But eventually, you lean into him and say, “If you want me to blame you, I won’t. I will never find fault in kindness.” Your thumb strokes his knuckles slowly. “Never. Especially not yours.” 

He brushes his mouth along your hairline, skin silken against his mouth. “Y’know when we was on the road, I was sure you’d get us killed. But y’always knew when to trust someone. How much to trust ‘em.” 

“I. . .” you start and then trail off, fingers squeezing around his. “I was always lucky, and I always knew I had you at my back. If I messed up, you were always there.” 

His eyes have adjusted to the darkness of the bathroom, and when he meets your gaze, he can see the glaze of tears in your eyes. You suck in a shaking breath and clear your throat but don’t continue. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t there the same way.” 

“This ain’t on you,” he says. “Don’t think that. It’s me. It was a long time comin’ somethin’ would catch up to me.”

You settle in against him, one hand digging into the sore muscle of his thigh. The heat feels like, the flex of your gentle fingers even better. The pain that doesn’t exist fades just a little. 

“And for the record, darlin’, you were there the same way.” 

It’s autumn again when you go back onto the patrol rotation. There’s frost on the windows and on the spikes of overgrown grass in the front yard. He just got back from a night watch on the wall.  

You’re taking his old routes with Tommy, and you don’t tell him about it until the morning of. Not a fucking soul breathed a word of it to him, and he’s the one figuring out the goddamned rotations. 

And Joel realizes though he’d been worried about you not wanting to leave Jackson anymore, not even being able to go near the gates, he was glad you hadn’t wanted to. It meant you were safe. Even if he couldn’t keep you safe anymore, the walls of Jackson could.

“I’m not doing this with you right now,” you say before you leave, pretending like he can’t clearly see your hands shaking before you walk out the door.

He follows you onto the porch. He can’t remember what he says, just that you look upset and then hurt, just that you don’t say goodbye when you walk away and that you probably don’t have lavender tucked into your pocket like he always did. 

“Please.” A word he hardly ever says, a plea he never gives into. 

He says it to your retreating back as you pass the mailbox, but you either don’t hear him or choose to ignore him. 

Maybe he didn’t say it at all.

That day is hell. It’s long and pocketed with anger and anxiety. If something happens to you, he isn’t sure what he’ll do. He doesn’t like that you left him upset. 

Maria doesn’t entertain his outburst about it when he finally corners her after looking for her all morning. “She was ready.” 

“I didn’t even know we were considerin’ sendin’ her back out!” 

Maria just levels him with a glare that could freeze hell over. “That isn’t up to just you. And why do you think she didn’t want to tell you?” 

He’s at the stables with Ellie that evening when you come home, waiting. It’s cold and his leg is aching something bitter and awful but he doesn’t move and Ellie doesn’t suggest going back home because she knows he won’t hear it. Dina stops by and he listens to them talk. Ellie’s face softens when she looks at Dina, cheeks a soft pink in the fading light, ducking her head and fidgeting with her fingers. 

Joel tries not to pay them any mind, but it's hard not to find endearing. 

When you and Tommy get back, it’s full dark. He wants to throttle his brother for not telling him you were going back out on the trails, but it’s too cold for much of that. All thoughts of strangling Tommy fly from his head as soon as he sees you, because you have a smear of blood on your cheek and down your neck. 

“Goddamn it, what happened?” He demands, hands against your face before you’ve even fully dismounted. 

“I’m fine.” 

“That ain’t what I asked,” he sweeps his thumb over your skin, flakes of red shifting to the ground. The knot in his chest tightens as he watches it flutter through the air. “What happened?” He growls again. “Tommy?” 

“The usual, Joel,” you pull his attention back to you. “It was just cleanup. A couple of infected. Nothing.” 

“Uh huh,” he tilts your face one way and then the other. 

“Just some splatter.” You shrug and smile at him; your mouth twitches, and he realizes you’re teasing him. 

“Splatter,” he repeats flatly. “That ain’t funny. You ain’t funny. C’mon, let’s go home.” 

Ellie and Dina have disappeared with your arrival but they aren’t far; he can hear their chatter as they walk along the street toward the center of Jackson, the echoes of their voices reaching back towards him. “I’ll deal with you later,” he says to his brother. 

Tommy just raises his hands and says he’ll stable the horses. But he’s grinning and maybe that’s a good thing. It’s been awhile since his brother has seemed himself. It’s been awhile since the two of you have given him grief together. 

“Leave Tommy alone,” you say as you walk toward Rancher Street. You seem steadier than you had been that morning, more confident, more yourself. It isn’t a long walk back, even with his leg, though he limps worse than usual because of the cold. You wrap an arm around his waist, your fingers digging into his back pocket, body warm against his side. “We did good together today.” 

“Mhm. I’m sure you did.” 

“You mad at me?” 

“I wish you’d tell me,” he murmurs. “When you’re goin’ off to do somethin’ stupid. I need you to talk to me. Worried the whole goddamn day. You ain’t exactly in practice out there anymore.” 

You hum and then nudge closer to him. “Put your arm around me.”

“I’m fine,” he grunts, maybe a little harshly. 

“Joel,” you laugh and nuzzle your face against his shoulder. “C’mon. I’m cold and I had a rough day. Put your arm around me.” 

So, he does. And he leaves it there until you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the counter in front of him, lavender plants stacked in the sink behind you once again as the colder weather sets in. 

This is better. So much fucking better, than the other way around. This is right.

He cleans the blood away, finds the swell of a bruise on your shoulder and a cut lengthways over your collarbone. 

It’s easy enough to take care of. It isn’t as bad as what he’d been imagining all day long. 

He’s well in practice for this sort of thing, for bandaging and assessing wounds. 

“Sorry,” he says as he works. “For this mornin’.”

“Mhm.”

“I worried all day. Not much I can do now, if you get into a spot of trouble.”

“I handle myself fine. Tommy was there. He’s a good partner out there.” 

Joel grunts, dabs rubbing alcohol along the cut. “He is,” he agrees reluctantly. He supposes if you had to go on patrol with anyone, he’d prefer you go with his brother.  

You touch him as he works, fingers patting over his jacket, the collar of his flannel, the frayed edge of the t-shirt beneath that. “I had to go back out, Joel. You would have argued with me and I can’t be afraid and useless forever.”

“Useless,” he scoffs and unspools a length of bandage. “You don’t know nothin’ about that.” 

“Joel,” you say softly, exasperated. “Baby, you don’t know what it was like that day. I thought you were already dead.” Your voice trembles and you have to swallow harshly before you can continue. “Helpless and useless doesn’t even begin to cover what I felt. What I still feel.” You shake your head and cup your fingers around his. “I dream about it every single night and I still don’t really remember what happened. That scares me a lot.” 

He slides his thumb along the gauze, your eyes wide and worried when he meets them.“I’ll never be who I was, sweetheart.” His voice sounds mournful to his own ears. 

“You’re exactly the same man, Joel. I’m just happy you’re here and alive and you’re worried you aren’t alive the right damn way.” You shake your head. “I can’t ask for much more than what I have. Than what we do. Me and you. Ellie back in our life. A home. Food. Family. You,” you touch his jaw and smile. “Still here. Still taking care of me.” 

There’s a lump in his throat, hard as a stone. “Yep.” He coughs in an attempt to clear his voice but he sounds just as wrecked when he speaks. “Patrol musta been real good to y’today.”

You just laugh, and the sound of it is wet. “Yeah. It was. I thought it would be terrible but I missed it.” 

“I know you did.” 

“You should come on a ride with me sometime,” you say slyly. “I bet it’d feel good to be back in the saddle. You’ve always been a good shot from the back of a horse.”

He has. 

Maybe he should. 

Unlucky: Your teaching Joel to use a bow sets you back a whole day. And night. 

Lucky: Your largely silent, palpably tense trek the next day, through snow and weeds and shattered scrap metal — ends at the edge of a long-dead neighborhood, on the intact porch of an intact house. 

It’s just before sunset. The sky’s already going grey. It would be stupid not to stop, and even stupider not to take advantage of the still-standing house you’ve just stumbled upon. 

You break the silence to tell him as much. You haven’t spoken in hours. Not since this morning, when you came to your senses and tore his fingers from your mouth. 

You can still taste him on your tongue. On your teeth. On the tips of the words that you just barely manage. 

“We should stop here.” You clear your throat. “I mean. It’s almost dark. And it looks…” You toe the porch. The wood squeaks. “Nice enough.” 

Joel grunts. You’ve spent enough time with him to gather he agrees. He slings the rifle off his shoulder and sidles up the front steps. 

“Wait here,” he gruffs. 

You scoff. Your sneakers skitter up the steps behind him. He pauses, clearly annoyed. His rifle noses the front door. 

“I’m not waiting out here,” you hiss. 

“Could be someone in there,” he bites. 

“Yeah, and there could be someone out here. Multiple someones. I’d rather die inside. Where it’s warmer.” 

He makes a heavy, long-suffering sound. A muscle flinches in his neck. 

“Fine,” he snaps. 

He turns away from you. You think he rolls his eyes. You do the same, tapping your shoe against the porch while you wait for him to get the door. 

“Hurry up,” you mumble. Your breath sticks to the air. 

“Tryin’,” he grumbles. “’S—locked.” 

“So unlock it.” 

He mutters something. Your nose scrunches. 

“What?” 

“Nothin’.” He sighs. Steps back from the door. The muzzle of his rifle drops, eyeing the doorknob. 

“Jesus.” You step forward, quickly, before he can shoot the fucking door down. You put your hand on the muzzle and it sags obediently. “What are you doing? Just — pick the lock.” 

He looks at you, nonplussed, and it occurs to you he doesn’t know how. You add it to the growing list of things Joel can’t do. Can’t nock an arrow or pick a lock to save his life. But that makes sense, you guess. Those are quiet skills for quiet people. For prey, not predators. And Joel Miller is all wolf. 

“Seriously?” You shake your head. “Here. It’s not that hard.” 

You swing your backpack off your shoulder and dig around the bottom. There’s a paperclip there somewhere, swimming freely by your lighter. You fish it out and work the metal undone — which is harder than it should be, with just one hand and zero help from Joel. 

You kneel on the porch and fit the end into the lock. Joel stands at your back like a Doberman — hackles raised, rifle up, teeth bared against the cold. 

“Coulda been in by now,” he mutters after a minute passes in silence. “‘F we did it my way.” 

You roll your eyes. Again. 

“Goes faster if you stop bitching.” 

He doesn’t answer. But you hear his tight, frosty huff at your back, between your shoulder blades. 

You smile. The lock clicks. The door eases open, creaking on rusty hinges, and Joel moves inside before you can stand. 

You get up with a scowl. Wipe your hands on your jeans. 

“Ladies first,” you mutter, and trail him in. 

Intact was an understatement. This house is — pristine. 

There’s none of the zombified, apocalyptic wear-and-tear you’re used to seeing. No cobwebs in the corners. No shattered windows and sagging sills. 

Someone lived here. Recently. Someones, if the pile of shoes by the door is any indication. 

You leave your backpack and your bow by the entryway. You flick your knife open and follow Joel through the house. 

“Raiders?” you wonder out loud. 

Joel shakes his head. His grip slackens on his rifle as he moves from empty room to empty room. He checks upstairs, downstairs, in the bedrooms and the kitchen. There’s nothing. No one. This place is abandoned. 

“No,” he says, a full five minutes after you ask. “ S’too…neat. One of them doomsday preppers, maybe. Some of ‘em lasted a while, y’know. After the outbreak.” 

“Huh.” 

You follow him into the living room. There’s a velvet-blue couch, a TV, matching curtains. The blinds are drawn. Frost hangs by the furniture and glitters on the coffee table. 

You wander to the couch and drag a finger past the fabric. It comes away damp. 

“What do you think happened?” you ask. 

He shrugs. He nudges the blinds back with the tip of his gun and peeks out the window. 

“Dunno,” he says. 

He pulls his gun back. The curtains fall. 

“You think they died?” 

“Just said I dunno.”

“You could guess.” 

He turns. Stares at you. You can see his eyes, even in the dark. They’re blacker than the looming night. 

“None ‘a my fuckin’ business,” he says, finally, stalking past you to the kitchen. His shoulder clips yours. 

You grit your teeth. You turn on your heel and follow him in. 

It’s pretty standard, as far as kitchens go. Copper pots and copper pans. A stainless steel fridge with a Garden of the Gods postcard scotch-taped to the front. You peel up the edge and read the writing on the back. 

Johnson Family Vacation. ’06. In sharpie that bleeds through the card stock. 

It looks like a man’s handwriting. But there’s a heart scribbled underneath — thin and hurried, in a different pen and a different hand — a wife, or a daughter, or a sister, maybe.

You fold the card back down. Stick it back to the fridge. Joel watches from the sink with a curious look.

“What?” 

“Nothin’.” 

“It’s clearly something.” 

“Nothin’,” he repeats. His lip quirks. “You’re kinda—nosy.” 

You blink at him. He fingers his rifle. 

 “I’m not nosy,” you say. “I’m curious.” 

He rubs his jaw. Leans his weight against the counter.

“There a difference?” 

“Fuck off.” 

He shrugs. He shoves himself off the counter and wanders deeper down the hall — toward what you can only assume is the garage, sealed off behind a wooden door. “Just sayin’,” he says. 

“Yeah,” you say. “Well. Don’t.” 

He twists the knob and you don’t follow. He pauses, one boot on the threshold. A sprawl of pitch-black dark seeps into the hall. 

“You comin’?” 

“In there?” You lift a brow. “Hard pass.” 

He can investigate the pitch black garage on his own. You’ll stay here, in the kitchen, where it’s kind of warm and kind of light. 

He mumbles under his breath. Then he turns and drags the door shut behind him. You tell yourself you’re glad to watch him disappear. 

You run your hand along the counter, the edge of the sink. It’s a lot quieter all of a sudden, without his giant, looming….presence breathing down your neck. You pretend you’re grateful for the momentary reprieve. 

And it really is momentary, because the second you’re alone, roaming aimless in the kitchen — something clatters.

Something loud. 

You whip around. Your hand flattens on the counter. 

“Joel?” 

Nothing. No response. You poke your head back to the hallway and call his name again. 

“Joel.” You finger the knife on your hip. “Quit fucking around.” 

He doesn’t answer. You stare at that sealed-shut garage door and swear. 

Glass shatters at your back. You turn back around, panting softly. Your blade flexes through thin air. 

There’s glass on the floor, underneath the sink. A cabinet above your head is half-open and groaning. 

You swallow. Your grip tightens on your knife. You step closer to the sink and something streaks across your sneaker. 

You yelp. Your foot catches on the hardwood and you grab at the counter. 

“What—” you drag your sneaker back to safety, “the fuck—”

Your first thought is a rat. One of those huge, mangy ones, with the rabid little teeth. 

But then it leaps onto the counter, half an inch from your hand, and twitches a long, chewed up tail, and — 

It’s not a rat at all. It’s a cat. Big and black and balding, where a massive scar stains its skull. It would look about as dead as that Runner you saw yesterday, if it weren’t for the giant green eyes boring into yours. 

Those are very much alive. And so is the rest of it, if the gnawing, grating hiss it gives is any indication. 

Your breath pulls. You lay your knife down on the counter.  

“Jesus,” you mutter. “You scared me.” 

It growls. You put your hands up, mock-surrender, and it blinks those ghoul-green eyes.

It’s got a collar on. So — a pre-outbreak cat, then. Somebody’s pet, once. There’s no tag, and if there ever was it probably rusted right off. The fabric on the collar is fraying. You lean in and it lets you unclip the buckle. The collar melts to the counter and the cat shakes its mangy head. 

“This your house?” you ask. 

Its ears flick up. That scarred tail twitches, like the shake of a head. Me-ow. 

“No,” you agree. “We’re just visiting, too.” 

You stare at each other. The cat cocks its head. Somewhere down the hall a door slams, hard, and Joel’s heavy footfalls light up the dark. 

You turn to watch him skid the corner. His rifle is up, waving at nothing. 

“Relax,” you say, flatly. 

He looks at you. His eyes are glazed, unfocused. He’s breathing hard.

“I heard—”

“It’s a cat.” Your lip twitches. “Nice response time, though.” 

His gaze yanks back into focus. He blinks at the cat and the cat blinks back.

“I was in the garage,” he scowls. He slings the rifle back over his shoulder and sifts through his jacket pockets. You stroke the cat while you watch him, scratching at its blocky skull. 

Your fingers skate too close to that long, tattered scar. It yanks its head back. Its spine arches like a Halloween sign. 

“Sorry,” you mutter. 

It makes a wary, garbled sound and settles. 

Joel digs a can out of his pocket and sets it down on the counter. Then another. Then two more. Canned peaches, baked beans, spaghetiios on a fading label. You let the cat go and it yowls. 

“There’s more,” Joel says, without looking up. “Lot more. ’N they got a— generator.” 

“Think I reset it,” he says. He nods at the flip switch on the wall. “See ‘f it works.” 

You flick it on. The kitchen hums to life. The cat snarls at the sudden light. 

Joel frowns, like he’s just now properly taking it in. His lip twists. 

“Get rid ‘a that thing,” he says. 

“It’s not a thing,” you say. “It’s a cat.” 

“Don’t like cats.” 

Of course you don’t. 

You roll your eyes. You put your hand out to the cat and it sniffs at your palm.

“I know,” you murmur, conspiratorially. “He’s an asshole.” 

The cat tips its big head back. Its ears go flat. Meeee-ow. 

“See?” You turn back to Joel. “She agrees.” 

“She?” 

“Survived this long.” You shrug. “My money’s on a she.” 

Joel scoffs. He doesn’t disagree. 

“Just — get rid of it,” he says, instead. “Don’t need another stray.” 

“Oh, is that what I am? A stray?” 

He glares at you. 

“‘F the shoe fits,” he says. 

You drag yourself off the counter and the cat follows suit. She lands on the hardwood with a loud, hissing thud and streaks out of the kitchen, up the stairs and out of sight. 

You watch her go. Joel sniffs. 

“Willing t’bet they got a pump set up,” he says, sidestepping you. He cranks the faucet on the sink. A gasping, rusty stream spurts free.

You stare. It’s been a long time — a long time — since you’ve seen running water. 

Joel shuts it off. Wipes his hands on his pants. “Prolly means they got hot water,” he says. “Coupl'a minutes’ worth, anyway.” 

He tips his chin toward the stairs. There are muddy paw prints on the landing already, where that scarred cat took the steps two at a time. 

“Shower’s upstairs,” he says. “First door on the left. ‘F you wanna—”

Your brows narrow. 

“I’m not getting in there with you,” you bite. “I don’t care if there’s two seconds of hot water. I’d rather strip and sit in the snow—”

“Wasn’t fuckin’ suggestin’ I come with you,” he growls. His gaze darkens. “Wasn’t offering’, either, princess.” 

Your cheeks burn. Your anger — was it anger? — seeps steadily away. 

“Okay,” you say, a little deflated. You carve your arms across your chest. “Fine. Great. You don’t have to sound so — disgusted.” 

“‘Scuse me?” 

“I’m saying,” you huff, “you should be so lucky.” 

“I should be so lucky,” he repeats. His drawl drip, drip, drips. His snarl curls up his mouth. “Lemme tell ya somethin’, darlin’. ‘F  I was any kinda lucky, I wouldn’t be stuck here with you.” 

“That’s rich,” you tell him. “You’re the one who dragged me on your stupid raiding trip.” 

He rubs at his temple. His face screws up like he’s warding off a headache. 

“Christ,” he mutters. He tips his chin toward the stairs. “Just — go.” 

It occurs to you, despite the scowl tattooed on his mouth and the black, roving stare — that what he’s offering is actually quite generous. Like. Uncharacteristically so. 

First dibs on the shower. And on the hot water. You double down on your frown so he misses your blush. 

“You go,” you mutter. You gesture blankly at his face. “You’re — way grosser.” 

He blinks. He puts a hand up to his cheek and looks vaguely surprised when it comes away red. 

“Go,” you say, again. The sudden silence is unbearable. It’s too heavy; too taut. Too fraught with something you can’t name. 

His brows flick. He looks like he might say something, just for a second, but then he’s stalking past you. Out of the kitchen and up those stairs. 

He disappears on the landing and you hear a door slam. The water sprays on half a minute later. 

You fold your fist on the counter. Shove your knife back to your belt. 

“Dick,” you mutter. 

You’re not sure you really mean it. 

You park yourself in one of the upstairs bedrooms while Joel showers. The one closest to the bathroom. It’s freakishly neat, like the rest of the house — the bed is made, pillows fluffed, blanket draped across the duvet. 

You wonder what the hell happened to these people. If they just — made the bed and left one day and never came back. If they’re dead — or undead — somewhere out in the cold. 

That thought makes your stomach turn. You sit on the edge of the bed and the mattress dips. 

Something scrabbles at your heels. You swing your feet up, startled, and that cat pokes her head out from under the bed. 

You loose a low breath. Those green eyes peer up at you. The scar on her temple reminds you of Joel’s. 

“You gotta stop doing that,” you say. “Scared the shit out of me.” 

She bares her teeth and chatters. She doesn’t look particularly sorry. 

The water in the bathroom shuts off. The door squeaks open a minute later and Joel pads heavy down the hall. 

The cat hisses. She slinks back under the bed. You don’t blame her. 

He pauses just outside the bedroom door. It’s cracked open already — you hadn’t bothered to shut it — but he still knocks. The sound is weirdly gentle. 

“Yeah.” Your hand flexes on the duvet. “Yeah. Come in.” 

The door eases open. You look up at him and your gaze drops — quickly, shyly, like you’ve just stared down the sun. 

He’s not wearing his shirt, or his sweater, or that bullet-stained ski jacket. He’s shirtless, soaking wet, with a black towel slung around his broad, slick-skinned shoulders. His hair looks longer, dripping wet. Blacker, too. His curls slip to the base of his neck. 

He’s ditched his boots. And his socks. The only thing he’s bothered to put back on are those black ripstop pants he’s always wearing — and even then he hasn’t buttoned them, or zipped them, or dragged them up all the way over his hips. That thigh holster is still intact, though. His black Beretta winks up at you. 

Never without it, you think. It doesn’t seem like an exaggeration. 

You swallow. Your face flushes. He moves closer and you don’t look up — you look at the ground, and your feet, and the tiny, blackened paw prints by your heels. 

You think he’ll stop in front of you. Maybe say something snarky, in that long Southern spool. But he just sidles past you, dripping onto the hardwood, and you steal a look at his back when he moves to the dresser at the edge of the room. 

He bends down. Digs a drawer open. He rifles through a slew of shirts and helps himself to a hoodie. It’s black, naturally. There’s a faded, black-gold CU Buffaloes logo on the front. 

He pulls the towel off his neck. Slings the hoodie up over his shoulder. You’re more than a little pleased he doesn’t wear it right away. 

“Go on,” he says, without looking back at you. “Left some hot water.” 

You look blankly at his back. Your hands flex on the duvet. He turns, finally, when you don’t move. He straightens and water drip drips down his muscled back. 

“Won’t last all night,” he drawls. 

That spurs you into motion. You make a weird, aborted sound of agreement and reach blindly for your sneakers. The laces are packed together, sealed with frost and blood and god knows what. 

He watches you scrabble at them from the corner of the room. Then he mutters under his breath — always under his breath, in that way that makes your chest burn — and crosses the floor to you. 

He kneels by the foot of the bed. Your hands hesitate on your laces. His face is suddenly very close to yours. 

“Move,” he says. 

He reaches for your sneakers. His fingers tangle over yours and your hand jerks like it’s touched a live wire. 

Your lean back. You put your hands back on the bed, the comforter. Joel draws forward on his knees and his fingers skate higher — to your ankle, and that scrap of exposed skin between your shoe and your jeans. 

You flinch. He notices. He cups your ankle with one hand and moves the other lower — to your sneaker, to your laces. He tugs at the knot there and it comes free without a fight. 

He pulls the shoe off, gently. You both watch it clatter to the floor. 

He does the same for the other one. Then he looks up at you, both knees on the floor, and his curls slip over his eyes. 

“Thanks,” you mumble. 

He nods. His stare is soaked. He lets your ankle go and it thuds soft against the bed frame. 

You stand uneasily. His neck tips to watch you go. He looks like something cared from marble, you think — all sharp, straight lines and jutting angles. Even his eyes are just…perfectly, immovably black, like someone’s chipped them out of stone. Everything about him looks one step from human. 

Everything except that long, curving scar across his temple. That’s all human. All Joel. A crack in black stone. 

He’s still on his knees when you step out to the hall. That hoodie hangs over his shoulder. His waistband rides under the dip of his hips. 

You try not to look. You really do. But your gaze flicks back, just slightly, and he watches you watch him on your way out the door. 

“Scream if ya need me,” he drawls. 

“I don’t need you,” you mutter. You’re pretty sure your face is red. 

“Sure.” He leans back on his knees. Runs his fingers through his hair. There’s no blood on his hand, finally, when he pulls it away. “Whatever ya say, princess.” 

You close the door on your way out. If only to stop yourself staring. 

You didn’t entirely think the shower thing through. 

The hot water feels good. It feels great. That much is fine. It’s just — when you step out of the shower, after the water goes ice-cold and your skin is scrubbed clean — there’s nothing there except your dirty, shot-up sweater, and your bloodstained jeans, and a rack with no towel. 

Fucking — Joel. 

“Fu—uck,” you breathe. 

You stare at yourself in the fogged-out mirror. Swipe your hand over the glass. You’ve lost weight, these last few weeks. Too much winter and not enough food.  

You open the door an inch. Poke your mouth out of the crack. 

“Joel,” you hiss.

Nothing. You shuffle barefoot on the tile and try again. 

“Joel. Can you — fuck. Come out here.” 

There’s silence. You’re not sure if he’s heard you. But then the bedroom door opens, and he sticks his head out, and you’re a little dismayed to see he’s put that sweatshirt on. 

Shut up. Focus. 

“Hey,” you mumble. “Can you, um—”

He stares at you. You shiver behind the door. The heat from the shower slips over your feet and out to the hall.

“I need a shirt,” you say. “And pants. And—underwear.” 

You grit your teeth. He cocks his head. 

“Please,” you add, exasperated when he doesn’t move. 

He taps his fingers on the bedroom door. “So y’did need me,” he drawls. 

“Shut up,” you snap. You let the door close. 

“And hurry up,” you yell. “I’m freezing.” 

And you are. You tell yourself you are. If you ignore the lapping, liquid heat inside your core. And the white-hot brand where his stare stung your skin. 

You do try to ignore it. It’s not your fault if you can’t. 

To his credit, he does hurry. He raps at the bathroom door two minutes later and you open it just far enough to shove your fingers through. You grab blindly at what he offers and yank it back to safety. 

You don’t hear his footsteps when you slam the door shut, so you figure he’s standing some sort of guard right outside your door.

The thought makes you blush. Again. 

“You can go,” you say, behind the door. “Pretty sure I can get dressed by myself.” 

He doesn’t answer. You roll your eyes. 

He’s done a pretty good job with the clothes. A tee shirt, a hoodie, a pair of women’s blue jeans. Fresh underwear and wool socks. A flannel two sizes too big. You pull it on over the sweatshirt and fish out your hood. You try not to think about who wore this shit last. 

The jeans are big. You have to roll the cuffs and the waistband once over. And the hoodie drips just a little too long, over your waist and over your wrists. 

But still. It’s better than nothing. And a hell of a lot better than the bloodstained, snow-soaked clothes you leave sitting in the sink.

You open the door when you’re dressed. Steam licks at your heels. 

Joel’s there, as expected, leaning up against the wall. His pants are buttoned, finally. His hair is halfway dry. 

And that cat is in his arms, kneading at his hoodie with brick-black paws. 

They both look up when you step out of the bathroom. His gaze drags from your feet to your jaw. It doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

“Thought you didn’t like cats,” you say.

“I don’t.” His eyes glitter. “Was just about t’shoot it.” 

“Oh, sure.” 

His gaze pulls the rest of the way. He meets your eyes and his mouth twitches, ever so slightly. The shadow of a smile. 

“She likes you,” you say, pushing past him. You start down the stairs and slide your hand along the banister. “Must be your charm.” 

“Mm.” 

He lets the cat go. She skitters down the steps and streaks through your legs. 

His silken drawl melts at your back. 

“Must be,” he murmurs. 

You eat together, in the dining room, at opposite ends of a long oval table. 

He makes the plates. You try to help, once, and he tells you without looking up to go sit your ass down. 

So you sit. You light the candles on the table with the lighter from your bag. You pinch at the flames with your thumb and forefinger, and when they singe your skin you pull your hand away. You dig your knife out and carve a notch into the table — which is bad manners, you know, but you’re bored and it’s the apocalypse. You figure etiquette is out the window. 

A strip of wood folds up under your blade. You wick it away with the back of your hand. 

Joel comes out, then. He sets a plate in front of you and your mouth waters on a reflex.

It’s not exactly a home-cooked meal — you haven’t had one of those in forever — but it’s a pretty good second best, all things considered. Canned peaches in a syrupy glaze. Little ravioli pockets smothered in tomato sauce. Green beans with salt and pepper. 

It’s a feast, by today’s standards. Even Joel looks satisfied, in his grim sort of way. He drags his knife across the plate and the sound makes you shiver. 

You eat in silence, for a while. The candlelight plays off his knife and his jaw. A couple times he looks up, like he might say something, but he never follows through. 

“This is good,” you say, when the quiet is too heavy. “Thanks.” 

He shrugs. Keeps eating. 

“Better than — bird, anyway,” you say, lamely. 

He sniffs. His fork stills in his hand. 

“Forgot somethin’,” he says. 

He stands abruptly and disappears into the kitchen. When he comes back a minute later there’s a bottle of red wine clutched in one hand and two glasses hanging from the other. 

Your brows lift. 

“Wine?” You stifle a smile. It’s involuntary. “Really?” 

“Whole bunch in the garage,” he says. “Next t’the generator. Figure no one’ll miss it.” 

No. You doubt anyone will. 

He sets a glass down in front of you. His weight lingers at your shoulder. 

He pours you a lot, and you don’t stop him. It’s more than you should drink, probably, considering you’re holed up in a house with a vicious, bloodstained killer. 

Except he doesn’t seem so vicious right now, when he sits back down and sips red wine from a glass with a stem. And all that blood on his face and his hands is long gone, swept down the drain. He smells like strawberry shampoo and fresh laundry. He looks…clean. 

He looks handsome. 

You drink the wine. 

Twenty minutes later...you’re drunk.

You’re definitely drunk. 

The wine is strong, and your tolerance is shit, anyway, given the limited opportunity for bar-hopping in the apocalypse, and Joel’s stare makes you drink faster than you should.

It’s kind of nice, you think, absently, when your head takes on that pleasant fog. It’s been a long time since you’ve been anything but on guard. 

Joel watches you across the table. He still hasn’t said a word, except to get up and get the wine. 

You set your glass down with a thud. Your plate is long empty. You match his stare and his jaw ticks. 

“What?” you blurt. 

He blinks. 

“What?” 

“You’re staring,” you tell him. 

He thumbs at his fork. “I ain’t starin’,” he says, gruffly. 

“Bullshit. You’ve been staring me down for an hour.” 

He’s quiet. You press him, because you’re drunk. 

“What,” you say, “is your problem?” 

“Nothin’,” he bites. “Jesus. Ain’t got a fuckin’ problem.“ 

“So stop staring.” 

“Just told you I ain't.” 

“Fine.” 

“Fine.” 

He drops his fork. It makes a dull, metal sound against the table. 

You swallow. You drag your fingers up and down your lap. 

“There are…two bedrooms,” you say, more loudly than you mean. Anything to cut the silence. “Upstairs. You know. So we can — we don’t have to—”

“Good,” he clips. He picks his fork up again. Shoves the last piece of peach around his plate. “’S — good.” 

“Yeah.” 

A new quiet picks up. It’s worse than the first. Cloying and bitter, like the glaze on canned peaches. 

“You can finally get some sleep,” you offer, blankly. 

He skewers the peach. It flops like a fish on the tine of his fork.

His gaze flicks back up. Back to you. He bites the peach and doesn’t answer. 

He doesn’t say anything at all, actually. Not for the rest of the night. He takes the plates and the glasses back to the kitchen and drops them in the sink, even though there’s no real point, even though they’ll never get cleaned. 

Then he marches upstairs, three steps ahead of you, and claims the bedroom at the far end of the hall. He looks at you just a second and you think he’ll say goodnight. 

But he just — turns, and shuts the door, and leaves you standing in the hall. 

That big black cat pads up the stairs behind you. She weaves a figure eight through both your legs. Her tail tangles on your knee. 

She flicks her ear towards Joel’s door. Those wide green eyes look up at you. 

“Don’t ask me,” you mumble. 

Then you turn, and seal yourself in the bedroom down the hall. The cat follows on your heels. She streaks in before the door clicks shut and settles underneath the bed. 

You strip, even though it’s freezing. You take everything off except that flannel and your underwear. Days ago you would’ve slept in tactical gear, if you knew Joel Miller was twenty feet down the hall. Now you get almost-naked, and almost-wish he’d come knocking. 

You climb onto the mattress and don’t get under the duvet. It feels…wrong, somehow. Like this is someone else’s bed, and they might come home someday. So you lay on top of the sheets, instead, and drag the blanket up over your chest. You turn on your side and shiver softly in the pillow. 

You wonder if Joel’s doing the same. You wonder if he’s asleep. You wonder when you started thinking about him and why you can’t seem to stop. You picture him splayed out on the sheets, broad shoulders digging into the mattress, black CU hoodie riding up at his waist. Or maybe he’s taken it off and slung it somewhere on the floor, and settled into bed in nothing but loose-fitting boxers. 

Your cheeks blaze in the dark. Your nose nestles in the pillow and you swear at yourself. 

“Get it together,” you hiss. 

The cat meows beneath you. You roll onto your back and ignore the slick tug between your legs. 

“Fuck,” you mutter.

You’re just drunk. It was just adrenaline, this morning, when his fingers crooked inside your mouth. And now you’re just drunk. 

That’s all. That’s it. 

You roll back on your side and clutch the pillow with your good hand. And then you screw your eyes shut, tight, and you try your best to sleep. 

Turns out your best isn’t very good at all. 

You can’t sleep. The wine and the food and the days-on-end of hiking should mean you fall asleep fast. But Joel down the hall means you don’t sleep at all. 

Because you can’t stop fucking — thinking about him. 

Which pisses you off. Really. He’s already occupied every one of your waking moments for the last week, with that long, Southern drawl and the snarky, bloodstained comments. And now he’s infringing on your sleep. Which is just — 

You sigh. Loudly. Wind rattles at the window and punches the panes. A breeze seeps through the cracks and nips at your toes. 

You drag your knees up to your chest. Your teeth chatter on their own accord. 

Fuck this, you think, bitterly. You must say it out loud, because the cat under your bed yowls in low agreement. You hear her paws scritchscratch on the hardwood. 

You rip yourself out of bed and march across the floor. All the way to the door. You only hesitate for a second, when your hand hovers on the handle — but then the cat hisses again, and the wind pummels at the glass, and you wrench it open before you can do something smarter. 

You tug your flannel tighter. Ball your hands into your sleeves. You pad softly down the hall — all the way to the end, where Joel’s door is shut tight. 

You think about knocking. You don’t see much of a point. 

You let yourself in. Slowly, softly. The door creaks apart and you slip through the crack. 

You’re not really sure what you’re expecting. To find him asleep, you guess. He hasn’t slept in days. Not properly, at least. And it’s been hours since he left you wordlessly at the table. Even the wine has worn off. 

The door clicks shut behind you. His room is darker; deeper than yours. You can make out a pile on the bed where he’s tossed all his clothes. 

Your heart jumps. Something heavy settles at the base of your throat. 

You were right, then. He doesn’t sleep in his clothes. Just boxers and tanned skin. 

You try to swallow. Your breath sticks. You start to think this was a bad idea — what the hell are you doing, anyway? — when his low, syrupy twang cuts the dark. 

“Hope ya didn’t come to kill me,” he drawls. He shuffles a little and your eyes adjust. He’s sitting propped up on the pillows, half under the sheets and very much awake. He crooks an elbow back behind his head and you watch his arm flex.

“Thought we had a truce,” he says. 

You hesitate. Your throat is dry. 

“I can’t sleep,” you say, softly. 

He sits up a little straighter. His black eyes glitter in the dark. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, and he sounds different, now. Thicker. More careful. “Me neither.” 

You tug at your sleeves again. Nervous tic. The cold seeps through the wood and the wool of your socks. 

“Too much…noise,” you lie, gesturing vaguely to the house. To the wind. “I think the house might be haunted.” 

He stares at you. His shoulders slacken. You think he almost smiles, for the second time tonight. 

“What?” You shift your weight on the floor. “No snide remark?” 

He cocks his head. Pats the empty swath of space beside him on the mattress. 

You look blankly at his hand. He pats the bed again and his long fingers linger. 

“C’mon,” he drawls. “Look like you’re ‘bouta freeze.” 

You only hesitate a second. You should hesitate longer. But then you’re climbing into bed beside him, underneath the sheets, this time, taking care to make sure that your legs don’t brush his. 

It’s a big enough bed. You don’t have to touch. 

He unspools his elbow. Lets his arm fall back down. You roll onto your side and look at him from the pillow. 

“How come you don’t sleep?” you ask, quietly. The words are half-muffled. 

He turns to look at you. His hair is longer than you thought it was. When it’s not clumped with blood and hard-pack snow his curls drip midway down his neck. 

They’re pressed against the headboard, now. When he turns to you his neck flinches. 

“I sleep,” he says. 

“No you don’t,” you say. “Not really.” 

He turns full-on, now. His shoulder flexes with the motion. You try not to look. 

“What d’you know, anyway?” he mutters, and it’s not exactly harsh but it’s pretty far from gentle. It’s riding in some weird, middle limbo, like he doesn’t quite know how to be anything other than mean. 

You’re quiet. You grip at the pillowcase and look past him, at the wall. 

He slides off of the headboard. He slinks down the mattress and rolls onto his side, head on the pillow so he’s face-to-face with you. 

There’s still distance between you. It seems like less than it was. 

You think he might fall asleep. His breathing slows. His eyes are narrowed into slits. But then he speaks, so low it might as well be a ghost. 

“Don’t like the dreams,” he says, quietly. 

Your brows furrow. “What?” 

“’S why I don’t sleep,” he says. “Don’t like the dreams.” 

You’re quiet. You don’t ask him what he means, because you don’t have to. You have them too. 

“What did they mean, the other day?” you ask. “The Fireflies. They asked if you had it.” 

He doesn’t answer. You almost lean forward and nudge him, but something stops you. It seems like a worse idea than poking a sleeping bear. 

“Joel,” you prompt, instead. 

“Ask a lotta questions,” he murmurs. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m nosy, remember?” 

He huffs. His breath trickles to your skin. 

“One question,” you say. “Then you ask me one. We can switch off. That way it’s fair.” 

“Fair,” he repeats. He sounds skeptical. But he doesn’t fight you, so either he’s into it — or, more likely, you’ve climbed into his bed and worn him down. 

“You go first,” you tell him. “The Fireflies.” 

He yawns. His teeth flash, bright white. 

“I was s’posed t’do a job for ‘em,” he says. “They lost somethin’. Needed it back. Hired me t’track it down.” 

“Why couldn’t they get it themselves?” 

“’S two questions,” he says. 

He yawns again. You roll your eyes. 

He thinks for a long time. You fidget in the silence. 

“What do they want with you?” he asks, finally. “Musta’ pissed ‘em off pretty good.” 

“Yeah,” you say, mildly. “Something like that.” 

He waits patiently. You think maybe his foot grazes yours. 

“It’s a long story,” you say. “My br—Ali was working with them. For them. They had a…falling out. I helped him leave. Escape, I guess.”

“Escape,” Joel repeats. He tips his throat to the ceiling. But he’s not curious like you are — not the same way, at least, and he doesn’t press it any further. He just nods, slightly, and lays his head back on the pillow. 

“Enough ‘bout the Fireflies,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ sick of ‘em.” 

For once you agree. 

“Okay,” you say, slowly. “Your brother, then. Tommy. He’s — he’s your brother, right?” 

“That your question?” 

“Yeah.” 

Joel blinks at you. Black eyes. Black stare. 

“Yeah,” he says. “He’s my brother.” 

“Where is he?”

“’S two questions. Again.” 

“It doesn’t matter. Just—”

He sighs. For once it doesn’t seem directed towards you. 

“Wyoming,” he says, after a long pause. “Least — that’s where he was headed.” 

“Wyoming. Why Wyoming?” 

“Dunno,” Joel says. “Settlement there, or somethin’. ’S—why am I tellin’ you this shit? What d’you know ‘bout me ’n and Tommy?” 

His hackles are up. His muscles tense under the sheets. 

“Nothing,” you say, quickly. “I’m just—”

“Nosy.” 

“Curious.” 

He pushes out a breath. It sounds tired. 

“Tommy’s gone,” he says, more to himself than you. “’S it. Ain’t nothin’ else to know.” 

That’s not the truth. You remember the night he stormed away, making long tracks through the snow. You remember the hushed fight and the angry, swollen scowls. 

But you don’t push it. Not tonight. Not when he looks kind of — broken, in the dark. 

“Okay,” you whisper. And then — softer still, “—I’m sorry.” 

He blinks. His eyes lose a little bit of that venomous spark. He takes a heavy breath and shifts on the pillow. You do the same, biting back a shiver when it jumps to your throat. 

He catches it. Maybe not so curious, but perceptive as hell.

"Why'd ya come in here?" he murmurs.

You laugh weakly. Ignore the fact that he’s moved closer. 

“Is that your question?” you mumble. 

He doesn’t respond. But his hand wedges closer, scooting up the mattress. The tips of his fingers just barely brush yours. 

“Don't know,” you say, after a beat. “Keep an eye on you, I guess.” 

His lip twitches in the dark. An almost smile. And then he’s moving closer, closer, until his pillow ghosts yours and you’re almost nose-to-nose. 

He drags his big hand up. Lays it gently on your cheek. 

Your breath stalls. Your pulse patters at your wrist, under sheets and heavy flannel. 

He moves your hair back. Tucks it away, behind your ear. His palm lingers at the edge of your cheek. 

Your heart leaps to your throat. This is wrong, it’s wrong, but he’s so fucking close and he smells like strawberries and snow and copper blood he can’t quite wipe clean. 

And you want to kiss him. 

You want to kiss him. 

Your good hand slides to touch his jaw. He flinches when you touch him there — when you drag your fingers through his stubble, to the edge of his mouth. You’ve never seen him flinch like that. Not when the Fireflies sprayed bullets at his back. Not when that Runner nearly took off his head. 

But he flinches now. When you touch him. Here, in bed, in the dark. 

Your fingers skate higher — up his cheek, to the crest of his temple — and he freezes. His breath stalls out on your lips. 

“What happened?” you whisper. Your fingers inch higher, to the base of his scar. 

He swallows. You watch his throat bob. 

“Nothin’ happened,” he says, quietly. There’s something strained in his voice. “Got shot.” 

You’re not stupid. That scar is too close to his right temple, too close to where the muzzle on his black Beretta would land if he held it there himself. And you know the look in his eyes, too — black and lost and a little bit helpless. 

Your heart breaks. You’re not sure why it should. You would’ve shot him yourself, two days ago. 

But it breaks now. It breaks for him. 

Your brows dig deeper. You move your fingers higher, to trace the zig-zag scar, and his whole body jerks. 

He rips himself back. His hand comes up, lightning fast, and wraps tightly around yours. 

“Don’t,” he snaps. He’s squeezing your hand. It’s almost painful. 

You try to twist your hand away. He’s breathing hard. 

“Joel,” you say. “Take your hand off me.” 

He blinks. His gaze falters. For a second it looks more brown than black. 

His hand slackens, then drops. You pull your own hand back to your side and fold it into the sleeve of your flannel. 

He blinks again. His breath stumbles. He looks at you for the first time — really looks at you, and the less-than-inch between his mouth and yours — and he swears. His stare fumbles. 

“Sorry,” he breathes. “Fuck. ‘M sorry.” 

He sits up before you can stop him. The sheets slough off his chest. He throws himself out of bed and stalks to the edge of the room. He leans heavy on the dresser with his toned back to you. 

You can hear him breathing. It’s the only sound in the room. Except for your heartbeat, bleeding out between your ears. And the dull, aching whistle of half-frozen wind. 

You get out of bed too. It feels dangerously empty. You drag the sheet with you and pull it up around your shoulders — because you’re freezing, yeah, and because you’d rather not stand here in your skimpy underwear. 

You shuffle over to the window, at the opposite edge of the room. You put a hand to the glass and the frost soaks your palm. 

You should go. You should leave. Maybe you can pretend this was one of those dreams you both hate so much. 

But you don’t go. You stay put, standing by the window with that sheet around your shoulders. If he wants to tell you to leave he can do it himself. He can use his fucking words, for once. 

But he doesn’t speak, either. After a while the silence settles into something calmer. Your pulse stops screaming in your ears. 

That’s when he leaves the dresser. You can hear him pad across the floor, bare feet on hardwood. 

He stops somewhere close to you. Like — really close to you. His breath drips at the nape of your neck. His weight leans heavy by your back. And you can see the glimpse of his reflection in the frost on the window — dark and scarred and quiet, like that green-eyed cat. 

Your breath hitches. The pulse you’d just wrangled kicks back up again. 

“It was a mistake,” you say, softly. You don’t turn around. It’s easier to talk to his reflection. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t,” he repeats. His tone is different now. “Don’t — ‘pologize to me.” 

“Y’don’t have to do that,” he breathes. His voice scratches. You could swear it almost breaks. “Don’t ever do that.” 

It’s been a while since you took a breath. You don’t start now. 

He steps even closer. His chest grazes the back of your flannel. He runs hot; hotter than before, and when he dips his mouth to the curve of your shoulder you almost jump at the heat that comes with it. 

He just barely — barely — touches you. His mouth skims the ridge of your shoulder, where that loose white sheet and your flannel both slouch. His stubble rakes your exposed skin. 

Your fingers flex on the sheet. It’s involuntary, a reflex, like you’re gripping at a lifeline. 

The sheet tights on your shoulders. His lips still at the edge of your neck. 

“Drop it,” he murmurs. His voice is so low you think you’re hearing things. You think you’re imagining the whole thing, to be honest — like you’ll wake up any minute in a bed you never left.

But it’s not a dream. His mouth is still there when you take a short breath. His stare blinks back at you in the frozen windowpane. 

“Drop it.” His breath melts on your skin. Heat pools white-hot between your legs. 

You drop the sheet. It whispers to the floor and ripples ghost-white at your feet. You should be cold, without the added layer. You’re decidedly not. 

His chest is flush with your back, now. You push into him, unconsciously, or maybe consciously, or who cares, anymore — and his cock stirs against your ass. 

You bite back a whine. You knew he was big, in that sleeping bag. You could feel him through two layers of clothes and that biting, bitter cold. 

But now there’s nothing. There’s a pair of thin boxers — black, you’re assuming, but you never saw the color — and your brand-new pair of faded Calvin Kleins. That’s it. And you can feel him, alright. You push back harder, a little more on purpose, and he nips at your shoulder. 

It doesn’t hurt. Not really. But it’s enough to leave a mark. You swear softly and his knuckles skim your sides. 

“Hold still,” he mutters. He pulls his mouth from your skin and you feel him straighten. You watch his head bow low in the frozen window. He unfurls his fist, his left fist, and something glitters in the glass. 

“What is that?” you ask. 

He doesn’t say a word. But he drapes his arms over your shoulders, and holds his hands out by your collar, and you can see the rope of glinting gold that’s hanging from his fingers. 

Ali’s necklace. You haven’t seen it since that night by the fire, when Joel snatched it back from prying hands. 

You’d assume he’d kept it for himself. A souvenir, maybe. 

But here he is, returning what’s yours. He holds it up to your collar and clasps it loosely at your neck. Then he drops the chain, lets it fall, and the pendant swoops under your flannel. The metal bites at your skin. 

You lift a hand to touch the chain. It’s aimless, automatic. He watches you through the glass and his hands ghost your sides. 

“Why?” you breathe. You drop your fingers. The chain settles on your skin. 

He shakes his head. 

“S’yours,” he mutters. 

You swallow. It sticks to your throat. You have the vague, all-encompassing sense, again, that this is wrong, this is so, so wrong, with your brother’s necklace thumping at your chest and your hips digging into Joel’s. It’s just…not enough to stop you. 

He reaches around your waist. Unclasps the buttons on that oversized flannel. He watches his reflection while he does it — so he can see his handiwork, and your face in the glass. 

You don’t fight him. You don’t bat his hands away. You figure you probably should. 

He gets the last button — the bottom one — and his hands fall away. The flannel hangs open and drips off your shoulders. 

“Let it go,” he growls. 

“’S cold,” you mumble. It’s the best excuse you can think of as to why you shouldn’t let this man undress you right now. It doesn’t even convince you. 

“Nah.” His breath drags on your skin. His teeth scrape your shoulder, your neck, the side of your throat. You tip your head and his nose skims your jaw. His hands find your waist and one slinks lower, to the band of your panties and the aching heat there. 

His lips curve. His smirk rides up your jaw. “You ain’t cold, princess.” 

You whimper. It sounds dangerously close to his name. He tugs at the flannel and you let it slip free. 

It falls to the ground, on top of the sheet. You wonder absently if he’ll let you keep the wool socks on. You kind of hope so. But then his hands are back on you, moving over new skin, and you stop thinking altogether. 

He drags five fingers up — over your ribs, and the swell of your breasts, all the way to the base of your neck. 

“What are you doing?” you breathe. 

He doesn’t answer. Not right away. He pulls his mouth back from your jaw and his hand replaces the loss. His palm wraps loose around your throat and begs your head back. 

“You’re nothin’ but trouble,” he mutters. “Never shoulda brought ya with me.” 

“Never should’ve come.” 

He huffs, softly. 

“Didn’t have a choice,” he murmurs, dangerously low.

“I always have a choice.” 

He’s silent. His other hand drips lower, to the band of faded panties. He toys with the elastic and you push into him.

His eyes flicker in the window. The hand on your throat squeezes gently. 

“Then make one,” he says. His voice is rough. “Make one right now. Tell me to stop.” 

You watch your reflection writhing into him. Ali’s golden chain glitters on your collar. You try not to give it much thought. Which isn’t really as hard as it should be, because your mind is fucking — gone. 

You hate him, you think, blindly, when his fingers dip. You’re supposed to hate him. 

You can’t remember why. 

“Please,” he breathes. He’s so close to where you want him. So close. “Tell me t’stop.” 

You shake your head. Grab at his hand.

“Tell me,” he echoes, and he sounds urgent, now. Almost desperate. 

“I can’t,” you mumble, and guide him underneath your waistband. 

He groans. Long and low and ragged. His heartbeat rumbles at your back. 

You pull your own hand away. He doesn’t need the help. He knows exactly what he’s doing. 

He doesn’t waste a lot of time. It’s not really a luxury these days, and you’re already soaked. The seams of your thighs are slick with want. He slides his middle finger into you, all the way to the knuckle, and your spine arches into his chest. 

You grab at his wrist. You’ll leave marks in his skin and you know he won’t care. They’ll match the bite mark he left at the ridge of your throat. 

He pumps his finger slow. So. Fucking. Slow. You watch his hand under your panties in the fogged-out glass. His stare flicks up, just once, and you meet his eyes in the window pane. He slips another finger in, alongside the first, and his stare wicks away when you screw your eyes shut. 

“Fuck,” you breathe. It’s the first thing you’ve said since — 

Since this. Since you passed the point of no return. You were trying not to speak at all, like keeping quiet might keep this from ever being quite real. 

But it slips out, soft and desperate, and his thumb strokes a pattern over your clit. His teeth sink into your shoulder. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, hot on your skin. “Bad fuckin’ girl.” 

Yeah, you agree, with a soundless sort of whine. Then why does it feel so fucking—

“That's good,” you whimper, "fuck—"

—again, and again, and again, when he crooks his fingers just right and hits that spot inside you. You jerk into him and Ali’s necklace thumps your collar. “Joel—” 

“Don’t,” he pants. He’s breathing just as hard as you are. He twists his fingers into you and you rut into his knuckles. 

“Don’t do that,” he mumbles. “Don’t s—don’t say my name like that.” 

You bite down on your tongue. Your eyes roll to the ceiling. He works you hard, silent, and his thumb strums your clit. You can feel his pulse at your throat where his palm spans your neck. 

Your hips whine. A torn sound rips through your lips. You’re gonna cum like this, you realize, with a blinding kind of flash. On his fingers, in the dark, staring at yourself in this half-frozen window. 

You can’t remember the last time a man made you cum. Not just with his fingers. And never like this. 

You stumble back into Joel’s chest. The hand on your throat tightens and he holds you upright. His wrist flexes under soaked fabric. 

“Please,” you mumble. “Please.” 

His breath catches. You can hear it, trapped behind you. And then his fingers are twisting, digging up, into you, and splitting you apart — and you go dead slack in his grip. He slips his hand free and your legs tremble. 

You feel empty without him. Your skin is stained white-hot, where his touch bled through. You tilt your head back to his collar and his mouth falls to your hair. 

You think he kisses you there, on the crown of your head. You’re not sure. 

He drops the hand on your throat. It dangles back at his side. There’ll be a mark there, on your neck, where his palm print dug in. You’re not sure you care. 

“‘M sorry,” he says, softly. 

It startles you. You almost turn around. But your legs are weak, and his chest is warm, and you’re not quite ready to look him in the eye. 

Not after this. Not after tonight.

So you swallow. You face his reflection, instead. It seems stupid to ask him what, exactly, he’s sorry for, when there are ten thousand things he should mean. 

Your brother. His men. That shitshow at the garden center. This morning, and the last ten minutes, and every loaded second in between. 

From the sound of his voice, he's apologizing for them all.

“Is that what this was?” you ask, tightly. Your head is clearing now. That chain hangs heavy on your collar. “An apology?” 

He’s quiet. His breath pulls at your back.

And now you do turn. Or you try to, at least. He doesn’t get to be silent. Not now. 

He stops you from turning. He holds you still, facing the window, and whispers lethally low in your ear. 

“Shut up.” 

Anger lances through your chest. You wriggle in his hold like a caught rabbit. 

“What the fuck?” you breathe. “You—” 

“Shut. Up.” 

He tugs you tightly into him. His arm comes up and bars protectively across your chest. Across your breasts. Like he’s shielding you from view. 

From…someone’s view. 

“Look,” he says.

You look. Out the window, beyond both your reflections and into the dark. 

Your heart drops. 

There’s someone out there. Three or four someones, judging by the waving flashlights. They carve through the dark and light up the snow. 

One whoops. Loud. It ricochets off the trees, the house, the frozen windowpane. The glass bows. 

“Raiders,” you say. 

Joel nods. His voice is tight at your back. 

“Yeah,” he mutters. 

He drags you back from the window. You pray they don’t look up. 

He nods toward the bedroom door. His stare is all steel. It’s amazing how quickly he’s snapped back to Joel. Angry, stone-cold, deadly Joel. 

It’s weirdly comforting. Or it would be, if it weren’t for the raiders circling outside. This Joel is familiar. This Joel you know. The one at your back, ten seconds ago — that Joel is new. That Joel scares you. You’re not quite sure how to hate him like you should. 

“Get dressed,” he whispers. “Meet me back here in two minutes. ’N be fuckin’ — quiet.” 

You stand still. Your feet and your brain are still getting in sync. 

He bends down. Tears your flannel off the floor. He drapes it up around your shoulders and shoves you toward the door. 

“Y’hear me?” he hisses. “Go. Now.” 

“My bow,” you whisper. “And my bag. They’re — I left everything downstairs. By the door. They’ll —” 

They’ll know someone’s home. 

He shakes his head. Someone bangs on the front door. 

You flinch. His eyes go dark. 

“Go,” he bites. 

You go. 

Your clothes are where you left them, sprawled out on the bed. You pull them on in record time — even in the dark, with a brace on one hand and the other trembling. Jeans, tee shirt, hoodie, flannel. You flip the hood up for good measure. Not sure what good it’ll do, really, but it makes you feel sneakier. And it’s all about mentality. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, when you tighten the velcro on your Rite-Aid wrist brace. 

You don’t put your shoes on. They make too much noise. You grab your knife from the nightstand, where you last left it lying — and flick the blade open. 

The downstairs door pounds again. Someone shouts, outside, and you hear it muffled through the window. 

“Door’s locked,” one of them’s saying. A flashlight waves across the window and you duck. “Think anyone’s home?” 

Another voice chimes in. Louder. Gruffer. 

“Dunno,” he says. “Let’s check ’n see.” 

He whoops again. Your fingers curl on the knife. You creep back towards the door and something black darts past your foot. 

That fucking — cat. Again. She leaps up on the bed and stares back at you. 

Meeeee-ow. 

“Quiet,” you whisper. You put the knife to your lips, like she might understand the universal symbol for shut the fuck up. 

There’s an ear-splitting noise from downstairs. A gunshot, you realize, a second after the fact. And then men’s voices — more than one — streaming through the foyer. 

They shot the door down. Like Joel would’ve, you think, absently. If you hadn’t been there. 

The cat arches her spine. She watches you with giant eyes. 

You look between her and the bedroom door. Joel’s voice echoes in your ears. 

Two minutes. 

“Fuck,” you mutter. 

You flick the knife shut. Shove it in your pocket. Then you sweep up that goddamn, fucking cat — who doesn’t protest, so she must be some kind of smart — and carry her to the dresser at the end of the room. 

You dig the bottom drawer open with your foot. The cat turns in your arms to stare at you. 

You bend down. She goes…surprisingly willingly into the drawer. You yank a couple shirts out and she settles on the rest.

Then you stand, and push the drawer back in, and seal the cat in the dresser. 

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Just til they’re gone.” 

You flick your knife back open. You’re on your way to the door — for real, this time — when it creaks open of its own accord.

You take half a step back. Lift your knife to the dark. You didn’t hear anyone come up the stairs — you have a good ear, and you’ve been listening, but — maybe you missed it, tucking that stupid cat away. Maybe that’ll be the reason you get yourself killed.

But it’s not one of those men who shoves himself through your door. 

It’s Joel. Fully dressed, in his boots and his pants and his slouching black hoodie. Rifle slung over his shoulder, pistol strapped around his thigh. And a nasty fucking scowl scrawled out across his face. 

“Where the hell’ve you been?” he whispers. “I said two fuckin’ minutes.” 

Something clatters downstairs. Plates, glasses. Heavy footsteps mark the hardwood. 

“Someone’s home,” one shouts. "Wakey, wakey."

“Check upstairs,” says his friend. 

Joel’s jaw flinches. You gesture weakly toward the drawer. 

“The cat,” you say, lamely. 

“The cat,” he repeats. He bites at his lip. “Jesus.”

“Fuckin’ cat,” he’s whispering, shaking his head while he stalks toward you. His hand goes to his thigh, to the holster strapped there, and he works his pistol free. He puts the muzzle in his hand and shoves it toward you, butt-up, like you’d offer a toddler a pair of sharp scissors. 

“Take it,” he mutters. He shrugs the rifle off his shoulder. “Knife ain’t gonna do much good.” 

You blink. Blink again. Someone’s climbing up the stairs, now — grunting, huffing. You hear the telltale click of a gun on the landing. 

He’s almost here. Almost at the door. You grab Joel’s gun and flick the safety off. 

Then you stow it in your jeans, muzzle down, and flatten yourself beside the door. 

Joel does the same. He stands pressed to the wall, on the opposite side of the door from you. If anyone enters they’ll see him straightaway. He doesn’t seem particularly fazed at the prospect. 

Those footsteps clodclodclod down the hall. They pause in front of the door, your door, and you can hear someone’s heavy breath gunning down the wood. Your grip doubles down on your knife. Joel’s gun stains cold at the base of your spine. 

The door nudges open. A pair of frosted boots moves inside. You see a hairy arm, a slouched sleeve, the back of a stocky, crew-cut head, and — 

Joel pushes himself off the wall. Fast. Faster than the lumbering idiot a foot away from him can process. 

Joel whacks him, hard, with the blunted end of his rifle. The man stumbles back toward you, clutching at his forehead. Black blood gargles from a stock-sized dent. 

He opens his mouth. To speak, or shout, or something. You slip out of the corner, right up to his back — silently, thanks to those trusty wool socks — and shove your knife into his throat. 

Whatever he was saying dies out on his tongue. A stream of red comes up instead; over his lips and down his thick throat. He wobbles for a minute, creaking on hardwood, and then he falls. First to his knees and then to his chest. 

You bend down. Rip your knife out of his neck. 

Joel stares at you beside the door. You hold up the blade and it winks in the dark. 

“Guess it does some kinda good,” you say. 

He huffs. That shadow-smile nags his mouth. 

“Guess so,” he drawls. 

You hold his gaze a second longer. Then another glass shatters, somewhere downstairs, and someone yells up the landing. 

“Where’s Duke?” 

“Dunno. Went upstairs.” 

“Well, go check on him.” 

“You go check on him.” 

“Fine. Sweep the kitchen, will you? Take Jackie with ya.” And then, a second later, closer to the steps, “Fuckin’ useless idiot.” 

You meet Joel’s gaze. He holds up four fingers. Then he tilts his chin, to the guy sprawled in the space between you, and he drops a finger. Three. 

You nod. Three guys. Three left. One on the landing and two in the kitchen. 

You edge toward the door. He follows you, rifle at your back. You think for a second he’ll try to seal you in — lock you in the bedroom, and take them all out himself. 

But he lets you take the lead. He trusts you. That, maybe, or he knows you’d slip out anyway. 

You stalk into the hall and crouch at the top of the stairs. Your hood frames your face and melts in with the dark. 

Joel doesn’t vanish quite so easily. There’s too much of him, and all of it is too loud. He can’t disappear into the dark. So he just — waits, at the top of the stairs, half-shadowed by the dark with his rifle on his shoulder. 

The second man makes his way up the steps. He gets halfway up and his brow furrows, slightly, like he’s heard something he can’t quite place. 

“Duke?” he calls. “You up here, fatass?” 

Yeah, you think, while you watch him scale the steps. Your fingers curl on a splintered baluster. He’s up here. 

He’s already on the landing by the time he sees Joel. And Joel’s already grabbing him; yanking him into the hallway and into the dark with an elbow wrapped around his throat. 

The man makes a garbled sound. He scratches at Joel’s sleeve and his legs kick like a fish. 

Joel’s arm flexes. The man struggles, seizes, then goes slack. Joel lets him go and he thuds by your feet. 

You nudge him with your toe. He doesn’t budge. 

“Is he…” 

Joel pulls his rifle off his shoulder. He turns it upside-down and pokes the stock into the man’s neck. 

“Prolly,” he says. “But if it makes ya feel better—” 

He drags the stock up, then drives it back down. Directly into the man’s temple. His head crumples, like a boot through a sandcastle. Blood oozes to the hallway floor. 

Joel slings the rifle back up. The strap slouches his sweatshirt. 

You glare up at him. 

“That didn’t make me feel better,” you hiss. 

He shrugs. Holds up two fingers. 

“Kitchen,” he mouths, and starts down the stairs. 

You swear, softly. You tuck your knife away, deep in your pocket, and dig his gun out of your jeans. You pull the hammer back until it clicks.