Penny's TBR Pboys fanfics

Two Years Later

In the master bedroom of the rented beach house in Cape Canaveral, Florida, the digital clock clicked silently to 3:34 AM.

The room held a cool ocean breeze and the salt-heavy humidity of the coast. When you opened your eyes, even in the dark, you felt him. On the other side of the bed—his back against the carved wooden headboard, his arms crossed over his chest—was the familiar, immovable silhouette of your husband. He wasn't sleeping. He was watching the rise and fall of your chest in the dark.

You shifted in the bed, your skin reacting at once to that silent, magnetic pull between you, the way it always did.

"Joel?" you whispered, your voice raspy with sleep. "What time is it?"

"Too early," he rumbled in that low, vibrating voice. He reached through the dark and rested his hand on your waist, his thumb stroking the bare skin at the edge of your T-shirt. "I was tryin' to sleep, but... not happening today. Your brain's running too loud, Professor. I can hear the gears grinding from over here."

A tired, deep smile spread across your lips. You slid under the blanket and curled closer to him, resting your head against his chest. You took a slow, grounding breath and listened to the beat of his heart.

Today wasn't an ordinary day.

Today was the launch day of the NASA project you had given your last four years—thousands of sleepless nights, countless wind-tunnel tests, endless red-inked drafts. The aerospike thrusters you had designed, turning aerodynamic pressure and turbulent flow to your advantage, were about to carry a multibillion-dollar rocket into orbit.

"I'm scared," you confessed quietly, your fingers playing with the collar of his T-shirt. "What if I missed a variable in the thermodynamic load calculations? What if the nozzles lose structural integrity at Max-Q? What if—"

Joel's lips came down on your forehead and cut you off. A long, warm kiss that stripped the chaotic data out of your mind.

"That rocket's gonna fly, sweetheart," he said, his voice firm. His chin rested on top of your head, his arms wrapped around your shoulders. "Because you designed it. And nothing you build ever collapses. Nobody in this world knows that better than me."

Your eyes welled at his unwavering faith. You were a woman of science; you believed in data. But this man's belief in you felt more absolute than any law of physics. You were about to answer when a small, sleepy voice from the cracked-open door interrupted you both.

"Mommy?"

In the doorway, in astronaut-print pajamas and dragging the plastic toy wrench her uncle Tommy had given her for her birthday, stood your three-and-a-half-year-old daughter. Maya.

Her wild dark curls were entirely yours, but the set of her jaw and those sharp hazel eyes had come straight from her father. The second Joel saw her, the rough Texas contractor mask evaporated. He straightened, his arms already reaching for her.

"My little bug awake?" Joel murmured, the fragile softness in his voice reserved for this room, this family.

Maya ran to the bed in quick, clumsy steps. Joel caught her one-handed in a single smooth motion and lifted her onto his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck and burrowed into his silver-flecked beard, humming like a little engine. Watching the peace settle over his face as he closed his eyes and kissed her hair squeezed your heart the exact way it had the day she was born.

When you took your vows five years ago, the plan had been clear. Five years, you'd said when you got the IUD—five years to build your career and enjoy the marriage first. However, the universe had other plans for you. In the thirteenth month, the one variable you'd trusted failed, and you walked into the kitchen with a hospital bandage on your hand and pressed that grainy ultrasound strip to his chest, because your voice wouldn't work. You were terrified.

But that day, when Joel set the picture down and took your face in his hands and made you look at him, you watched the last of the old grief he'd carried for twenty years begin to loosen its grip. "The only thing I ever did perfectly in this life was being a father," he'd said once. He was right. The day Maya was born, Joel Miller was reborn. He hadn't just stayed your anchor; he'd become the sun his daughter orbited.

"Ready to inspect your mama's project, Chief Engineer?" Joel whispered, tapping the toy wrench in her hand.

"Is the rocket gonna fly, Daddy?" Maya mumbled, holding onto his thumb with both small hands.

"Yeah, peanut," Joel said, his eyes drifting to you in the dark, bright with that familiar, arrogant pride. "Your mom's gonna pierce the sky today."

Maya gave a slow, solemn nod against his chest. "Gonna watch Mama's rocket," she announced—and was asleep again before she finished the sentence.

The house was dark except for the light over the kitchen sink. You stood at the counter with a mug of coffee you couldn't drink, the launch you'd spent four years building ticking down somewhere out past the dunes.

Joel set a plate in front of you—toast, a few slices of mango—and said nothing about it. He just slid it under your hands and waited.

"I can't. My stomach's—"

"One bite." He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, immovable. "You don't get to faint on the most important morning of your career, Professor. Eat."

You took a bite to make him stop watching you. At the table, Maya was slumped sideways in her booster seat, half-asleep over a bowl of cereal, the toy wrench still in her fist. "...rocket goes whoosh," she mumbled, and let her eyes fall shut again.

Upstairs, you pulled the white silk blouse on over fingers that wouldn't quite cooperate, missing a button twice before it took. In the mirror you watched Joel shrug into a clean flannel behind you—no jacket, no tie, no concession to the generals and senators waiting at the Cape. He caught your look and lifted a shoulder. "They asked me to a launch, not a funeral. I'm goin' as me."

You sat at the vanity to do your make up and that was where it caught up with you. The eyeliner pencil shook in your hand. The wing came out crooked; you wiped it away, tried again, and your hand shook worse. You—the woman who'd carved differential equations on a whiteboard with an infant asleep on her chest—couldn't draw a straight line.

Joel crouched at your side and took your free hand in both of his. He turned it over and pressed his mouth to the inside of your wrist, right over the pulse, holding there until he felt it slow under his lips—then to each knuckle, slow and unhurried, the way you'd steady a level until the bubble stopped trembling.

"Breathe, sweetheart," he murmured against your skin. "You already did the hard part. The math's done. All that's left today is watching it fly." His thumb dragged once, slow, across the inside of your wrist, and his voice dropped half an octave. "Save it for me, baby. Tonight I'll give that pretty body a real reason to shake."

Heat bloomed up your neck, and despite everything—the launch, the nerves, the four years—a startled laugh slipped out of you. The first easy breath of the morning.

He didn't let go until the shaking eased out of your fingers. 

You lifted the pencil again. This time the line came clean and even, in a single slow pass—your own hand, steady now.

You met his eyes in the mirror and reached up to clasp the gold plumb bob at your throat.

"There," he said quietly. "Knew you had it."

5:46 AM.

As you neared the high-security gates of the Kennedy Space Center, the rented SUV was full of a heavy, electric silence.

In the back, Maya dozed in her car seat. You sat in the passenger seat, hands clasped so tight in your lap the knuckles had gone white. Your nerves were screaming.

In the driver's seat, Joel was your monolith, the way he always was—the same flannel and scuffed boots he'd have worn to a job site, the only concession a bright red lanyard around his neck that read "NASA – VIP MISSION CONTROL." The contrast—a blue-collar contractor walking into one of the most elite rooms in science—was, as always, both grounding and a little arousing to you.

He was quieter than the day's nerves alone explained, his eyes flicking to Maya in the rearview every so often, like he was counting her. You put it down to the early hour and the weight of the morning, and didn't ask.

One hand on the wheel, Joel reached over and folded your cold, clenched fingers into his warm, calloused palm. He laced your fingers together and stroked the back of your hand with his thumb.

"Breathe, sweetheart," he murmured, eyes on the dark road but his focus entirely on you. "You're wound up like we're headed to a firing squad."

"Joel, this isn't just a motor test," you whispered, your voice trembling. "This is my design. A multibillion-dollar rocket. If I got the structural mechanics wrong, if those weld seams can't take the heat..."

Joel slowed at the entrance to the VIP lot, shifted into park, and cut the engine. As the armed guards approached to check your credentials, he turned fully to you, unbuckled his belt, and cupped your face in his hands, making you look at him.

"Look at me," he said, soft but leaving no room for argument. "Who are you?"

You swallowed. "I... I—"

"You're my wife," Joel cut in, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "The woman who could outsmart every man at that institution with her eyes closed. You took the wind and taught it how to blow. You poured the foundation right under that rocket—and your foundations don't collapse." He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "Now you're gonna get out of this truck, walk up to those bleachers, and show the whole damn world what that mind of yours can do. Understood?"

His words, the way they had five years ago at your vows, stilled the storm in you. The turbulence dropped; laminar flow returned. You breathed, and touched the warm gold plumb bob at your throat.

"Understood," you whispered, a real smile finally breaking across your face. "I love you."

"Love you too, baby," he said, kissing you deeply.

"Let's go watch this launch."

Inside the launch complex, before anyone could steer you toward the bleachers, a young engineer with a clipboard caught up to you, half out of breath. "Professor Miller—they want you on the floor for the final propulsion checks. It's your system. They won't green it without your eyes on it."

Of course they wouldn't.

Someone handed you a white lab coat and a floor badge, and you slid your glasses up your nose, and the nervous wife from the parking lot was gone. You walked onto the control floor as the woman who had built the thing they were all afraid of.

You moved down the row of consoles—thermal margins, chamber pressures, the turbulence model that was yours to the last coefficient—reading the numbers off the screens the way other people read their own handwriting.

Then you stopped.

One line on the third screen sat a half-degree off where it should have been. A cooling-flow reading on the starboard nozzle, drifting—small, the kind of number a tired eye slides right past. You didn't slide past it. You'd lived inside this math for four years; you felt the wrongness before you finished reading it.

"Hold the count." Your voice was sharp as a knife. The room went still around you. "Starboard thermal margin's drifting. If that's real, the nozzle won't fail on the pad—it'll fail at Max-Q, when the pressure peaks. Pull it up."

A young engineer's hands flew over the keys. The flight director was at your shoulder now, jaw tight. The number bloomed on the main screen: a sensor lag feeding a stale value into the cooling loop—exactly the kind of thing that had melted a simulation of yours, once, a lifetime and a baby ago.

"Reset the loop, repoll the array," you said, already pointing. "Now."

Seconds stretched. Somewhere above you a clock you'd promised the world was waiting. Then the line snapped back into the green and held, clean and steady.

You straightened, breathed once, and gave the flight director a single nod. Resume the count. He held your eyes a beat longer than necessary—that was a catch, Professor—and turned to call it in.

It would hold now. You were almost sure. The real answer was waiting eighty seconds into flight, where the air pushed back hardest.

Then you looked up.

Through the glass wall of the observation gallery, a floor above and walled off behind two inches of safety pane, stood Joel with Maya on his hip. He couldn't have heard a word of it—but he'd read your spine going rigid, your hand cutting through the air, and his arm had tightened around Maya on pure instinct. He wasn't watching the screens or the countdown clock. He was watching you—in your coat, in your glasses, on your floor—with that quiet, wrecked pride he never once tried to hide.

Maya pressed her whole hand flat against the glass. Mama, you saw her mouth, the sound lost on the far side of the pane.

You touched two fingers to your lips and lifted them toward the glass. Then you shrugged out of the coat and went to take your family up to watch the sky—your heart still going hard, the number you'd caught still humming under your ribs.

The VIP bleachers sat at the closest distance to the pad the law allowed, and the air was already electric.

Senators, NASA administrators, four-star generals, and deans from the country's top universities stood in tight, whispering clusters, sipping nervous coffees. The moment you stepped onto the platform, the whispers changed. The crowd parted for you. As the project's Principal Investigator, you were the star of the morning.

But the man behind you drew the more nervous attention.

Joel carried a sleep-tousled Maya in one arm, his other hand at the small of your back with that old, possessive claim. Moving through the white-collar crowd in his work boots, he looked like he owned the place, filtering anyone who came too close with a flat look that dared them to waste your time.

"Professor Miller!"

A familiar voice rose from the crowd. Dean Higgins came toward you, pride all over his face. Behind him was Dr. Preston—the man who, on your wedding day, had smugly told you that you'd leave the wind tunnel to "make babies at home." His hair had thinned a little more, and the arrogance was gone. He watched you with the wide, careful eyes of a man who knew exactly how much power you now held.

"Dean Higgins," you said, shaking his hand with a warm, formal smile.

"I couldn't miss this," the Dean said, his eyes shining. "You're the pride of our university. I hear your design cleared every aerodynamic test faster and cleaner than NASA's own engineers expected. Legendary work."

Before you could answer, his gaze dropped to the little girl in Joel's arm, and his academic expression melted into a grandfatherly grin. He leaned in, eyes crinkling.

"And who's this?" Higgins asked, with a gentle wave. "Another brilliant professor in the making, I see!"

Maya, still clutching the wrench, gave a bright, giggling smile, buried her face in Joel's neck for a second, then peeked back out.

"She's the Chief Engineer, Dean," Joel said with a low chuckle, patting her back. "Here to make sure her mama's math holds up."

"Thank you, Dean Higgins," you said, your heart warm. Then your gaze shifted, cool and deliberate, to Preston. "Dr. Preston. How nice to see you too. I assume you came to confirm with your own eyes that my wind-tunnel research hasn't exactly taken a back seat?"

Preston flushed a mottled red, stammered something about a tremendous success, very impressive work, and found a reason to be elsewhere in the crowd. You let him go; the rocket on the pad was answer enough.

"Daddy, the rocket's so big!" Maya said suddenly, pointing at the white obelisk on the distant pad.

Joel looked at her lit-up face and let out that deep, rumbling laugh. "Yeah, peanut. Real big. 'Cause your mama built it real strong."

Then Joel pulled something from the military-style backpack he'd been carrying: a pair of industrial noise-canceling earmuffs, the kind from an active site, painted bright pink. He'd modified them by hand to fit her small head.

He dropped to one knee, level with her. "Alright, Maya, listen. This thing's gonna be loud when it goes up. Louder than the jackhammers at the site. So we put the special helmet on, okay?"

Maya nodded with the same serious, focused look you got when you concentrated. With startling gentleness, Joel fit the pink earmuffs over her curls, his thumbs brushing her cheeks. "Good girl."

Just as he stood, Maya in his arms, the announcement came over the speakers.

"T-minus ten minutes and counting. All systems are go for launch."

Your stomach knotted. Your heart slammed so hard you were sure the people around you could hear it. You shut your eyes and your mind began to race—shear stress on the airfoils, the inferno inside the combustion chambers, the whole matrix of math that decided whether your thrusters would hold.

Then a familiar weight settled against you.

Joel stepped in behind you and pressed his chest to your back, a wall of heat that cut you off from the size of the world. He wrapped one arm around your waist, Maya still secured in the other, and rested his chin on top of your head.

"Laminar flow," Joel whispered in your ear, the words meant only for you.

And just like that, the deans and generals and VIPs were gone. There was only you, him, and the girl in his arms.

You opened your eyes, brought a trembling hand to the plumb bob at your neck, and let your whole weight fall back into his hold.

"T-minus sixty seconds."

The sky was bright, but a thousand breaths were held. Everyone on the deck rose to their feet.

"Ten, nine, eight..."

Your fingers dug into Joel's arm. He pressed you tighter, locking you to him.

The countdown wasn't only for the rocket. In your head it was counting down everything you'd survived: the blood on the linoleum of a classroom floor, the thirty-two hours of searing labor, the ghosts of your past, the coldness of a man who'd left you to bleed alone, and the grief Joel had carried for twenty years.

"...three, two, one. Ignition."

You saw the light first—blinding, ferocious, a second sun bursting beneath the pad, hellfire pouring from the aerospike nozzles you'd built equation by equation.

Then the tremor hit.

Not just sound—a physical force that tore the air, shook the ground, and rattled the organs in your chest. The concrete shuddered under your feet. It was exactly like the first day you met Joel: the deep, earth-shaking churn of the jackhammer under the engineering building that had brought him to your office door. Except this time, the power was yours.

As the rocket broke from the pad, the roar climbed to something staggering. The combustion chambers held. Your thrusters were ripping that tonnage of metal out of gravity's grip and pushing it smoothly toward the sky.

In Joel's arm, Maya had gone still. Then her whole face cracked open—eyes huge behind the pink earmuffs, mouth round—and she stabbed a finger at the climbing fire.

"Mama!" she shrieked over the roar. "Mama did that!"

It knocked the breath out of you. Two years back, you had watched your daughter's first steps alone, on a screen, in the dark, hours too late. Now she was awake against her father's chest, watching you reach the sky with her own two eyes. This one you hadn't missed. Neither had she.

"Approaching Max-Q," the speaker called.

The critical moment. Aerodynamic pressure at its deadly peak—the exact place the starboard nozzle would have torn itself apart, eighty seconds ago, if a half-degree drift on a third screen had gone unread. If it was going to break, it would break now, and you would know whether your eyes had been good enough.

You held your breath. You didn't blink. Your hand found the plumb bob at your throat.

And the rocket cut through that wall of pressure without a falter—clean, the starboard margin holding exactly where you'd dragged it back into the green—and the VIP terrace erupted in applause.

You'd done it. You'd survived your own Max-Q. 

All the years of loneliness, the cold old marriage, the sleepless newborn nights, the exhaustion, the endless calculations—all of it had led here.

You'd beaten gravity.

Around you the terrace was still roaring—applause, shouts, someone crying somewhere—but it all seemed to be happening behind glass, a long way off. High overhead the rocket had thinned to a single bright thread, then to nothing, leaving only a slow white scar unspooling across the morning sky. The roar that had shaken the ground bled out into a ringing hush, and the salt wind came back in off the water. In the middle of all of it, the three of you stood untouched, in a quiet that belonged only to you.

You turned away from the climbing star to look at the man holding you.

Joel wasn't watching the rocket. For a moment his eyes had drifted up past it, to the emptied sky where the fire had thinned into nothing, and that old shadow you'd seen only a handful of times in five years crossed his face. Then his gaze came down—to Maya, to the curls under the pink earmuffs, and he pressed his mouth to the top of her head—and then, finally, to you. The girl he hadn't been able to keep, the girl in his arms, and you. All of it moved across his face in the space of a single breath.

And then he was just looking at you, his eyes wet, the love in them so open and unguarded your knees went soft. The billion-dollar machine climbing into the sky meant nothing to him. The most astonishing thing in the universe was already standing in his arms.

"They ain't invented a word yet for how proud I am of you," Joel rumbled, the vibration of his voice hitting your skin harder than the rocket had.

You smiled through the tears and took his face in your hands. "I stayed in the air," you whispered, your forehead against his, "because you kept my ground solid."

Careful of the pink earmuffs between you, Joel folded you both into his arms and sealed you to his chest. He didn't kiss you right away. He held there a moment, his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in, his heart slamming against the hand you'd flattened on his chest—and then his mouth found yours, deep and unhurried and certain. The seal of a man who'd shut his heart twenty years ago and sworn never to build again, finally finding his home, his foundation, and his sky.

Between your two bodies, Maya wriggled a hand loose from the squeeze and patted your wet cheek, then his beard, the way she always did when the two of you got like this. "Don't cry, Mama," she ordered, very serious about it—and you laughed into the kiss, and Joel laughed against your mouth, and for one breath the three of you were just a single warm, ridiculous knot in the middle of a cheering crowd.

The little gold plumb bob brushed your skin in the Florida breeze, still carrying the warmth of the Texas sun.

You had spent your life learning to escape gravity.

But melting into your husband's chest, Maya tucked warm between you, you knew you'd already found your center of it.

And you never, ever wanted to fly away.

🎧 Playlist — if you want to live in their world a little longer:

Sleep on the Floor — The Lumineers

In Spite of Ourselves — John Prine & Iris DeMent

I'm In It With You — Loreen

Run to You — Lea Michele

Sparks — Coldplay

Starting Over — Chris Stapleton

You Are the Best Thing — Ray LaMontagne

Harvest Moon — Neil Young

If We Were Vampires — Jason Isbell & the 400 Unit

The Mother — Brandi Carlile

"I've never seen one with wings," Joel told her. "Don't know if it's possible. But you do likely have 'powers' of some kind, as humans put it, whether you've discovered them or not. Tend to appear during puberty."

She snorted. "Finally a positive."

"Nephilim of the bible...-" you paused and a worried expression crossed your face. You weren't super religious, but you knew a few things about angel mythology. None good about nephilim.

"Real life nephilim don't have much in common," Tommy promised. "She's powerful; not evil."

You relaxed.

"Of course I'm not!" Ellie huffed. "I would know!"

"Being powerful is enough," Joel stated firmly. "As far as most angels are concerned, you might as well be a demon. Or worse. Lucifer himself. If you've got the right parentage, you could actually be even more powerful than him."

"Lucifer, that's the devil, right?" she questioned.

Joel nodded.

"Shit," you said under your breath. "Are all of Heaven's angels after her then?"

"It's possible," he replied, jaw clenching. "Nephilim are rare, for what should be obvious reasons. Usually we wouldn't have more than a few angels on a mission to cull a single nephilim, but they also want to drain Ellie of her blood."

You frowned. "Why?"

"The barrier between Earth and Hell is getting weaker, breaking," Tommy injected. "And apparently the others think her blood, her power, could seal the leak."

"We?" Ellie questioned.

"Angels," Tommy answered. "But yes, that included us. Until we realized Heaven was wrong."

"What changed your minds?" she prompted.

He glanced at Joel, who kept staring straight ahead, silent.

"It wasn't just one thing," he eventually told her. "Or I should say, one nephal. But eventually our blinders were off. And then we were forced to go on the run."

"Just for refusing to see it their way?" you asked.

"Of course," he replied. "We weren't allowed to use free will. It was God's orders; at least that's what we were told. Only Michael had access to our Father for centuries."

"Michael, as in the archangel?" Ellie's eyes widened. "The leader of the all the angels?"

Tommy noticed her expression in the rear view mirror and chuckled. "The one and only. Though I much prefer the way he's presented in most media than how he actually is."

"So he's a dick," she concluded, sitting back in her seat. "Noted."

"I much preferred Joel's leadership to his," Tommy said.

You and Ellie both shared a look. "Are you saying...?" Ellie inquired, jaw slightly hanging open.

"Yes, Joel's an archangel," Tommy confirmed. "Or was, at least."

"Holy shit."

You glanced at Joel from the left side of the truck. "Have you seen God, then? His face?"

He finally reacted. "What face?"

"There's no words for Father," Tommy told you. "In any language."

"Huh."

"So, what are we going to do with an entire army of angels after us?" Ellie asked.

"Hide," Joel answered simply, reaching into his back pocket for the note Celina had given him and scanning over the words scribbled onto it. "Until December twenty-two."

You arched an eyebrow. "Why December twenty-two?"

"Winter solstice," Tommy told you. "The shortest day and longest night of the year. Humans think Halloween is the time for demons to come out, but it is the winter solstice that brings you the closest to Hell. That's when they're planning to kill her, isn't it, Joel?"

Joel nodded.

You sighed. "Lovely. So we have to hide until then, or maybe forever?"

"We can't hide forever," Joel said, "We'd have to keep running with Ellie around. But even then, eventually, they'll catch up. But we can try something else. We can try to convince enough of them to side with us so that Michael and his loyalist followers are forced to think twice about killing us."

"And how many angels would that take?" you asked.

His expression turned grim. "Far more than probable."

"More than half?"

Joel nodded.

"Great," Ellie said, throwing her hands up.

"What would it take to convince them?" you questioned.

"Proof that she's more valuable alive than dead," he stated.

"And how are you going to do that?"

"We'll need to draw blood from her daily," he answered. "Store it away until that night then use it to strengthen the barrier."

"No way!" Ellie exclaimed. "I'm not going to be a human pin cushion."

You pursed your lips. "Would that work?"

"Celina, our sister, seems to think so," Tommy replied.

Joel nodded. "It's our best shot. If there's enough power in her blood, if it works even after being some time away from her body, there's a chance they'll decide to keep her alive in case this happens again."

"But it's not guaranteed," you noted.

He shook his head.

"It's what we got," Tommy said.

Ellie sighed and folded her arms. "Fine, I'll do it. But don't think I won't complain."

Tommy chuckled. "I'd be worried if you didn't."

"Shut up."

x

You woke up from a restless sleep with a kink in your neck as Tommy's truck jerked to a halt.

Rubbing the sore spot, you peered sleepily around. The truck was in the middle of a Walmart parking lot. It appeared to be afternoon.

"Where are we?"

"A Walmart in Phoenix," he replied. "Figured it would be best for you and Ellie to grab anything you need that you didn't pack over here and then we can head for the safe house."

"You have a safe house?" Ellie questioned, rubbing her eyes as she stirred.

You blinked. "You can afford a safe house?"

"Did you forget they're angels?" Ellie huffed. "They can probably snap money into existence or something."

Tommy laughed. "I wish. No, we've just worked long enough we have a good chunk of money saved up. And we've lived long enough to know the right people to set up a safe house under different names."

Ellie slapped her face. "How could I forget you're ancient?"

"Different names," you mused. "What are your real names, anyway?"

"Thomas and Jaoel," Tommy answered.

"Not far off," you pointed out.

"We've changed our names to completely different ones in the past," he told you. "But it stopped mattering after a while."

You wondered what that meant, but didn't press. You'd fallen asleep with a headache, and woken up with one. You had enough information to process as it was.

"You'd better step on it," Joel told you. "Got a half hour. Any longer we risk drawing attention. Since we're fallen we don't have the kind of power we had before for the other angels to sense, but Ellie's enough of a beacon to alert anyone within the city single-handedly."

"Nice," Ellie commented, nodding. "So when do I get to test out these powers?"

"Not now, Ellie," you hushed her as you opened your door. "We gotta go unless you don't want a toothbrush and would like to live off the jerky I saw in their bag for the next few months."

She grumbled but listened and followed you inside. Joel and Tommy weren't far behind.

Tommy separated from you once inside to collect more supplies, but Joel stuck close, vigilant about your surroundings the whole time. The way he stared into the distance and honed in on sounds made you wonder how much better an angel's senses were than a human's, fallen or not.

Barely twenty minutes passed before Joel herded you and Ellie to the self checkout area, helping scan and pack what you'd chosen out.

When you returned to the truck Tommy was waiting in the driver's seat with a few bags sitting on the bench seat between him and Joel.

He drove ten minutes out of Phoenix, into the dessert, to park in front of an old metal warehouse that appeared abandoned, the gray paint in the process of peeling off most of its exterior.

"This is what you could afford after centuries?" Ellie grumbled as she hopped out of the truck with her backpack flung over one shoulder.

"It's discreet," Joel explained. "Last thing a safe house needs to do is draw attention."

He and Tommy led you both inside, flicking on the lights by the main door as you passed them to look around.

The warehouse was pretty big. There was a mostly empty first floor made with a concrete floor and small windows. The main wall had a garage door attached and there was a couch and a few old chairs against the back wall sat behind an old square dining table.

There was a clanky looking metal stairway that led to the second floor, and when you climbed it you discovered a more homely, but still very basic set up. Five rooms covered about half the distance that the first floor did. There was a kitchen slash office area, with a fridge, microwave, stove, small table, cabinets, and an office desk and chair. The second was a bathroom with a small sink, toilet, and shower. Then the last three were bedrooms, with simple twin sized beds covered with gray blankets and sheets, and a chest for clothes in each of them. There were only wall lamps in each room and windows that were identical to the ones downstairs.

It was dark and a little musty, but the dust wasn't too built up. Clearly Joel and Tommy had someone take care of the place occasionally, if they didn't do it themselves.

"Guess we're sharing a room," you told Ellie, who was closely trailing you.

"Last one," Joel ordered from farther behind. "Across from mine."

"Does it even matter?" Ellie questioned. "They all look the same."

"Last room has reinforced walls," Joel informed her. "Extra protection against bullets."

"Angels use guns?" she asked, surprised.

"They do on mortals," he answered. "We're more practiced with blades, but our kind adapt with the times. Angels heal fast from bullet wounds, but humans not so much."

"What about me?"

"Nephilim are more resistant than humans, but less so than angels," Joel said. "Still, you shouldn't die from a few bullets, even if one is to the head. A dozen to the head? Maybe."

"Noted," she muttered.

"Get settled, meet us in the kitchen in five," Joel continued, heading for his room as he spoke.

You and Ellie nodded and slipped into your room, closing the door behind you.

"Am I the only one who feels like someone gave them mushrooms?" Ellie inquired as she flopped down on top of the bed.

"It is crazy," you agreed, placing some of the items from the bags you were carrying into the night stand. You placed your purse on top of it.

"How can you be so calm?" she barked.

You shrugged. "Read too many vampire books growing up, I guess."

Truth was, your mind was racing. You were worried about too many factors to voice them. Everything from how you were going to pay the bills to keep the government from taking your house while you were gone, to how you were going to defend yourself and Ellie from a bunch of freakin' angels.

Ellie narrowed her eyes at you suspiciously. "You're not calm, are you?"

You shook your head. "Just too much to fully process right now. But I trust Joel and Tommy to get us through this."

"Really? Even after they lied to you?"

"Ellie, they can probably hear."

"I don't care."

"Sometimes adults have to keep secrets from one another," you told her. "If I know anything from reading books, knowledge can be dangerous."

"It can also be dangerous to be ignorant," Ellie pointed out. "How many people die in books because the main character never told them about their enemies and how they may come for them because they know them?"

"in this case, it's my own fault," you informed her. "Joel and Tommy tried to talk me out of taking you in. I couldn't understand why. Now it all makes sense. But I...I don't regret it, Ellie. I know I've only known you a short while, but I care about you."

"You'd be better off if you didn't," she told you.

"Maybe, maybe not," you said. "I may be in hiding, but I haven't lost much in leaving Austin. You, Tommy, Joel...as long as you're around, I can handle whatever comes our way. Having you in my life is meaningful, more than having a house and a steady job."

Ellie snorted. "Now I know you are crazy."

You shrugged again. "Maybe."

She sat up and dropped her backpack to the floor. "Five minutes are up."

You nodded. "Let's go see what they have to say."

x

It turned out the kitchen meeting was not just to talk. Tommy was in the middle of cooking pancakes on the stove when you and Ellie joined Joel at the table and you were thankful. Your stomach had been growling for hours.

"So besides the pancakes, what did you want us in here for?" you asked them as you tore into your first one a few minutes later.

"Joel and I thought it best if you both learn self defense," Tommy replied, dunking his pancake into a small bowl of syrup.

"What would it matter if I did?" you questioned. "Aren't angels way more powerful than humans?"

"We have more brute strength, yes," he confirmed. "But self defense isn't just about strength. It's about knowing your enemies' weak points. It's about knowing how to out maneuver someone bigger and stronger than you. And don't underestimate how much damage you can do with an element of surprise."

"Alright," you paused, "So when do we start?"

"Tonight," Joel answered. "After supper."

"And what til then?"

"Til then, we tell you all about our kind."

x

"Evade," Joel ordered you, taking a carefully calculated swing at your face.

You ducked and he nodded in approval. "Not bad. Need to move faster and don't let yourself get unbalanced."

"Easier said than done," you muttered as sweat rolled down your forehead. "I have no balance."

"Balance can be taught," Joel informed you. "Try the plank walk later."

You nodded half-heartedly.

You were only a few days into training, but you already felt like you were falling behind. You were doing alright with basic offense while training with Tommy, but your defense, which Joel was teaching, could've used an overhaul. You weren't particularly fast or nimble.

Ellie, who was currently trading fake punches with Tommy a few yards away from the warehouse and you and Joel, seemed to be fairing far better. She was already making it look movie realistic.

Joel repeated his action, and you jumped out of reach, just enough so his hand barely grazed you.

"Good," he praised, giving you a curt nod. "That works too. As long as you stay on your feet and don't get off balanced do whatever works for you. The most important part is to not end up exposed and on the ground. Now try blocking me."

You put up your hands in front of your face and he threw a punch. It was a pulled one, but it still stung when it hit your arms.

"Better," he declared. He checked his watch. "Let's end things here. Clean up and eat supper."

"Sounds good," you told him, wiping sweat away from your brows. It had been a long time since you'd been to the gym, let alone done true cardio, and it was ninety degrees outside at the moment. You were looking forward to fetching yourself some water, taking a cold shower, and sitting under the air conditioner in the kitchen.

You heard Tommy call off his session with Ellie moments later and you both entered the warehouse together.

"Nice block back there," she commented.

You nudged her in the shoulder. "It's just my martial arts coming back to me."

"You never took any martial arts," she said in disbelief. "You'd have told me."

"Yeah, I would have," you confirmed. "I should have though. Knowing then what I know now, I'd have been practicing since I was five. I could've used it. But you, you're looking like a natural."

Ellie shrugged. "I don't know about that. Mostly been winging it."

"Winging it!" You snorted.

She grinned. "And I didn't even come up with that on purpose."

"I don't believe you," you said. "I think you thought of that a while back and were just waiting for the right time to say it."

"Maybe."

You chuckled and hit the stairs. It didn't take long for your legs to start burning. "You go on ahead; I'll be there in an hour."

"Okay, old lady."

Ellie ran past you and you huffed. Not fair.

x

Supper was spaghetti, and after you were all maxed out on carbs, you returned to the outdoors.

Tommy immediately got Ellie back into training mode, this time focusing on meditation.

"You have a lot of energy kid," he'd said earlier in the day. "And a temper to match, without a lot of control. Meditation will help you learn patience and teach you techniques to allow you to remain level headed even in the heat of battle."

"You think there will be a battle?" she'd questioned, perking up. The kid seemed to want action, or thought it was cool, anyway. You felt the complete opposite.

"We're not ruling anything out," Joel had replied. "You both need to be ready for every possible outcome."

Ellie sat cross-legged beside Tommy, facing the setting sun, and closed her eyes when he did, but even from where you standing, leaning against the backside of the warehouse, you could tell her skin was crawling. It would probably take a long time before she learned to relax completely. Boredom was going to be her worst enemy.

You folded your arms and glanced to Joel, who was sitting further out in the distance, back turned towards you all, starring at the sun.

The way the horizon and the sun lined up with his broad shoulders made it look like he was carrying the entire sun on them. A star 1.3 million times bigger than the Earth.

It felt kind of symbolic to you. Joel had been more quiet than ever since you and Ellie had left Austin with him and Tommy. Since the other angels had discovered that Ellie existed. You doubted it had much to do with him and Tommy having to reveal what they really were to you, and more to do with the upcoming solstice. You'd known him long enough to know that Joel always took responsibility. If something ever went wrong, it was always his fault in some way, even if it had truly been out of his hands.

The concrete company was late? He should've called them to remind them of when they were needed.

A car bumped the truck as he was turning into his driveway? He should've put his blinker on sooner.

It wasn't like he wouldn't put blame on others too, but rather that he never allowed himself to be completely exempt from it. Even if he wasn't actually guilty, he was in his eyes.

So you knew if the plan failed, if the angels still killed Ellie, it would be as devastating for him as it would be for you. You might be closer to her, but he'd put the entire blame on himself.

You could relate when it came to Ellie. It was why you'd decided you would sneak out back after everyone fell asleep that night and practice the skills Joel and Tommy have been teaching you, whatever you could do alone.

You were already the fragile, powerless little human of the group; you didn't want to be the weakest fighter too. If that meant more practice and more brain power, so be it. You'd live off of four hours of sleep and wrack you brain raw if it meant you weren't the reason Ellie or your friends got hurt.

x

You put the plan into effect just after midnight, slipping carefully out of the bed you and Ellie shared and tip-toeing down the stairs and into the yard behind the warehouse.

You did it without lights, with barely a squeak from the metal stairs, but you found yourself in company anyway, finding Joel practicing on a punching bag secured to a sturdy post that had been hammered into the ground.

"Couldn't sleep either?" you inquired, biting your tongue as you noticed the way Joel's biceps were flexing under his gray t-shirt with each powerful punch.

"No," he answered, holding the bag still while he looked over at you. "But somehow I sense that's not why you're out here."

"Caught me," you admitted. "I wanted to get more practice in."

"Why?" he asked, eyebrows furrowing. "You did good today."

"Good, not great," you pointed out. "I need to be great. Amazing. I don't want to be a bigger weak link than I already am by being what I am, Joel. Ellie may not have unlocked her powers yet, but even she's catching on faster than me."

"Being part angel wouldn't help you learn faster," Joel said.

"But more practice will."

He nodded, then made room for you by the punching bag. "Want to start here? Learn some offense ahead of time? I'll show you the proper way to throw a punch."

You smiled and took him up on the offer, listening carefully to every instruction he gave and asking as many questions as you needed to feel comfortable about what you were about to do.

"That's it!" Joel praised after your first hit. "Great form there."

Pride bloomed in your chest, making you grin broadly. Maybe you weren't so hopeless afterall.

Joel shared your grin, a rare thing, then continued instructing you on how to get the most power out of your punches.

Time flew by.

It was sometime after one, probably, when you and Joel switched back to hand to hand combat training. He mixed it up, repeating the previous lesson's defense techniques but also introducing some offense.

"Leg swipes," he began. "They're good for knocking almost anyone over if they're not expecting it, even archangels. Good way to escape or get the upper hand long enough to maim them, if you've got the right tools."

Joel couldn't let himself to fall over without being surprised so he turned his back to you and shut his eyes. He could still hear, figure out the direction you were coming, but not the exact moment you struck with your foot, hard.

You failed to put effort power behind the first, second, or third attempt, so on the fourth try you put all your body weight into it.

A mistake. You did knock Joel down, but not without getting unbalance and toppling over yourself.

Joel's reflexes were naturally quick. He caught you on your way down, and turned you over onto your back while also supporting your head.

He ended up hovering over you, his entire body an inch from yours, his left hand the only thing preventing him from crushing you with his weight.

It was like the Earth stood still. You were both locked in place, breathing heavy, eyes on each others' faces. His dark ones scanned yours, as if he were searching for something. Though his thoughts remained inscrutable, his body language wasn't.

He was tense, in an almost fearful way, and you could swear you could hear his heart pounding alongside yours, though you shouldn't have been able to.

The secret crush you'd had for him long before finding out what he was surged, front and center.

He smelled good. He always did. Like the air after a summer rain shower in the forest. Tommy always did too. It must've been an angel thing, but it only ever drew you to Joel.

His hot breath felt tantalizingly good on your neck, comfortingly warm, and there was no smell.

His beard was as neatly kept as ever, blending in the patches where it did not grow. You were close enough to see a few gray hairs spread throughout, briefly making you wonder how fast fallen angels aged.

That thought was quickly blanked by the sensation of his broad hand on the back of your head, gentle but firm.

How many times had you dreamed of a moment like this? With him?

Too many times to count.

You couldn't resist the draw to his lips, lifting your head to press your plump ones against his.

He kissed you back, hard, deeper, with a surprising amount of desperation.

You hadn't realized he liked you too, until then.

He jerked away almost as fast as he'd responded to you, pushing himself into a stand as he did.

"That shouldn't have happened," he said.

"It's okay," you reassured him.

His eyes narrowed. "No, it's not."

"Why?" you asked. "Last I checked Tommy has gone through a whole bar of women since I've known you both."

"I can't," he told you sternly. "I won't."

"I'm not looking for a one night stand," you said, sitting up. "I really like you. Always have."

"It's not about that," he said a little sharply.

There was pain in his eyes. It hurt to see.

"Then what is it about?" you questioned softly.

He shook his head. "Bad timing."

You knew it was a lie, but he threw open the warehouse door and disappeared inside before you could say anything else.

You took a shower before returning to bed, but could not sleep a wink more.

x

The next morning Tommy approached you for training.

"We're switching it up," he informed you. "Ellie's going to work on defense with Joel today."

"Who's idea was that?" you asked, peering around him to watch Ellie and Joel slip out of the warehouse together.

"His," Tommy replied.

You huffed, unable to help but be a little irritated. "Of course."

He raised an eyebrow at you.

"We kissed last night," you explained.

He gaped at you. "Holy shit."

"Yeah, and then he stormed off after."

Tommy nodded.

You folded your arms over your chest. "Do you know why?"

"Not my place to tell," he said, "But you're not the first human women he's kissed."

"No?" You frowned, recalling the cutting emotion that crossed his face after he'd parted from you. "Didn't end well?"

He sighed. "No."

"Do you think if I ask, he'll tell me about her?" you inquired.

"No."

"That bad?"

He nodded.

"Tommy, if he won't tell me, don't you think you should?" you asked. "I deserve a reason, don't I?"

He sighed. "Willow..."

"Did she cheat on him?" you guessed.

He shook his head. "Never, they were practically one with each other, far as I know."

"She died?"

He nodded again.

"From what?"

He pulled you farther from the back door by your elbow, clearly afraid Joel might overhear him if you were too close to it.

"For having his child," he answered sadly.

Your eyes widened. "Joel had a kid?"

"Her name was Sarah," Tommy told you. "One of our sisters found out a handful of years after her birth, and murdered her mother. It is what they do to all the human parents of the nephilim, to prevent the angel who mated with them from having another child, and to inflict the maximum amount of pain possible."

"That's awful," you murmured. "And Sarah?"

"We escaped with her," Tommy stated, looking forlorn and lost in thought. "But eventually they found her again, while she was out playing with friends. She was fourteen."

"Same age as Ellie," you realized.

He nodded. "That, in part, is probably what drew him to her, yes."

Your eyes welled. "I shouldn't have pushed you to tell me."

"You didn't know," Tommy said, trying to comfort you. "But now you do."

"I'm sorry," you continued, "I know it's not much, and I know that it happened long ago, but still. She was family. I'm sorry."

Tommy flashed you the ghost of a smile. "Thank you. The years I spent on the run with her were fleeting, but I still miss her every day."

You reached out to give him a squeeze on the upper arm and he pulled you into a hug. You hugged him harder. You wished you could take his and Joel's pain away. Give them back what they'd loss, just because their other family members couldn't understand. Just because they were afraid of creatures more powerful than them.

Tommy was the one who ended the embrace, clearing his throat as he stepped back. "Now, let's get out there to practice or else they'll think we're slacking."

You chuckled and followed him towards the back door again. "Wouldn't want that."

xxx

Tagged: @almostfoxglove @solanumofthestars @bergamote-catsandbooks @penvisions @joeldidnothingwrong

(Let me know if any of you want to be tagged for future chapters - this is a one time thing for those who commented before since it's been a long time)

xxx

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

The voice rips through the gray Seattle afternoon between ragged breaths as two men shove past abandoned cars, shoulders slamming hard enough into dented metal to shake loose fragments of broken glass.

Another gunshot cracks across the street.

Not close. Far. Sharp enough to split the city open.

The bullet tears past the first man’s head so close he feels the heat of it scrape his ear before it punches into the rusted hood beside him—

CLANG.

Sparks burst violently off metal. “Fuck!” he gasps, stumbling sideways.

Another shot. The second man’s head snaps backward in an explosion of blood and bone.

Red sprays across the survivor’s face.

For half a second the body keeps running. Then collapses violently against the pavement with a sick crack. The remaining man chokes on a scream.

“Aah— Jesus fucking Christ!”

He runs harder.

Adrenaline floods his legs so violently they barely feel attached to him anymore. His boots slam through puddles as he forces himself forward between abandoned FEDRA trucks swallowed by vines and collapsed barricades overtaken by moss.

Another shot cuts through the rain-heavy air. This one hits. The bullet punches straight through his thigh.

“AHH— FUCK!”

He drops instantly, shoulder smashing against wet asphalt hard enough to tear skin through his jacket. Pain detonates through his leg while blood spills hot between trembling fingers clawing desperately at the wound.

He tries dragging himself toward the nearest overturned truck.

Breathing too hard. Too loud. Too terrified.

He glances back.

His friend’s body lies twisted in the middle of the flooded street twenty feet away, rainwater slowly carrying diluted ribbons of blood toward a clogged drain.

Then—

Nothing. Silence. No third shot. The man’s chest heaves violently.

Why didn’t she kill me?

Shaking hands fumble at his torn pant leg, yanking the soaked fabric high enough to reveal the bullet wound shredding through the side of his thigh.

Clean shot. Missed the artery. Deliberate.

Then—

Footsteps. Soft against wet grass nearby.

Slow. Controlled. A revolver cocks. The metallic click echoes louder than the gunfire. The man jerks for the pistol holstered at his hip instinctively—

BANG.

The bullet tears straight through his hand. He screams.

The gun flies uselessly across the pavement as he throws himself backward in panic, scrambling away on elbows slick with blood and rainwater.

“You fuckin’ psycho bitch!” he screams hysterically, clutching his ruined hand against his chest. “I told you everythin’! What the fuck else do you want?!”

The footsteps stop. A figure emerges slowly through the drifting rain. Black jacket darkened by water. Sniper rifle hanging loose against your back. Expression cold enough to freeze blood. You crouch slowly in front of him and press the revolver against the center of his forehead.

The man’s breathing turns ragged instantly.

“Listen— listen to me, okay?” Blood bubbles faintly at the corner of his mouth as panic makes him speak too fast. “I swear to God we ain’t WLF anymore! We left! We’re headin’ south, alright? Santa Barbara! We told you where the hospital is! I wasn’t lyin’!”

Your eyes narrow slightly. No sympathy. No hesitation.

“You shot my fuckin’ dog.”

BANG.

The back of his skull bursts against the pavement. Silence crashes back over the street. Rain taps softly against abandoned cars. Thunder rolls somewhere far beyond the skyline. The faint ringing left behind by gunfire hums inside your ears. Without another glance toward the corpse, you holster the revolver. At your boots lies an unfolded map stained dark with rainwater and blood.

Earlier, while you questioned them, one of the Wolves managed slipping free from the zip ties around his wrists and bolted.

Taxi lunged before you could stop him. The gunshot came immediately after. Too fast. Too close. The bullet only grazed his front leg.

Lucky.

You crouch beside the map beneath the weak glow of your flashlight and study the markings carefully.

Hospital.

A rough circle near a cluster of taller buildings farther north. Your jaw tightens slightly. “Thirty miles,” you mutter quietly.

The map folds neatly before disappearing into your back pocket. Behind you, Taxi lets out a low whine. Your head turns instantly.

“There you are.”

The shepherd limps toward you through wet grass, ears tilted back slightly in annoyance more than pain.

You kneel beside him immediately, gently lifting the injured leg into your lap. “Hey.”

Your voice softens despite yourself. “What did we talk about, huh?”

Taxi huffs.

“You don’t throw yourself in front of bullets.”

He barks once.

You snort quietly while wrapping fresh bandages around the graze wound.

“I had it handled.” Another bark. Then a softer whine. “Yeah, yeah.” You lean down and press a kiss against the top of his head. “Good boy.” Taxi leans briefly into your shoulder before you stand again, slinging the rifle back across your shoulder.

“C’mon,” you murmur. “Let’s find somewhere to sleep.”

Your eyes drift toward Seattle looming against the storm-dark horizon. Huge. Silent. Waiting. “We move again tomorrow.”

Taxi barks once. Together, you walk past the cooling corpse left behind in the rain. Your boots splash through shallow puddles. Taxi’s paws thud softly beside you. Neither of you looks back.

The café sits dark between two collapsed storefronts, half-hidden behind overgrown ivy and years of rain damage. The faded sign overhead swings lazily in the wind. You stop across the street first.

Always across the street.

Your eyes move slowly over shattered windows, rooftop lines, alley entrances. Listening before moving. Watching before breathing.

Seattle feels wrong at night. Too quiet one second. Too alive the next.

Taxi stands beside your leg, ears twitching toward the dark building. “You smell somethin’?” you murmur.

The shepherd huffs softly but doesn’t growl.

Good enough.

You cross the street carefully, boots splashing through shallow rainwater before stopping beneath the old café awning. Rain drums softly against rotten canvas overhead.

The front door doesn’t budge at first.

Swollen wood. You shove your shoulder into it harder. The hinges groan.

Then the door finally jerks inward with a burst of stale air carrying old coffee, mildew, and wet dust.

Your flashlight cuts through darkness slowly.

Tables overturned. Broken mugs. A mold-covered pastry display near the counter. Dead vines crawl across one wall where rainwater leaks through cracked ceiling tiles.

Taxi slips inside first, paws silent against warped hardwood.

You wait. Listen. Nothing.

No clicking. No breathing. No shifting somewhere deep in the dark.

Still, your hand stays close to Joel’s revolver at your hip.

You slip inside the café quietly and pull the door shut behind you before dragging a rusted metal chair beneath the handle.

Not enough to stop somebody determined. Enough to buy you a few seconds.

Habit.

Your backpack drops beside the counter with a tired thud while you crouch near the entrance, pulling thin wire and two empty cans from one of the side pouches.

Taxi watches silently from the doorway.

You glance toward him briefly while tying the wire low across the handle. “Better find more of these tomorrow,” you mutter. “We’re officially running outta food.”

Taxi blinks once. “Yeah, don’t look at me like that. You eat more than I do.”

One of his ears twitches.

The cans clink softly together while you secure them beside the wall. Crude. Fast.

Enough to wake you if infected—or worse—wander inside during the night.

Only after that do you finally move deeper into the café. The beam of your flashlight catches an old employee sign hanging crooked near the kitchen entrance.

MANAGER

The office door sits half-open beyond it. Small room. No windows except one narrow pane overlooking the rain-soaked street outside. Rain taps steadily against the cracked window overlooking the street outside, the sound muffled beneath distant thunder rolling somewhere deep over Seattle.

Taxi limps in after you, nails clicking softly against warped hardwood.

Your flashlight beam moves across the room slowly.

Peeling wallpaper curls away from damp walls. Water stains spread dark across the ceiling above. An old chandelier hangs crooked overhead, half its glass bulbs shattered, long dead electrical wires spilling downward like black vines tangled through hanging ivy creeping in from the broken corner of the ceiling.

The whole place feels abandoned in a tired sort of way. Not violent. Just forgotten.

Your eyes land on the couch against the far wall. Dark leather. Old. Still intact somehow. “Well,” you mutter under your breath. You walk over and drag your palm across the top cushion first. Dust coats your skin immediately. You grimace faintly before smacking your hands together a few times, watching gray powder drift through the flashlight beam. “Jesus.”

Taxi huffs softly behind you.

“At least somebody around here’s clean.”

The shepherd blinks at you without remorse. You drop your backpack beside the couch before finally sitting down. The leather creaks beneath your weight. Then your eyebrows lift slightly. “Hm.” You lean back deeper into the cushions. “Actually kinda comfortable.”

The room answers only with the soft groaning of old pipes somewhere inside the walls.

Your gaze drifts toward the desk near the window. A little metal plaque still sits crooked near the edge beneath layers of dust.

LEONARD MITCHELL - GENERAL MANAGER

You stare at it for a second. “Nice office, Leonard.”

Taxi circles twice before climbing carefully onto one of the smaller armchairs nearby, turning until he finds a comfortable position despite the bandaged leg. He lets out a tired grunt before finally curling into himself.

Your mouth twitches faintly at the sight.

Then silence settles over the room. Heavy.

A leather couch rests against the far wall beneath dusty shelves stacked with old paperwork and mold-swollen binders. The room smells old.

Thunder rolls softly somewhere far outside while rain streaks down the office window in silver lines. For a moment, neither of you moves. The city groans around you. Old pipes. Distant wind. Something metallic banging somewhere far down the street. Seattle never really sleeps. Neither do you.

You finish wrapping Taxi’s leg before leaning back against the couch with a tired exhale. Your rifle rests within arm’s reach. Revolver beside your thigh. Knife still strapped near your boot. Taxi stares toward the office door, ears twitching sharply. You both listen. Nothing. Just distant movement somewhere outside. Far enough away. The sound fades slowly back into the storm. Taxi lowers his head first. You follow a second later. Neither of you fully relaxes. You doubt either of you remembers how anymore.

You lean your head back against the couch and stare upward. The ceiling above is cracked open in places, tangled electrical wires hanging loose between patches of water damage and creeping ivy. Rain leaks steadily somewhere deeper inside the café.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

You close your eyes for a second. And immediately think of him.

Of course you do.

Your chest tightens before you can stop it. This office—cold, damp, rotting around the edges—is so far away from the warmth of Jackson it almost feels unreal. So far from his bed. From the heavy warmth of his body pressed against yours beneath thick blankets. From the way his arms wrapped around your waist in his sleep like some stubborn instinct he couldn’t turn off even unconscious. From the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back. From the rough scrape of his beard against your shoulder. Even the occasional snoring that always dragged a laugh out of you eventually.

The corner of your mouth lifts before you can stop it. Then the smile fades just as quickly. A deep breath leaves your lungs.

You reach for your backpack beside the couch, unzipping it slowly. Metal clicks softly together inside. Ammo. Knives. Canned food. Taxi lifts his head again immediately, watching you with quiet attention like he already knows exactly what you’re looking for. Your fingers eventually find the sketchbook buried beneath everything else.

You hesitate for a second before opening it.

Joel stares back at you almost immediately.

A rough pencil sketch from Jackson. Then another. And another. The lines change slightly between pages—different expressions, different angles—but it’s always him.

Two weeks. That’s all it’s been. And somehow you already miss him enough it physically aches.

Your throat tightens. You stare at the drawings longer than you mean to. Unable to stop yourself from wondering what happened after you left. You tried not to think about it on the road. Tried not to imagine the morning after. Joel waking up. The empty side of the bed. The drugs wearing off. That look on his face when he realized.

You swallow hard.

The thought hits like a punch straight to the ribs.

You’ve never worried about people before. Except William. You’ve feared losing him before. Feared ending up alone again. But Joel... is different. Joel makes your chest hurt in ways bullets never could. Makes you understand why people in old movies ruined themselves for love.

The idea of breaking his heart somehow feels worse than breaking your own.

Your eyes burn, your heart clenching.

God.

So this is what loving someone feels like. Not the happiness part. You already knew that part. It’s him laughing quietly against your neck in bed. It’s his hand finding yours without thinking. It’s the way your body relaxes the second he walks into a room.

No—

This part. The ache. The fear. The terrifying realization that someone else now has the power to break your heart just by existing somewhere you can’t reach. Your gaze drops back toward the sketchbook. Joel’s face follows you everywhere now. You barely recognize yourself anymore because of it. You have something to lose now. Someone.

If this goes wrong… If you fail…

You may never hear his voice again. Never feel his arms around you again. Never see that tired little smile he gets when he looks at you like you’re something dangerous he decided to keep anyway.

A bark suddenly cuts through the silence.

You blink hard. Only then noticing the tear that slipped free and landed against the page. “Shit,” you mutter softly, wiping it away quickly.

Taxi climbs down from the chair immediately, limping over toward the couch.

“I know,” you whisper quietly. “I miss him too.”

Taxi rests his head against your knee. Your fingers slide automatically through the fur behind his ears.

“But I have to do this.”

The shepherd lifts one paw slowly onto your leg. You stare at him for a second. His eyes look strangely human sometimes in the dark. “You think I broke his heart?”

Taxi whines softly. Your chest tightens harder. “I couldn’t let him come with me.” Your voice turns quieter now. “Ellie needs him. Jackson needs him.” You swallow thickly. “And… maybe I just showed up and fucked that old man’s life all up.”

Taxi barks once immediately.

You let out a small breath through your nose. “Yeah. I know.” Your fingers continue stroking slowly through his fur. “He meant what he said.” Your voice nearly cracks. “But that’s not the problem.”

You stare down at Joel’s sketch again.

“Being the daughter of someone like Clouser feels like carrying rot around inside your chest.” Your jaw tightens faintly. “As long as he’s alive, I’m never gonna stop feeling it.”

Rain rattles softly against the broken windows outside.

“I can’t build a future with Joel while all this still exists.” Your eyes lower slowly. “Not while I keep lookin’ at Tommy, Maria… Dina, Jesse, Benji, Ellie…” Your throat tightens. “They deserve to feel safe around me.”

Silence stretches for a moment.

Then quieter: “I think…” You blink slowly. “I think I finally know what having a family feels like.” The words hurt to admit out loud. “And I can’t let him take that away from me.”

Taxi lifts his head and licks the side of your jaw suddenly. A weak laugh escapes you before you grab his muzzle gently. “Hey.” You rub your thumb along the bridge of his nose. “When I go back…” Your voice softens almost into a whisper. “I want my head clear.” Your fingers move slowly through his fur again. “Maybe then I’ll know how to be someone better. A better girlfriend.”

The word feels strange but warm.

“Assumin’ he forgives me.”

Taxi presses closer immediately.

You finally set the sketchbook aside before sliding down fully against the couch cushions, pulling him close against your side.

His fur still smells faintly like rainwater, old forest, dirt, and gunpowder. For years, that smell alone meant safety more than any human being ever could.

But now—

Now there’s another scent your body misses more.

Worn leather. Gun oil. Damp flannel dried near a fire. Sawdust caught in rough hands after long afternoons working wood in Jackson.

Him.

Your eyes drift slowly toward the cracked office window overhead. Beyond fractured glass and tangled ivy, the night sky barely peeks through Seattle’s storm clouds. A few weak stars flicker faintly between them.

You stare at them quietly.

And for the first time in years—

You make a wish.

Just one.

To see him again. To hear his voice again. To come back alive long enough to fall asleep in his arms one more time.

Your fingers tighten gently in Taxi’s fur.

Then slowly—

Exhaustion finally pulls you under.

Horse hooves echo hollow against cracked highway.

Slow now. Careful.

Joel keeps one hand near the reins while his eyes scan the massive quarantine wall rising through the rain ahead.

Seattle.

Even from a distance, the city feels wrong.

Too big. Too quiet.

Fog crawls low between abandoned checkpoints and collapsed military barricades swallowed whole by ivy and moss. Old FEDRA fencing stretches along the road in rusted lines, parts of it torn open long ago by something stronger than time.

Rain taps steadily against Joel’s jacket. The horse shifts uneasily beneath him the closer they get. “Easy,” Joel mutters quietly, patting its neck once.

Ahead, the massive outer gate hangs crooked on broken hinges, chains swaying softly in the wind. Faded quarantine warnings still cling to metal signs eaten away by rust. Across the center of the gate, someone has painted a message in massive white letters now streaked by rain and time:

WLF TRESPASSERS KILLED ON SIGHT

The dripping paint almost looks like bone beneath the gray Seattle sky.

Joel squints upward toward the walls towering over him.

Dead guard towers stare down empty streets. Or at least they look empty. Seattle reminds him too much of places where people disappear. His jaw tightens.

The horse carries him slowly through the open gate. Immediately the city swallows sound whole.

No birds. No distant voices.

Just rainwater dripping from collapsed buildings and the faint creaking of old structures somewhere deeper inside the streets ahead. Joel’s eyes move constantly.

Cars. Windows. Rooflines. Habit.

Then—

Something catches his attention near the mud alongside the road. Fresh tire tracks.

Joel pulls the horse to a stop instantly.

The tracks cut sharply through rainwater and dirt before disappearing farther into the city.

Fresh. Very fresh.

Joel slides down from the saddle with a grunt, crouching low beside them. WLF vehicle. His fingers brush against wet mud before his gaze shifts farther ahead.

Then he sees it.

An abandoned pickup truck half-crashed against a storefront farther down the street. “Shit.”

Joel stands quickly and moves toward it, boots splashing through puddles. The closer he gets, the more obvious it becomes. Bullet holes shred the side panels. One tire blown out. The gas tank leaking slowly beneath the truck into rainwater mixed with oil and blood.

Joel’s eyes narrow immediately.

Not random.

Forced stop.

His hand brushes against the hood. Still faintly warm beneath cold rain. “Goddamn…”

Then he notices the steering column hanging open beneath the wheel. Wires ripped loose. Hotwired. A humorless breath escapes him through his nose. “Course she did.”

His eyes drift across the street automatically. Searching. Reading. Tracking. Then he sees blood. Not much. Drops leading toward a nearby alley.

Joel follows carefully.

One hand already resting near the revolver—your revolver—on his hip. The alley opens into another ruined street farther ahead—

And that’s where he finds the bodies.

Three WLF soldiers sprawled across wet pavement. One near an overturned patrol truck. Another collapsed against a wall. The third barely recognizable anymore.

Joel slows immediately.

His stomach tightens. Rain runs steadily down the corpses, washing blood into the gutters. Then he notices the bites. Deep tears through exposed throat. Another through the forearm. Jagged canine marks.

Taxi.

Joel exhales slowly through his nose. “Attaboy.”

He crouches beside the nearest body carefully. Then spots the spent casing laying near the corpse. Joel picks it up between rough fingers, rolling it once against his palm.

Sniper round. Your sniper round.

One clean shot. Two heads. Straight through the glass.

Precise. Efficient. Smooth. Exactly your kind of work.

“Goddamn it, Kat,” Joel mutters quietly. “You can’t take ’em all down at once.”

He rises slowly, eyes scanning the street again. Unease settles heavier in his chest with every passing second. He plants both hands briefly against his hips, jaw tightening hard.

Ten straight days riding from Jackson. Ten days barely sleeping. Ten days chasing your ghost across half the damn country—

And still he’s late.

The bodies tell him immediately. Spacing. Angles. Timing. Experience never lies.

You’re ahead of him. One day at least. Maybe more.

Joel’s back screams when he straightens fully, exhaustion dragging through every muscle in his body, but he ignores it automatically. Pain barely registers anymore. Rain continues falling steadily around him while Seattle groans somewhere deeper ahead.

Waiting. Watching.

Joel stares toward the dark streets disappearing farther into the city. “Can’t be late,” he mutters quietly. More to himself than anyone else. “Gotta find her before it’s too damn late.”

Then he turns back toward the horse. And rides deeper into Seattle.

Morning comes gray and wet.

Not bright. Not warm. Just a thin, colorless light spreading over Seattle like the city is too tired to wake up properly.

Rain still clings to everything. Broken windows. Rusted signs. The hoods of abandoned cars. The sagging awnings over dead storefronts. Every surface shines dull and cold beneath the low sky.

You move north with Taxi at your side.

The hospital doesn’t appear right away. Nothing in this city gives itself up that easy.

The map says it should be somewhere ahead, past a mess of flooded streets and half-collapsed buildings, but Seattle keeps folding in on itself. Roads blocked by wreckage. Alleys choked with vines. Military barriers left behind like broken teeth.

And people.

Too many people.

By noon, you’ve already run into more WLF deserters than you expected. Small groups. Two here. Three there. Scared. Armed. Dirty. Running from something behind them and terrified of whatever might be ahead.

The first few don’t tell you much before they die.

The next group gives you the name you're looking for.

After that, you stop killing first.

You start listening.

That is how you end up crouched on the second floor of a half-collapsed building, one hand resting against Taxi’s neck while voices drift up from below.

The ground floor beneath you is split open in places, the concrete caved inward toward a lower level thick with spores. Pale fungal growth climbs the walls down there in swollen veins, pulsing through the damp like something still alive. The air below looks yellow in the weak light, heavy and ruined.

You keep Taxi close. No way in hell you’re taking him through that.

Below, four WLF soldiers move through the street, unaware of you above them. “What the hell is goin’ on?” one of them mutters. “This is what, the sixth group?”

“Sixth if you count the ones from yesterday.”

“Jesus.”

“Isaac made an example outta the last ones. Had ’em executed in front of everybody. Thought that’d be enough.”

“Guess it wasn’t.”

“It’s that fuckin’ doctor.”

Your whole body stills.

The man beside him lowers his voice. “Clouser?”

“Yeah. People don’t wanna stay and die for Scars or for some bullshit vaccine that ain’t ever gonna work.”

“Wasn’t the whole point of taking FEDRA down to build a liberation front?”

A bitter laugh. “Does this sound like liberation to you?”

“You sound like you’re about to run too.”

“Hey. You hear what he’s been doing to pregnant women? Kids?”

The silence that follows feels heavier than the rain.

“Rumors.”

“You sure about that?”

“Fuck.” Another voice exhales shakily. “Isaac should’ve killed that old bastard when he had the chance.”

“He still sending his A-team to the hospital?”

“Yeah. The ones he trusts.”

Rain taps softly against broken concrete overhead. Then another voice lowers slightly. “Hey… you know Jordan?”

“The Firefly guy?”

“Yeah. Him.” A pause. “Heard that immune girl everyone’s looking for? Supposedly she’s Clouser’s daughter.”

Silence. “…Bullshit.”

“And apparently she was with the other immune girl for a while. Somewhere in Wyoming.”

Your stomach tightens instantly.

“Word is Isaac’s planning to send a group out there soon.” The man snorts quietly. “Abby might lead it.”

“No fuckin’ way Isaac lets Abby leave Seattle right now.”

“Why the hell would she even care?”

A longer silence follows.

Then quietly: “That smuggler from Salt Lake? The one who killed all those Fireflies in the hospital?”

Your pulse stutters.

“He’s supposedly in that town too.”

Silence crashes over the group immediately afterward. Even from above, you can feel the tension shift.

“…That’s too much coincidence for my taste.”

“Think that crazy doctor’s making half this shit up.”

“Or that Jordan guy.”

“Alright, enough gossip.” Boots scrape concrete. “Get back to your posts and keep your eyes open.”

That is enough. More than enough.

Your grip tightens around the rifle. Taxi’s ears twitch. You glance down at him and press two fingers to your lips.

Stay.

He understands. You’ve taught him this too many times to count.

Stay unless you whistle.

Stay unless you scream.

Stay unless he sees you bleeding too much.

That last part is always the problem.

Because Taxi listens until fear takes over. And fear makes him stupidly brave. You point toward a patch of tall weeds and vines growing through a broken section of wall. He lowers himself reluctantly, still watching you. “Good boy,” you mouth.

Then you move.

Silent across the cracked upper floor, stepping over broken tiles and rotted office chairs, rifle raised. The building groans softly beneath your weight.

You line up the first shot from above. The suppressor does its job, but barely. A soft, ugly pop.

One soldier drops. The others turn too late.

Second shot.

Third.

Fourth.

Each one clean.

Each one fast.

By the time the last body hits the pavement, the street is quiet again except for rainfall and Taxi’s low breathing behind you.

You stay crouched for a moment, listening.

No infected. No returning fire. No shouting.

Good.

You climb down carefully. The air grows colder near the broken ground floor. Spores drift lazily below through the collapsed opening, glowing faintly where thin daylight touches them. The fungal growth along the walls looks old and thick, spread in rootlike patterns beneath peeling paint.

You avoid the edge. You’ve seen enough basements like that. You search the bodies quickly.

Ammo. A dull knife. Nothing useful.

Your last suppressor is already ruined, and the one currently screwed onto your pistol is close to useless. The metal is hot from overuse, the sound less clean than it should be.

One left after this.

One.

You’ll need to save it for something that matters.

You’re about to move on when you find a photograph in one of their jacket pockets. Not an old one. A fresh one. Instant film.

You hold it between two fingers and wipe rain off the glossy surface with your thumb.

A group of people smile back at you. Young. Tired. Alive.

Behind them rises a massive structure, round and crowded, with stands and lights and lines of people moving in the background.

A stadium.

Not a checkpoint. Not a small base. A real settlement.

Crowded. Organized.

You don’t know any of their faces. You don’t care to.

But the place itself matters.

You unfold your map and compare it quickly, marking distance with your thumb and eye. The stadium sits too far west to be your target.

The hospital is north. Far enough away from the stadium to make sense. Far enough to hide things.

You crouch beside a cracked wall, using a rusted pipe as a flat edge while you sketch a rough route across the paper. Streets. Blocks. Waterlogged underpasses you’ll avoid. Higher ground where possible.

Ten miles, maybe. Two hours if the roads don’t fight you. They will.

A burst of static crackles from one of the dead men’s radios. Taxi lifts his head instantly. You freeze.

“Cooper, you copy?” The voice is rough, irritated. Static. “Cooper? Linda? Come in.”

You stare at the radio. Taxi gives one sharp bark. You raise your hand. “Shh.”

The radio crackles again.

“Cooper, listen up. We found a deserter group wiped out near your last checkpoint. Clean shots. Somebody hunted ’em. Doesn’t look like Scars.”

Your jaw tightens. Yesterday’s bodies.

“Answer me, Cooper. Goddamn it. We’re coming to your position.”

Taxi growls. Not the low warning he gives for people.

Different. Deeper.

Your eyes flick to him immediately. That growl means infected. But then you hear it too. Not infected. Footsteps. Multiple. Close.

You move to the broken window and look down through hanging ivy.

Five people. Armed.

WLF.

And a dog.

“Shit,” you whisper. The dog has its nose low, pulling against the leash. Taxi’s lip curls. “So that’s what you smelled.”

Your mind works fast. Two exits. One dangerous. One worse.

The patrol is already too close. The dog will catch your scent any second. You crouch in front of Taxi and grip the fur at the sides of his neck gently, forcing his eyes to yours. “You stay in the grass,” you whisper. “I’ll pull them away.”

Taxi whines.

“No.” Your voice hardens. “You can’t come with me. I don’t have a damn gas mask for you, understand?”

Below, the WLF dog barks.

“Hey, what is it, boy?” one of the soldiers calls. Too close.

You point sharply toward the weeds leading along the collapsed wall. Taxi hesitates. “Go.”

He goes, but he hates it. You can see that in every line of him.

You drop low and begin crawling along the upper ledge, aiming for the vines that spill down toward the lower level. If you can get to the other side, maybe you can circle out before—

A snarl erupts behind you.

You twist just as the WLF dog lunges out of nowhere.

Too fast.

You barely throw yourself sideways before its teeth snap where your arm was. Then Taxi hits it like a damn wolf.

The two dogs crash into the floor in a violent tangle of teeth and muscle. “Taxi!” you hiss.

Too late. The WLF dog yelps as Taxi’s jaws lock around its throat. Voices explode below.

“Trespasser here!”

“No—Jesus, that’s Lenny! He's dead!”

“There’s another dog!”

“Shoot it! Shoot it!”

Taxi shakes once. The WLF dog goes limp. “Stay there!” you snap at him. “Goddamn it, stay!”

Gunfire tears into the wall beside you.

You dive behind a broken concrete partition as bullets chew through plaster overhead. Your heart slams against your ribs. One soldier breaks off toward Taxi. Another moves to flank you from the rear. The man behind you rounds the broken wall too fast.

You move faster.

You catch his wrist, twist, slam him chest-first into the concrete, and drag him back against you with your revolver shoved beneath his jaw. The others freeze the second they see you.

“Drop it!” one of them shouts.

Your hostage spits blood. “Shoot her!”

“Shut the fuck up,” you growl against his ear. You shift backward, dragging him with you toward the collapsed edge. Behind you, the lower floor waits.

Dark. Yellow. Thick with spores.

The woman in front stiffens. “Ari—no!”

Good.

That matters. That means they won’t shoot through him. You press the barrel harder under his jaw. “Back up,” you shout. “Or I paint the floor with his head.”

“You got nowhere to go,” another soldier says, weapon trained on you.

You understand what he means.

The spores. The drop. The infected below. No mask. No escape.

For them.

Not for you.

You tighten your grip on Ari and take one more step back.

He realizes a second too late. “No—no, we’ll both die!”

“Maybe,” you say.

Then you throw your weight backward.

The fall is short but brutal.

Air rips out of your lungs as you hit broken concrete and roll hard, dragging the man down with you. Dust and spores explode upward around you in a sick yellow cloud.

Above, voices scream.

“Ari!”

“Fuck!”

“No, no, no—”

You roll behind a collapsed support beam just as bullets cut into the ground where you landed. “Leah, stop!” someone yells. “You’ll die too! We don’t have masks!”

“I’m gonna kill that bitch!”

“She’s already dead! Come on!”

“Isaac’s orders—nobody goes into spore zones. You saw what happened to Ramirez!”

“Fuck!”

Bootsteps retreat above. You stay still until the last one fades. The spores hang thick around you. You inhale once through your nose.

Damp. Earthy. Rotten.

It tickles faintly. Nothing more. Like mildew in an old basement.

Ari is somewhere in the dark, coughing violently. “God…” he chokes between ragged breaths. “Goddamn…”

You glance toward the sound instinctively.

Then freeze. The wall behind him moves.

No. Not the wall.

Cordyceps.

Pale fungal shelves bloom across concrete and brick in thick layered growths, veins spreading outward like diseased roots through the entire lower floor. Some of it is old and dry, cracked apart like dead bark.

Some of it still glistens wet beneath your flashlight. Fresh. Breathing.

Bodies cling half-swallowed inside the growth. Arms. Ribcages. Open mouths permanently fused into the fungus climbing over them.

The entire building smells damp and rotten enough to taste.

Then—

Click.

Click-click-click-click.

Your blood runs cold instantly. The sound echoes from deeper inside the dark.

Clickers.

The explosion upstairs must’ve drawn them down here.

And now Ari’s coughing is doing the rest.

Another clicking cry bursts through the building.

Closer.

Wet fungal chatter bouncing sharply through concrete halls while something shifts rapidly in the dark ahead.

Ari hears it too. “No…” His breathing turns panicked immediately. “No no no—”

CLICKCLICKCLICKCLICK.

Another answers somewhere nearby. Then another. The entire lower level suddenly feels alive. Movement everywhere.

You crouch lower immediately, barely breathing while Ari drags himself backward across the floor, one ruined leg useless behind him.

“Please—” he gasps. “Please help m—”

The first clicker lunges. Fast as hell. Ari’s scream cuts violently short beneath tearing flesh and wet crunching bone.

You look away instantly. Not because you feel bad. Because he’s already dead.

More clicking erupts nearby. The feeding sounds alone are enough to turn your stomach. You lower yourself silently and begin backing away through the darkness instead, keeping low beneath hanging cords of fungus spreading across the ceiling. Slow. Controlled. One careful step after another.

Then—

CLICKCLICKCLICK.

A clicker jerks its head upward somewhere behind you. You freeze instantly while it listens, twitching sharply toward the noise. Then Ari’s dying screams echo deeper in the room and the infected bolts away from you immediately.

You exhale slowly through your nose.

Lucky. Very fucking lucky.

Keeping your flashlight lowered, you slip silently between collapsed cubicles while wet ripping sounds echo behind you. Bones snapping. Flesh tearing. You don’t look back once.

The faint glow of daylight finally appears ahead through thick hanging vines near a collapsed loading exit. Fresh air. Rain. Freedom.

You push through the overgrowth and stumble outside into the cold Seattle evening just as another horrible shriek erupts somewhere deep inside the building behind you.

The city air never smelled so good.

You suck in a breath.

The street is empty. Too empty.

“Taxi,” you call softly.

Nothing.

Your heart climbs straight into your throat. You whistle once. Sharp. Low. Still nothing. “Taxi.”

This time it comes out rougher. Panic starts crawling up the back of your neck while you scan every broken window and dark doorway around you.

No.

No, no, no—

“Taxi!”

Then a bark echoes from above.

You spin just as Taxi comes barreling down from the broken upper level through a sagging stairwell, ears back, tail low, alive.

Alive.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe.

You drop immediately, grabbing his face between both hands while he whines and pushes into you. You check him fast. Neck. Chest. Legs. No blood. No new wounds.

You exhale so hard it almost hurts. “Okay. Okay.” You press your forehead briefly to his. “You’re okay.”

Taxi licks your chin and a broken laugh slips out of you.

“Yeah, we definitely need to make you a gas mask.”

He barks once like he agrees.

You stand slowly, wiping rain and sweat from your face. Through the gap between buildings, beyond a broken bridge and the skeletons of old towers, you finally see it.

A distant building rising above the gray. Hospital lettering barely visible through the rain.

Your chest tightens.

There. Finally.

You take a long drink from your canteen before letting Taxi drink from your cupped hand too. “You ready?” you ask quietly.

He looks toward the hospital. Then back at you.

You sling the rifle over your shoulder and fold the map away. “We’re close. Let’s go.”

Seattle, Day Two.

Dusk settles over the city in bruised shades of blue and gray by the time you reach the hospital district. The rain weakens into a thin mist drifting between buildings, but Seattle still feels soaked through to the bone. Somewhere far off, gunfire rattles across distant streets before fading back into silence again.

The hospital rises above everything else. Massive. Cold. Its upper floors disappear into fog while floodlamps burn pale through rain-streaked windows below. Even from here it dominates the skyline like something watching the entire city.

Close enough to see. Still too damn far away.

Between you and the hospital stretch blocks of ruined streets, flooded intersections, and whatever the hell WLF has waiting in between. Too many lights. Too many guards.

You crouch behind an overturned bus with Taxi pressed close beside you, eyes moving carefully across the perimeter. Watchtowers. Patrol routes. Barricades. Armed Wolves everywhere.

“Jesus,” you mutter under your breath.

Taxi’s ears twitch.

Then—

A whistle echoes somewhere nearby. Sharp. Seraphites.

Your head snaps toward the sound instantly. Another whistle answers deeper in the street before shouting erupts.

“CONTACT!”

Gunfire explodes seconds later. WLF soldiers sprint across the street ahead while arrows whistle through the rain. One Wolf jerks backward with an arrow through his throat. Another drops seconds later. Chaos spreads fast.

Exactly what you need. Not to win. To disappear.

Your eyes lock onto a WLF transport truck sitting crooked near the curb thirty feet away. Driver dead. Engine still running. Headlights cutting pale beams through the mist.

Perfect.

You glance toward Taxi. He already looks ready. “We need that truck,” you mutter. Then you’re moving. You sprint low across rain-slick pavement while bullets crack somewhere behind you. The city erupts into noise around you— Wolves shouting, whistles answering back, glass shattering somewhere farther down the block.

You wrench the truck door open and climb inside fast. Taxi launches in beside you just as you slam the gear forward. The truck lurches violently. “C’mon, c’mon—”

Tires screech across flooded streets. Then somebody notices. “HEY!”

Gunfire slams into the truck immediately. The windshield spiderwebs near your shoulder. “Shit!”

You duck instinctively while jerking the wheel sideways around abandoned cars. Taxi barks wildly beside you every time the truck fishtails through standing water.

“Taxi, get the fuck down!” you shout over the engine. “Down, boy!”

He finally ducks lower as another engine roars somewhere behind you through the rain. They’re following.

You glance into the side mirror briefly—

And your stomach drops.

It’s them. Ari’s squad. The woman from earlier leans halfway out the passenger window with a rifle in her hands.

“That’s her!”

Gunfire erupts again. Bullets punch through the truck bed beside Taxi.

“Fuck—!”

You slam the wheel hard around a collapsed ambulance while the hospital looms closer between buildings. So close. Almost there—

Then headlights catch something too late.

A collapsed barricade stretches across the flooded street ahead.

“Shit.”

You wrench the wheel sideways but the truck clips the barricade hard enough to launch metal screaming across pavement before smashing broadside into a storefront.

The world snaps sideways. Glass explodes. Pain detonates through your shoulder. For a second all you hear is ringing.

Then Taxi barks. Loud. Panicked.

“I’m okay,” you choke out immediately, forcing yourself upright. Smoke curls from beneath the crushed hood outside while voices already close in.

“MOVE!” “THEY CRASHED!”

You kick the warped truck door open and force yourself out. Taxi jumps down beside you instantly. You grab your rifle and run toward the nearest half-open building entrance beneath a flickering neon sign drowned in vines.

You and Taxi disappear inside just as bullets rip through the doorway behind you.

Darkness swallows you whole.

The air changes immediately. Wet. Rotten. Wrong.

Your flashlight snaps on. Broken shelves and collapsed walls stretch endlessly ahead inside what used to be some kind of office building. Too quiet.

Your stomach tightens instantly.

“…shit.”

Taxi growls low beside you.

Then something moves. Fast. A shape darts between walls ahead before disappearing again.

Stalker.

Of fucking course.

One of the Wolves swings his flashlight toward the hallway just in time to catch two clickers sprinting straight at them through the dark. “FUCK THIS!”

Gunfire erupts instantly.

Muzzle flashes strobe violently across fungal walls while the infected slam into the group. One Wolf screams as a clicker tackles him sideways into broken office furniture.

Another fires wildly while backing toward the exit. “Pull back!”

A stalker explodes out of the darkness behind them. The scream that follows cuts brutally short. The remaining Wolves don’t hesitate after that. “GO GO GO!”

Boots thunder back toward the entrance while infected shrieks and wet tearing sounds swallow the lower floor behind them.

Your flashlight catches movement sprinting low across the ceiling beams overhead.

“Taxi!”

The shepherd lunges before you finish the word. A stalker crashes into him midair with a shriek. The two slam across the floor together in a snapping mess of teeth and claws.

You raise your rifle—

Another infected explodes out of the darkness straight at you. You barely get your knife up in time. The stalker slams you backward into the floor hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. Its fungal face twitches inches from yours, jaw snapping wildly while rotten saliva drips onto your sleeve.

“Get the fuck off me—!”

You jam the knife upward.

Miss.

The creature shrieks directly into your face. Somewhere deeper inside the building, gunfire mixes with screaming.

Taxi snarls viciously nearby.

The stalker pins your wrist harder against the floor—

Then suddenly—

BANG.

The infected jerks violently. Warm blood sprays across your throat. The body collapses instantly on top of you.

Dead.

For one second you can only hear your own breathing.

Then boots step into view beside your head. Worn leather darkened by rainwater steps into view beside you. Jeans soaked dark at the hems. Holster strapped low against his thigh.

One large hand gripping a revolver steady at his side—

Your revolver.

Your pulse stumbles instantly. Then you see the watch. Cracked glass. Worn leather strap.

His broken watch.

The one that never leaves his wrist.

Your breath catches so sharply it hurts. No. No fucking way. Your eyes lock onto his hand again. Calloused fingers. Faint scars across rough knuckles. You know that hand.

God, you know it.

That hand held your face like something precious. Fixed your weapons at the kitchen table late at night. Curled warm against your waist in bed. Your chest tightens so hard it almost hurts.

The man crouches immediately beside you, grabbing the dead stalker by the shoulder and hauling it off your body with a grunt.

Then flashlight beam finally cuts upward across his face.

Rough beard. Wet curls. Dark exhausted eyes already locked on yours like they’ve been searching for you for days. For a second your brain genuinely refuses to process it.

You just stare at him. Breathing hard.

Rainwater still dripping from his jacket onto the floor.

He looks tired. Older somehow. Terrified. Relieved. All at once.

Still unfairly handsome.

“…Joel?”

Your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

Another stalker scream echoes somewhere nearby.

Neither of you looks away.

Joel’s jaw tightens hard enough you see the muscle jump beneath wet stubble The stalker crashes into Joel so fast.

One second he’s crouched in front of you, rough hands hauling the dead infected off your body while rainwater drips from his curls onto your jacket—

The next—

Movement explodes out of the dark behind him. Fast. Too fast.

“Joel—!”

He twists instantly, revolver already snapping upward on instinct. Nothing. Just a hollow click.

Empty.

For the first time since you’ve known him, you actually see it—

Pure panic.

Not fear for himself.

For you.

Because the creature is already on him.

Its mouth opens wide enough you see strings of rotten saliva stretching between fungal-split teeth. Its face barely even looks human anymore beneath the blooming cordyceps splitting through skin and jawbone.

Joel shoves against it hard, but the stalker slams him backward into the wall before he can reload.

“Fuck—!”

Its teeth snap inches from his throat.

Joel’s forearm jams against its neck violently, muscles straining beneath soaked flannel while the infected screeches directly into his face.

The sound is horrible. Wet. Not human.

Taxi lunges across the room barking viciously, claws scraping across concrete as he tries to reach Joel. Your body moves before your brain does. You throw yourself into them. The impact knocks all three of you sideways.

The stalker turns instantly. Its jaws slam down around your forearm, just as you planned. Pain detonates through your entire body. “AHH— FUCK!” The scream tears itself out of your throat raw and sharp as teeth sink deep through muscle. You feel them puncture skin. Feel the pressure of its jaw locking harder the more you fight.

Warm blood floods instantly down your wrist.

Joel freezes. Actually freezes. His face drains of color so fast it terrifies you more than the bite itself.

“No—”

The word barely leaves him. The stalker thrashes violently against your arm, snarling through flesh still trapped between its teeth.

You could pull away. But you don't. Instead, you force your arm deeper.

Joel’s eyes widen in horror. “Kat, NO!”

Pain burns white-hot through your entire arm as the infected tears harder into flesh, fungal teeth sinking deeper with every violent jerk of its head. Taxi loses his mind somewhere beside you, barking viciously.

Joel lunges forward—

Too late.

You wrench the revolver upward with your free hand and jam the barrel directly against the side of the stalker’s head. Then pull the trigger.

BANG.

The gunshot explodes through the room. The bullet punches straight through fungal plates and skull with a sick wet crunch.

The creature spasms violently.

Its jaw clamps one final time around your arm before the body suddenly goes limp and collapses heavily against you.

Dead.

For half a second nobody moves. You can actually hear blood hitting the floor from your arm. Taxi keeps barking hysterically beside you. Then Joel grabs the infected and literally rips it off you hard enough the corpse slams against the wall nearby.

“Jesus Christ— Jesus fucking Christ—”

His voice sounds wrong. Shaking. Panicked.

You’ve heard Joel angry. You’ve heard him violent. You’ve heard him terrified.

But this?

This sounds like a man watching the world end all over again.

His hands grab your arm immediately. Too fast. Too rough. Then suddenly gentle the second he sees the damage. The bite already looks ugly. Deep punctures torn into flesh. Blood running between his fingers while fungal saliva mixes with rainwater across your skin.

Joel stares at it like he can somehow undo it if he looks hard enough. He’s not even looking at your face anymore.

Only the wound. Only the blood. Only the teeth marks.

He knows you’re immune.

But it doesn’t matter. Because watching something bite you still breaks something inside him instantly.

“Hey.” Your free hand catches his wrist hard enough to force his eyes back to yours. “Joel.”

His gaze snaps upward finally.

And God—

You’ve never seen him look this terrified before. Not even close.

“It’s okay,” you whisper quickly. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re fuckin’ not okay!”

The words crack out of him louder than intended. “You let it bite you,” he says, staring at you like he genuinely cannot understand what he just watched.

Your jaw tightens against another pulse of pain. “It was gonna get you.”

“So you let it tear into your goddamn arm?!”

“Yes!”

The word echoes harder than expected through the ruined building. Silence crashes down afterward except for both of your breathing.

Joel looks furious. Terrified. Completely shattered.

You swallow hard before quieter: “I knew it wouldn’t kill me.”

Joel’s expression twists instantly. “That ain’t the point. You think watchin’ that was supposed to be easier just because you can survive it?”

“I—”

More screeches erupt somewhere deeper inside the building.

Not one.

Several.

The sound bounces violently through dark hallways and collapsed floors, wet clicking mixed with the frantic shouts of WLF soldiers still trapped somewhere below. Joel’s head snaps toward the noise instantly. “Shit.”

Another scream echoes. Closer this time.

Taxi barks furiously beside you while the dead stalker’s blood continues dripping slowly from your bitten arm onto the floor. Joel grabs your wrist immediately. “We gotta move. Now.”

You stagger upright beside him, adrenaline barely drowning out the burning pulse ripping through your arm.

The building groans around all three of you.

Something crashes downstairs.

Then running. Fast running. Too many footsteps.

“Infected?” you ask breathlessly.

Joel reloads while already moving. “All of ‘em.”

That answers enough.

Taxi bolts ahead first as Joel shoves open a warped emergency door leading into another hallway thick with mold and water damage.

“Where are we going?!” you shout while running after him.

“My place ain’t far!”

You blink. “Your what?!”

“Keep runnin’!”

Another stalker bursts from a doorway ahead.

Joel fires before it fully reaches you.

BANG.

The infected folds violently against the wall. “Right!” Joel shouts. “Take the right!”

You skid around the corner hard enough your shoulder slams concrete.

The hallway opens toward a collapsed loading bay exposed to rain and fading evening light outside.

The sky has turned nearly black now.

Seattle after sunset feels less like a city and more like something alive waiting to swallow people whole. Taxi leaps through the broken opening first.

You follow immediately—

Then freeze.

A chain-link fence blocks most of the alley outside except for one narrow gap near the bottom where the metal has been bent upward. “Fuck.”

“Go!” Joel shouts behind you.

Gunfire erupts somewhere deeper inside the building. Then shrieking. Taxi squeezes through the gap first before spinning around barking wildly for you. You drop low and crawl after him just as Joel grabs the fence hard enough to yank the opening wider for you.

The metal tears loudly.

Your injured arm screams in protest while squeezing through. “Joel—!”

“I’m comin’, keep movin’!”

A runner crashes through the loading bay doorway behind him.

Then another.

Joel rips a molotov from his backpack, lights it without hesitation, and hurls it straight into the entrance.

Glass shatters. Fire erupts instantly.

The hallway behind him explodes into orange light and screaming infected. “GO!” he roars.

You don’t argue.

All three of you sprint through rain-dark alleyways while flames spread violently behind you, infected shrieks echoing through the burning building. Joel catches up fast despite the extra weight of his rifle and pack.

“Left!” he shouts over the rain. “Take the left!”

You follow him blindly through narrow streets flooded ankle-deep with rainwater. Taxi keeps pace beside you, breathing hard while distant gunfire and infected screams slowly fade farther behind.

Eventually—

Finally—

The noise dies. The city quiets again.

Joel slows near an old brick building squeezed between two collapsed storefronts. A faded neon saxophone still hangs crooked above the entrance.

JAZZ • LIVE MUSIC • COCKTAILS

Or at least that’s what’s left of the sign. Joel grabs the door handle first.

Locked.

He shoulders it once. Hard. The wood gives immediately. “Inside.”

You and Taxi slip in first while Joel slams the door shut behind all of you. Darkness swallows the room.

The beam of Joel’s flashlight cuts across overturned tables, dusty bottles behind the bar, ripped velvet booths, and a stage sitting abandoned beneath hanging lights coated in years of grime.

Then Joel immediately starts moving furniture.

Fast. Efficient. Like muscle memory.

He shoves a heavy cabinet against the door before dragging another beside it.

You bend forward, hands braced against your knees while trying to catch your breath. Rainwater drips steadily from your hair onto the floorboards below. Taxi pants nearby, ears still twitching toward distant sounds outside. You glance around the bar slowly.

“…I passed this place earlier,” you mutter between breaths. “Didn’t exactly scream safehouse.”

Joel grunts while forcing another chair beneath the door handle. “That’s ‘cause you think like a survivor.” He finally looks back at you briefly. “You gotta think like a smuggler.”

The corner of your mouth almost twitches despite everything.

Taxi finally relaxes enough to lie down beside one of the booths, though he still watches both of you carefully while licking rainwater from his fur.

Outside, thunder rolls softly over Seattle. Inside, everything suddenly feels too quiet.

You straighten slowly while pressing your palm against the bandage wrapped around your arm. The bite throbs beneath soaked fabric now. Hot. Sharp. “Joel,” you say quietly. “How did you find us?”

Taxi huffs softly at the sound of his name.

Joel completely ignores the question.

Instead, he walks straight toward you, grabs your uninjured arm gently but firmly, and guides you toward one of the old leather couches near the stage.

“Sit.”

“Joel—”

“Sit down.”

Something in his voice makes you listen.

You lower yourself onto the couch slowly while he drops his backpack onto the nearby table and kneels in front of you.

“Lemme see.”

The bite still bleeds slowly through the bandage. Joel pulls fresh gauze and alcohol from his pack with practiced hands.

Your eyes stay fixed on him while he works. The furrow between his brows deepens immediately the second he unwraps the blood-soaked cloth from your arm.

There it is. That line in his forehead. The one that only appears when he’s angry or worried enough it physically hurts him.

God.

You missed him. So fucking much. More than you allowed yourself to admit.

“This’ll hurt.” Joel pours alcohol over the wound.

“Wonderful.”

The second the liquid hits torn flesh, pain rips straight through your arm. “Ah— fuck—”

Your whole body tenses instantly while Joel grips your wrist tighter to steady you.

“Easy,” he mutters quietly.

You hiss through clenched teeth while he carefully cleans dried blood from around the bite marks. Your eyes drift across his face again. The concentration. The exhaustion beneath his eyes. The tension in his jaw. You wonder how many nights he hasn’t slept.

“You showed up at a pretty convenient time,” you breathe, still staring at him like he might disappear again. “How the hell did you even find us?”

Joel keeps wrapping the bandage.

Doesn’t answer.

There are a hundred other things you want to ask him too. How long has he been here? Did Ellie know? Was he hurt? Was he angry? Did he hate you for leaving? But after drugging him and disappearing in the middle of the night, asking those questions feels almost selfish somehow. So instead you ask the smallest one. The safest one.

“…Why are you here, Joel?”

This time he finally looks up. And the expression in his eyes makes your throat tighten instantly. Dark. Tired. Hurt.

“S’pose I’m the one oughta be askin’ questions.”

Silence stretches between you.

You glance away first. Joel doesn’t.

“How the hell do you hear every damn thing I tell you,” he says quietly, “and still leave anyway?”

Your jaw tightens. “Joel—”

“That stubbornness of yours real or you just enjoy makin’ me lose my goddamn mind?” His voice sharpens now. “You come here to kill yourself? Was that the plan?”

The words hit harder than expected. Because part of you knows he’s not completely wrong.

“I got close,” you argue quietly. “I’m almost done. Tomorrow I finish this.”

Joel lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Finish it how exactly?” He rises suddenly to his feet. “You see how many Wolves are out there? This ain’t a mission, darlin’, it’s a suicide note.”

“I’m not leaving without killing him.”

“Well you ain’t gettin’ the chance if you end up dead first!”

Taxi lifts his head immediately at the sharpness in Joel’s voice. You stand too fast. Pain flares through your arm but you ignore it. “What, you think I came all this way for nothing?!”

“Yes!” Joel explodes. “That’s exactly what I think!”

You stare at him in disbelief. Rain rattles softly against the windows behind him while the neon sign outside flickers weak blue light across his face. “You don’t understand.”

“No, YOU don’t understand!” Joel snaps back immediately. “If I hadn’t found you tonight you woulda died in there!”

“I saved you too!”

“That ain’t the damn point!”

His voice echoes through the empty jazz bar. Taxi whines softly from the couch. Joel runs one rough hand through soaked curls before pointing furiously toward your bandaged arm.

“You ain’t bulletproof, Kat! You ain’t immune to gettin’ your head blown off or blown apart or buried under some goddamn building!”

“I KNOW THAT!”

“Then why the hell are you actin’ like you got nothin’ left to lose?!”

Your breathing turns uneven instantly. “I always find a way.”

Joel stares at you for one long horrible second. Then suddenly he crosses the room and grabs both your arms hard enough to stop your pacing completely. “Goddamn it, Kat—” His voice breaks lower now. Rougher. Desperate. “Why don’t you get it?” His grip tightens. “Not everythin’ goes the way you planned.”

Your heartbeat stumbles.

“One mistake,” he whispers harshly. “One bad second and everythin’ falls apart. Why you runnin’ toward death like this, huh?” His jaw clenches hard. “You don’t think about yourself, fine. But do you ever think about what happens to me?”

Your lips part. Nothing comes out. So you look away instead.

“…Ellie needs you,” you whisper weakly. “If somethin’ happened to me, you’d still have—”

“Don’t.” His voice cuts straight through yours. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

You look back at him slowly. Joel’s eyes burn now. Actually burn.

“She ain’t you.”

The words hit like a punch. Joel breathes hard once through his nose before quieter now:

“You’re not Ellie to me.” He steps closer. So close you can feel warmth radiating from him despite the cold rain still clinging to his clothes. “You’re worse,” he mutters roughly. “So much goddamn worse.”

Your breath catches.

“Because I let myself love you.”

The confession lands heavy between both of you. Joel laughs once under his breath. Bitter. Broken.

“This stubborn old heart was finally startin’ to beat again and you just…” He shakes his head slightly. “You rip yourself outta my bed and disappear across the country like I’m supposed to survive that.”

Your throat tightens painfully. “I couldn’t let you get hurt.”

Joel stares at you like the words physically offend him.

“And what the hell you think happens to me if you die?”

Silence. Real silence this time.

Joel closes his eyes briefly before leaning forward until his forehead rests against yours. When he speaks again, his voice barely sounds steady anymore. “I told you about Sarah.” Your heart cracks quietly. “I told you exactly what losin’ somebody like that does to a man.” His nose brushes yours lightly when he exhales. “You’re there for me now.” The words melt something inside your chest instantly. “You understand?” he whispers. “Right fuckin' there.”

Your lips part softly.

Joel’s mouth hovers barely inches from yours now. Close enough that every breath mixes together. Close enough that thinking becomes impossible. You should keep arguing. You should push him away. Tell him to go back to Jackson. Tell him tomorrow changes nothing. But all you can think about is how badly you missed him. The smell of him. The warmth. The roughness in his voice. The way he says your name like it belongs to him. Your thighs tense unconsciously.

Joel notices immediately. Of course he does.

His eyes darken slightly while his hand slides from your arm to your waist slowly. Possessive. Careful.

Like he’s trying not to break under the weight of his own feelings.

“Listen to me,” he murmurs roughly. “I don’t give a damn about anybody or anything in this world the way I do you.” Your breath catches harder. “You hear me?” His fingers tighten slightly against your waist. “You got some kinda single-digit fuckin’ IQ or somethin’, huh? How many goddamn times do I gotta say it before it gets through that stubborn skull of yours?”

Your brows pull together immediately.

“Joel—”

“No.” His grip tightens when you try pulling back slightly. “No, you don’t get to pull that runaway bullshit and then stand there actin’ confused when I come after you.”

Heat flashes through your chest instantly.

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“Exactly!” Joel snaps. “That’s the damn problem!”

You turn your head away sharply, jaw tightening.

For half a second you almost step back.

Joel catches you immediately.

One rough hand locks around your waist and pulls you flush against him again before you can move an inch.

“You scare the livin’ shit outta me, Kat.”

The word comes out low. Dangerous. Desperate.

His forehead nearly touches yours now.

“You run into gunfights, infected, goddamn armies like your life don’t matter and it’s drivin’ me fuckin’ insane.”

Your pulse stumbles hard.

Joel’s jaw tightens once before he says the next part slower. Like he needs you to understand it this time. “You’re mine to lose sleep over now.”

Your breath catches sharply.

Joel’s eyes stay locked on yours.

Possessive. Furious. Completely wrecked by you. His hand slides tighter against your waist. “Mine to worry about. Mine to come look for. Mine to drag back alive if I gotta.”

Then he snaps. One hand grips your jaw. The other yanks you hard against him. And his mouth crashes into yours.

The kiss is brutal.

Desperate.

All teeth and heat and weeks of fear poured into one violent collision.

You gasp against his mouth immediately and Joel takes advantage instantly, kissing you deeper like he’s angry at you for making him miss you this badly.

Like he’s trying to punish himself and you at the same time.

His beard scrapes harsh against your skin while his fingers dig into your waist possessively enough to ache.

You clutch his soaked flannel automatically.

Joel groans low into your mouth the second you pull him closer.

The sound nearly destroys what little restraint you had left.

“Christ. Look what the hell you do to me,” he mutters against your lips before kissing you again harder somehow.

Raw. Messy. Needy.

Like neither of you fully believes the other is really here yet.

Joel kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every second you were gone. Like anger and relief and love have tangled together into something too big for him to hold quietly anymore.

Your back hits the edge of the old piano beside the stage with a dull thud.

Neither of you cares.

Rain fades into background noise beneath rough breathing, shifting clothes, and the scrape of calloused hands against soaked denim and flannel.

Joel’s fingers bury into your hair hard enough to tilt your head back while his mouth keeps finding yours again and again like he physically can’t stop once he starts.

You kiss him back just as desperately.

All the fear.

All the missing him.

All those nights alone in ruined buildings wishing he was there instead—

It all crashes out at once.

“Jesus…” Joel breathes against your lips, forehead pressing briefly to yours. “Missed you so goddamn much.”

The confession nearly breaks you.

Your fingers work shakily at the buttons of his flannel while he crowds closer between your legs.

“You weren’t supposed to come after me,” you whisper breathlessly, teasing despite yourself as you push the shirt from his shoulders.

Joel lets out a rough, humorless laugh against your mouth.

“Tough shit.”

His belt unfastens with a metallic clink.

Then he kisses you again before you can answer.

Harder this time.

Needier.

One large hand slides beneath your jacket, rough fingers spreading against the small of your back while the other grips your waist possessively enough to pull a soft sound from your throat.

Joel immediately catches it.

A dark smirk ghosts briefly across his face.

“Look at her now,” he mutters roughly against your mouth. “All needy.”

Heat rushes through your chest instantly.

“You keep makin’ sounds like that,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, “I’m gonna forget we’re supposed to be arguin’.” His thumb drags once along your cheek. “Real damn loud for somebody who left me.”

The words hit harder than they should.

Before you can answer, Joel’s hands find the zipper of your jacket instead.

He yanks it down impatiently.

Then your shirt follows, leaving you in nothing but your bra beneath the dim neon glow leaking through the rain-streaked windows.

Joel’s eyes drag over you slowly.

Hungry.

Overwhelmed.

Then his gaze catches on the fresh bandage around your arm. The softness disappears immediately. Joel leans down and presses a rough almost angry kiss against your forehead. “You scare the hell outta me,” he mutters. “Don’t pull that shit again.” Your hands slide over his bare chest, palms spreading across warm skin and tense muscle beneath your fingertips.

God.

You forgot how solid he feels. How warm. How safe. It almost hurts remembering it.

Joel exhales sharply the second you touch him. Then his hands are on you again. Touching like he physically can’t help it.

Your shirt snags briefly while he pulls it over your head one-handed before tossing it somewhere behind him without even looking.

His eyes move slowly across your skin afterward. “Christ,” he whispers quietly.

The way he says it sends heat straight through you.

Joel notices instantly.

That rough little smirk flickers again before something heavier replaces it.

His fingers brush lightly along your ribs before settling against your waist, thumbs hooking into your jeans and dragging them slowly down your legs. Cold air kisses exposed skin while rain taps softly against the windows outside.

“There she is,” Joel murmurs, voice low and wrecked as his hands settle against your thighs, holding you close. His kisses trailed to your neck and you gulped back a lustful sigh. He couldn’t know how much you were enjoying it. His fingers glided in between your folds, the vibrations already making you far too excited. He chuckled to himself, cupping you so your clit was between his fingers as he rubbed your heat. “She’s so fucking pretty and always ready for me,” he purred against your neck and you loved the excited rush his breath gave your skin. You yanked his hair pulling him back into another hungry kiss. His hands roamed your body, squeezing your soft spots, groping your ass, weaving his fingers through your hair, noting the places that made you squirm when he gave them attention. 

You started to retort but your knees dipped when he inserted a finger. His other hand reached around your back to hold you up and you moaned when he started to pump his fingers deep inside of you. Your hands slide up into his curls while his mouth moves against yours with enough care now to make your knees weaker than the violence of the first kiss ever could.

Taxi lifts his head from the couch nearby, ears twitching as he watches both of you pressed together beside the piano.

Joel notices immediately.

“C’mon, buddy,” he mutters roughly without taking his eyes and fingers off you. “Give us five goddamn minutes.”

Taxi huffs loudly from the couch. You grin softly against Joel’s mouth. “He’s protective,” you murmur, breathless. “Kinda reminds me of somebody.”

“Yeah? Smart dog then.”

“Smartest one around, actually. Shame he ended up with an idiot owner.”

Joel’s mouth twitches immediately. “Make that two idiots,” he murmurs.

Taxi barks once from the couch like he’s agreeing. You laugh softly. Joel points toward the dog without looking away from you. “Alright, smartass. Turn around.” Taxi lets out a dramatic huff before very pointedly turning his back to both of you and flopping back down onto the couch.

“How the hell do you just disappear on me,” he murmurs rough against your lips, his long finger curling inside you, “and take that pretty laugh with you too, huh?” You latch onto him, digging your nails into his arm, he exhales softly against your mouth. “Damn near forgot what it sounded like.” The vibrations shake through your core and curl low in your stomach, where a terrible and wonderful sensation begins to build, pulling a broken moan from your throat. “Yeah,” he mutters low against your lips. “Missed that too.”

With a grunt, he pulls his fingers out of you, still wet with your arousal, and presses them to his lips, sucking hungrily, almost angrily.

Then suddenly you’re in his arms.

Joel lifts you easily and lays you back against the old couch, one large hand settling against your waist as he leans over you. “‘M about two seconds away from losin’ what’s left of my damn self-control here.” One large hand slides up your thigh slowly before his dark eyes lock onto yours again. “So open wide for me, darlin’.”

You obey and spread your legs while he gets rid of his boxers and settles between your thighs. He leans down again and kisses you deeply. You wrap one hand around his dripping cock and squeeze softly, and simply feeling the way your grip trembles makes him weak. He can feel you smile against his mouth.

He drags his tongue across your lip and spreads your legs wider with his palm. He nibbles gently on your bottom lip, and you moan, arching against him.

He presses his swollen tip against your slick pussy and tries to still the swirling darkness inside him; he wants you, and he’s going to have you now and forever.

Even still, he feels anger clawing at the edges of his lust: anger that you left him like that, that you almost died, that you were so ready to sacrifice yourself for him and didn’t give a damn about dying so fearlessly.

Against all reason, he wants to punish you because you still don’t fully understand how much you mean to him, and because you’ve turned your immunity into an advantage, risking your life as if it were nothing. But he pushes those thoughts out of his mind.

He presses his fingers to your clit and teases you, and you moan against him, wrapping your legs around his hips, trying to urge him further. Exhaling quickly against your lips, he buries himself inside you in one smooth, severe stroke, and you cry out. You are so wet that the suddenness of it doesn’t sting, but the insistent burn and stretch inside you makes you shiver. He pulls back slightly to look into your eyes. From the way he looks down at you—like you are small and helpless and beloved, all for him—the realization makes his heart beat hard against his ribs and arouses him even further.

His next thrust is even harsher, and you dig your nails into his shoulders and writhe against him, wordlessly meeting his challenge. He grins darkly at you and fucks you in earnest, and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the old jazz bar. He grunts with each thrust like he is exorcising something strange and wild, and you find yourself clutching at him with a ferocity that surprises you. You move against each other like animals desperate for release, but as your orgasm approaches, you realize he has no intention of finishing yet, even though he is struggling to hold back. When you grow insistent and press firmly against him each time he withdraws, he shakes his head at you like you are an insolent child. You whine and scratch his back, and he bites your shoulder where it meets your neck.

The couch shifts hard enough to bump against the wall, drawing a long suffering sigh from Taxi somewhere nearby.

Neither of you can help laughing softly at that. 

His gaze stops at your bra — the last piece still clinging to your body. He reaches with his large hand and unfastens it easily, grabbing your breasts possessively and burying his face between them.“Fuck, Joel, I’m—”

He crashes his mouth against yours before you can finish, swallowing the rest of your words as the kiss turns messy and desperate, teeth clashing briefly in the heat of it.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs roughly against your lips. “Jesus Christ… keep doin’ that and I ain’t gonna last.” He pulls back just enough to look at you before drawing you closer again, moving with a rhythm that grows rougher and more desperate the longer he kisses you. “Fuck… so goddamn tight, fuck, fuck. Feels too damn good.”

You scratch your nails down his back again as he finds that spot inside you once more. Joel sucks on your neck and uses the hand that isn’t holding yours to roughly pinch and twist your nipples.

“Right there,” you gasp softly, barely able to think anymore. “Joel… right there.”

He slams into you harder with every thrust, losing whatever control he had left the second he feels you falling apart beneath him.

Your moans break into desperate little sounds that only make him rougher, his forehead pressed against yours while he pushes his thick cock deep inside you. “That’s it,” he groans hoarsely. “Fuck, baby… just like that.” You cry out his name as pleasure crashes through you, your whole body trembling beneath him while your fingers clutch helplessly at his shoulders.

Joel watches you come apart with something almost feral in his expression, like the sight alone is enough to ruin him completely. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes shakily, gripping you tighter. “… gonna fuckin’ kill me one day.”

The way your walls squeeze him finally snaps the last thread holding him together, he grips the back of your head possessively and pulls you up into a searing kiss as he begins filling you up. His masculine groans are the sexiest sound you’ve ever heard—raw, rough, completely wrecked by you—and even if you hadn’t already been overwhelmed with pleasure, you know you’do anything just to hear them again.

By the time the both of you finally come down, exhaustion settles heavily into your bones. Your entire body still trembles from overstimulation, you feel him softening inside you, and without thinking, you cling closer to him — hooking one leg over his and wrapping an arm tightly around his waist while burying your face against his chest.

Joel lets out a tired breath and settles back against the couch with you tangled around him. One hand rests protectively over your arm while the other lazily twirls a strand of your hair around his finger. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, finally realizing how sweaty and completely spent both of you are. “Kat,” he murmurs quietly, fingertips tracing slow patterns against your skin. The softness in his voice makes you shiver more than anything else tonight. “Y’know I love you, right?”

Your eyes flutter half-shut as you look up at him. “I know,” you whisper back, voice rough and sleepy. Your fingers trace lazily across his chest. “Love you too, old man.”

A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth — soft enough that most people would miss it entirely. Then, reluctantly, Joel starts untangling himself from you.

“C’mon,” he mutters gently, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “Gotta clean you up before you pass out on me.”

Seattle, Day Three.

Joel wakes first. He doesn’t move right away. For a long moment he just lies there on the narrow couch with one arm wrapped tightly around your waist beneath the heavy wool blanket he’d found sometime during the night.

The thing had smelled like dust and old cedar when he shook it out upstairs near the storage room. Probably untouched for years. He remembers beating the hell out of it against the railing while muttering curses under his breath, trying to get enough dirt off it so you wouldn’t complain.

You still complained. Half asleep. Mumbling something about “old man nesting instincts.”

Joel almost smiles remembering it.

Now you sleep against his chest completely unaware, warm beneath the blanket, breathing slow and steady while Taxi snores softly nearby. Joel watches you quietly.

Your hair’s a mess. One cheek pressed against his shoulder. One leg tangled with his beneath the blanket. Peaceful. Too peaceful for somebody who spent the last several days fighting through Seattle like a damn one-woman apocalypse.

His fingers move carefully through your hair, brushing strands away from your face slowly enough not to wake you. Then his eyes drift downward.

And the softness in his expression changes immediately.

Bruises. Scratches. Old healing cuts layered beneath newer ones. Your shoulder carries a dark purple mark from rifle recoil, probably from firing that sniper nonstop for days. Your knuckles are split open in places. Another bruise blooms faintly along your ribs.

Joel’s jaw tightens quietly.

He’s seen bodies like this before. Survivors. People who lived too long outside walls. But seeing it on you feels different somehow. More personal. More infuriating.

His eyes stop at the bandage wrapped around your arm.

The bite.

Joel exhales slowly through his nose and looks back at your sleeping face. You were probably the strongest person he’d ever met. And that scared the hell out of him too.

He thinks about everything you survived before Jackson. Ten years outside. Fighting. Sleeping in ruins and abandoned cars and forests filled with infected. Your own father hunting you.

Your own father.

Joel still can’t wrap his mind around that part completely. His old man had been many things. Mean sometimes. Hard. But there had still been moments. A hand on the shoulder. A “good job, son.” Tiny things. Enough to know he’d been loved at least once growing up.

But you?

You learned young that love came with scalpels and cages and being hunted like an animal. And somehow you still came out capable of loving people anyway. Joel honestly doesn’t know how. Maybe he never will.

Taxi suddenly lets out a soft whine nearby. Joel glances over immediately. The shepherd lifts his head slightly from the floor, favoring his injured leg again.

“Hey,” Joel murmurs quietly. “Easy there.”

Carefully making sure not to wake you, Joel slips out from beneath the blanket and pulls his jeans back on before crouching beside Taxi.

“Lemme see it, boy.”

Taxi growls softly at first. Joel clicks his tongue.

“Shh. Relax, kiddo. Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

Taxi grumbles dramatically anyway. Joel snorts quietly.

“Yeah, yeah. You sound just like her.”

The wound isn’t terrible. Bullet graze. Angry-looking but clean. Joel pulls out antiseptic and carefully spreads ointment across the injury. Taxi flinches once.

“There ya go.” Joel scratches behind his ears afterward. “You did good lookin’ after her.”

Taxi’s tail thumps once against the floorboards.

“Hell,” Joel mutters quietly, “somebody had to.”

Taxi barks once like he fully agrees.

Joel laughs softly under his breath. “Yeah, well. That stubbornness rubbed off on you too apparently.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

Your sleepy voice makes Joel glance over immediately. You’re sitting upright now near the couch, pulling your shirt back on while watching both of them.

“Yeah?” Joel turns slightly toward you. “Dog’s almost as hardheaded as you are.” One corner of his mouth twitches faintly. “Guess crazy attracts crazy.”

You snort softly while stepping closer.

“How’s your arm?”

You notice immediately he avoids saying bite. Like the word itself pisses him off.

You flex your fingers carefully beneath the bandage. “Sore. Little throbbing. I’ll live.”

That does absolutely nothing for the look on Joel’s face.

“Lemme see.”

You hold your arm out without arguing this time. Joel unwraps the bandage slowly. His fingers shake slightly. You notice. He notices you noticing. Neither of you says anything about it.

The bite still looks ugly. Deep crescent punctures surrounded by bruising where the stalker’s jaw clamped down. But otherwise—

“No infection,” he mutters quietly, thumb brushing carefully near the wound. “No spreadin’. Nothin’.”

The awe in his voice almost sounds uncomfortable, like he’s rediscovering your immunity all over again.

You reach automatically for the knife lying nearby on the table. The second you angle it toward the bite— Joel catches your wrist hard.

“What’re you doin’?”

“If the mark’s still fresh, I can cut over it. Make it look like something else.”

Joel stares at you like you just suggested sawing your own arm off before immediately taking the knife away from you.

“You always this eager to carve yourself up?”

“It makes sense.”

He tosses the knife aside with a sharp look. “The bite’s deep enough already. Last thing you need’s an actual infection.”

You open your mouth to argue. Joel gives you a look. You close it again.

Satisfied, he starts rewrapping the bandage carefully before reaching into his bag and pulling out two cans of food.

“Eat somethin’.”

Your stomach betrays you instantly with a quiet growl. Joel hears it. Of course he does. A smug little look flashes across his face while he hands you the can.

“Knew it.”

You roll your eyes softly. “Don’t get cocky.”

Taxi suddenly perks up at the smell of food. Joel grabs another can from his bag, pops it open with his knife, and dumps the contents carefully onto a folded paper plate near the floor. “Found dog food near Seattle’s big ‘Fuck FEDRA’ gate.”

Taxi immediately starts eating.

You blink. “I checked there.”

Joel smirks slightly. “Yeah, well. Smuggler rule number one.” He settles back against the booth beside you. “There’s always another stash.”

You shake your head while eating a spoonful from your can.

“So…” you mutter thoughtfully between bites, “Joel Miller rescues us, patches us up, finds us shelter, feeds us…” Your eyes flick toward him. “Anything you can’t do?”

Joel looks at you over the rim of his coffee tin. “Convince you to come back to Jackson.”

“There it is,” you murmur.

“Damn right there it is.”

You stare down at your food for a second before quietly: “I can’t leave before this is finished.”

Joel exhales slowly through his nose. “Alright.” He nods once. “Then tell me the plan.”

You stare at him for a second like you’re waiting for the argument to come back. Joel shrugs one shoulder lightly.

“Pretty sure I could live another hundred damn years and still not win against that stubborn streak of yours.”

A faint tired smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“So I figured the next best thing is stickin’ around long enough to stop you from gettin’ yourself killed.”

His eyes meet yours then— steady and serious beneath the exhaustion.

“And help you finish this.”

You set the can aside and reach quickly for your backpack.

“Okay so—”

Joel steals the rest of your food while you’re distracted.

You whip your head toward him in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“You were done.”

“I was thinking.”

“You think better fed.”

You glare at him while he takes another completely unapologetic bite. Joel looks deeply unbothered for exactly two seconds before your expression finally cracks into genuine annoyance.

Then, with a quiet sigh like he’s dealing with the world’s grumpiest stray cat, he reaches into his backpack again.

“Relax, darlin’.”

He pulls out another can and tosses it into your lap. “Got another one.”

You look down at the label and immediately snort softly.

It’s actually your favorite.

“Wow,” you tease while turning the can in your hands, “that’s, like… suspiciously boyfriend behavior from you, Joel Miller.”

Joel immediately stops eating. Slowly lowers the spoon. “Take it back.”

You grin instantly. “What? Boyfriend?”

He exhales hard through his nose, already looking irritated in that deeply familiar way that only makes this funnier.

The second you laugh, Joel grabs your wrist and suddenly pulls you toward him hard enough that you let out a surprised noise, the can nearly slipping from your hands as you end up sprawled across his lap.

“Joel—”

“Y’know,” he mutters while leaning closer, one arm locking securely around your waist before you can even think about escaping, “I still think tying your stubborn ass to the back of my horse and draggin’ you back to Jackson’s a solid plan.”

“Wow.” You shake your head, grinning. “There’s the romance.”

Joel shakes his head under his breath before leaning closer suddenly, brushing a quick kiss against the tip of your nose.

“Romance,” he murmurs low while pulling back just slightly, “comes after we get your stubborn ass back to Jackson alive.”

“Deal,” you whisper.

Joel studies your face for another second like he’s trying to memorize it all over again before finally letting you slide reluctantly off his lap.

You settle back beside him while Joel reaches over to open your canned food for you. You lean forward and dig through your backpack before pulling out the stolen WLF radio.

“Let’s see what Seattle’s assholes are up to today.”

Joel’s entire posture sharpens instantly the second he sees it in your hands.

You twist the dial slowly. Static crackles loudly through the jazz bar.

“…patrol…” hissssss “…copy…” More static. You adjust it again. “…doctor…” You turn the dial carefully. The signal clears. “…repeat, Doctor Clouser’s requested package has been transferred to the hospital facility.”

Your stomach tightens instantly. Joel’s eyes lock onto yours.

Another voice answers through static: “Copy that, Ed. Use Route Six on your return. Scar activity’s spreadin’ east— avoid conflict if possible. And keep the lower quarantine level sealed. Doctor says nobody enters without clearance after last night’s incident.”

You and Joel stare at each other.

Hospital.

Confirmed.

The streets around the hospital feel dead in the wrong way. You move beside Joel through flooded streets littered with shell casings, broken arrows, and bodies left where they fell. WLF soldiers. Seraphites. Some so torn apart by infected it’s impossible to tell which side they belonged to anymore. Taxi walks ahead quietly now, ears twitching at every distant sound. The city smells like wet concrete, blood, mold, and smoke. Joel keeps his rifle raised while both of you move through the remains of another firefight. A burned-out military truck still smolders near the curb, its doors covered in bullet holes and dried blood. One entire wall nearby is painted black with huge dripping letters: FEEL HER LOVE. The words stretch across the brick wall in massive white paint, dripping down the rain-soaked surface beneath crude Seraphite symbols carved deep into the concrete.

But someone answered it. Down near the corner of the wall, sprayed violently in black paint over dried blood splatter, another message cuts across the white letters: FEEL THIS, BITCH. Below it, bodies are piled carelessly against the wall. Seraphites. You recognize them instantly from the rough dark cloaks hanging from torn limbs and rain-soaked rope belts still tied around waists. Some still clutch hammers and crude blades in stiff dead hands. The blood beneath them hasn’t fully washed away yet. Fresh enough that the rain still carries thin red streams slowly down the curb nearby. Your stomach twists slightly. “Those whistling assholes,” you mutter quietly while stepping around shattered glass and blood pooling near the curb. “Saw ’em gutting Wolves yesterday. Creepy fuckers.” Joel studies the hanging bodies for another second, jaw tightening slightly. “Yeah,” he mutters darkly. “Spent twenty years thinkin’ I’d already seen every kinda fucked up thing this world could turn people into.” You glance back toward the wall covered in blood and hanging corpses. “Then Seattle said hold my beer.” Joel actually laughs under his breath at that. Low. Brief. Real.

Then his expression hardens again as he scans the street ahead. “Everyone’s killin’ everybody,” he mutters. “Wolves, Scars… whole damn city’s at war.” His grip tightens slightly around the rifle. “Means we keep our heads down if we wanna make it to that hospital alive.” You glance toward the massive building looming farther ahead between flooded streets and collapsed apartments. “Front entrance probably crawling with Wolves anyway.” “Yeah.” Joel immediately turns away from the open street. “Too exposed.” He gestures with the rifle toward a row of half-collapsed buildings running parallel to the hospital district. “We circle around. Stay off the main roads. Maintenance tunnels, supply docks, rooftops… there’s always another way in.” You nod once and pull your hood lower against the rain. Taxi falls quietly into step beside both of you as you disappear deeper into the ruined side streets surrounding the hospital.

The hospital finally comes fully into view between buildings ahead. Massive. Concrete gray against the dark sky. Floodlights glow faintly near the lower levels while fog drifts around upper floors. So close now. Your hand automatically drops to the revolver holstered at your side. Your thumb brushes the worn grip while you pull the cylinder open and reload quietly. “Joel.” “Hm?” You hesitate. Which already tells him this matters.

Rain drips softly from broken signs overhead while Taxi pauses ahead to sniff cautiously near abandoned cars. You finally look at Joel. “I know leavin’ was selfish.” Joel stills slightly but says nothing. You swallow once. “It wasn’t just for me.” His eyes lift fully now. “It was for us.” The words feel strange out loud. Too vulnerable. Too honest. You look back down at the revolver while continuing quietly: “You and me. Future Days and all that shit.” A weak breath escapes you. “Before Jackson I never even let myself imagine havin’ somethin’ like that. Then I met you and suddenly…” Joel’s mouth slowly curves into the faintest smug smile. “Suddenly what, darlin’?” You roll your eyes instantly. “Don’t--” Joel’s grin grows slightly. “C’mon now. Wanna hear this part.” You glare at him briefly. Then finally sigh. “…I fell in love with you, alright?” you mutter. “There. Happy?” Joel looks devastatingly pleased with himself. “Little bit.” You shake your head while fighting a smile. Then your expression softens again. “I just wanted peace for once.” Your thumb traces the revolver grip absently. “Wanted somethin’ that actually belonged to me.” Joel watches you quietly for a long moment. Then he lowers his rifle and steps closer. “C’mere.” Before you can react, one arm hooks around your waist and pulls you firmly against him. The revolver remains loosely in your hand while Joel wraps both arms around you tightly beneath your jacket. “I know,” he murmurs against your hair. Joel pulls back just enough to look down at you. “But Christ, baby…” His thumb brushes your cheek. “Wish you hadn’t disappeared after I told you I’d help.” Guilt flickers sharply through your stomach. “I know. When we get back,” you whisper softly, “I’ll fix your heart.” Joel snorts. “Baby, you got yourself one hell of a fixer-upper.” “Maybe you can teach me."

Joel raises an eyebrow slightly. “Teach you what?” “How to fix old things. Worked pretty well with the guitar.” “Yeah?” he murmurs low. “Guess you’re a fast learner.” "Fuck yeah, I am." Your chest hurts from loving him. And that realization terrifies you a little. Joel squeezes your waist once before both of you continue moving again toward the hospital. Closer now. Too close. The streets gradually grow quieter the farther you go. No patrols. No distant shouting. No gunfire. Nothing. Joel slows first. You feel it too. The wrongness. You glance toward him. “…You feel that?” Joel nods once slowly. “Too quiet.” His grip tightens slightly around the rifle. “Don’t like it.” Neither do you. According to the radio traffic earlier, the area around the hospital should’ve been crawling with Wolves. Instead the streets feel abandoned. “We keep goin’ straight, we’re too exposed."

His eyes move toward the buildings lining the side streets near the hospital perimeter. “We circle around back first. Figure out where they got people stationed before we get anywhere near that place.” You nod, but Taxi suddenly growls low. Joel immediately raises the rifle scope. “Runner.” He points slightly right. “Two of ‘em.” You spot movement on the left side too. "There’s more over there.” Taxi suddenly bolts forward. “No— Taxi, wait!” The shepherd ignores you completely and charges ahead. You immediately move after him. Joel grabs your arm hard. “Kat— stop!” “What—” “Trap.” Your eyes drop instantly. Thin wire stretches low across the street between two wrecked cars. Shit. A runner slams into it first. BOOM. The explosion detonates loud enough to shake nearby windows. Fire and smoke erupt across the street while the infected body tears apart midair. Taxi yelps painfully as the shockwave throws him sideways onto wet pavement. “Taxi!" You rip free from Joel immediately. “NO!” Joel curses sharply behind you. Gunfire erupts the second you move. Not one shot. Several. “NOW!” someone yells from somewhere above. Fuck. Bullets slam into the pavement around your feet. Too close. Too precise. Joel fires back instantly. “Kat, NO!” But you’re already sliding across the pavement toward Taxi. The dog whines sharply on the ground, dazed and limping. “I got you,” you breathe quickly while reaching for him. More gunfire cracks overhead. But then— You realize something. They aren’t aiming at you. Every bullet hits beside you. Near your boots. Not kill shots. Joel notices too immediately from behind cover. “What the fuck…” Taxi struggles weakly beneath your hands while you kneel exposed in the middle of the street. Then a voice cuts through the chaos. Your real name. The name almost nobody alive still knows. You freeze. Cold spreads through your chest instantly.

Only two people ever called you that anymore. Slowly— You turn. Figures emerge near the hospital barricades ahead beneath floodlights. Armed Wolves surrounding them. And there— Him. Even from this distance you’d know that face anywhere. The same calm eyes. The same awful smile. Your stomach drops violently. “we were expecting you." he said "we" like.. pointedly… The world narrows instantly. Then you see another figure beside him. Bruised. Restrained. Gun pressed against his head. William. Your breath leaves your lungs. “…William.” Joel’s expression changes immediately the second he understands. This wasn’t coincidence. This wasn’t random. They were waiting. “Drop your weapon!” another Wolf shouts. Clouser smiles wider. “You came all this way for him, didn’t you?” His hand tightens against William’s shoulder possessively. “See? Here he is.” William’s eyes meet yours from across the street.

And suddenly for one horrible second you feel like you were little girl again. “Come now, sweetheart,” Clouser calls smoothly. “Wouldn’t want him dying before your reunion.” Joel’s rifle rises instantly. “Kat,” he says sharply. “Get your ass back here. I’ll cover you.” But you barely hear him anymore. Your heartbeat pounds too loud. William. Alive. Your eyes flick toward Taxi lying injured beside you. Then toward Joel behind cover. Then back toward Clouser. One shot. That’s all it would take. You’ve made harder shots before. Much harder. Your hand slowly drifts toward the revolver at your back. Joel sees it instantly. His expression changes immediately. “No.” You barely hear him. The world tunnels. One target. One bullet. One chance. You draw the revolver in one impossibly fast motion and fire. BANG. The bullet tears straight through Clouser’s head— Or almost. The shot hits the side of his skull violently, ripping through his ear and grazing along his temple instead of killing him outright. Blood sprays. Clouser collapses sideways screaming. Chaos erupts instantly. You almost laugh from the sheer rush of seeing him finally bleed— Then another shot slams through your shoulder hard enough to spin you backward onto the pavement. Pain explodes white-hot across your body. Joel’s voice roars somewhere distant. Gunfire erupts everywhere now. Joel immediately returns fire from cover, dropping one Wolf before being forced back behind concrete barriers under heavy fire. But even through the pain he sees you move. Still alive. Still conscious. Thank God. Clouser screams furiously from the ground while Wolves scramble around him. “STOP SHOOTING, YOU FUCKING IDIOTS!” Blood pours down the side of his face while medics drag him partially upright. “WE NEED HER ALIVE!” Your revolver skids across wet pavement out of reach. You lunge for it— Too slow. Three Wolves hit you at once.

You slam one in the stomach with your elbow hard enough to fold him in half before kicking another directly off you. But there are too many. Hands grab your wrists. Your legs. One Wolf twists your injured shoulder hard enough to force a cry from your throat. Joel immediately rises again from cover. “GET THE FUCK OFF HER!” He drops another Wolf with a headshot before bullets force him back again. Taxi snarls viciously from the ground, dragging himself toward you despite the pain tearing through his injured leg. “Hold her down!”

A Wolf slams your arms painfully behind your back while another drives your knees hard into the pavement. Zip ties cinch brutally tight around your wrists. You fight anyway. Thrashing. Kicking. Spitting curses through gritted teeth while they struggle to pin you properly. One soldier catches your boot directly across the face with a sharp crack. “Fuck—!” “Hold her still!” “Watch her hands!” Too fast. You waited too long.Should’ve moved faster.Should’ve had a better plan. Then rough hands yank you violently upright. Your boots drag through rainwater while Wolves force you across the flooded street toward him. Clouser’s eyes finally shift toward you. A faint smile twists across his mouth. Blood runs down the side of his face while rainwater drips steadily from his ruined coat. “…There she is.” Your stomach turns violently. “All those years hiding,” he murmurs. His eyes drag slowly over your face. “Just to walk yourself right back where you belong." “Fuck you!” You lunge toward him instantly. The Wolves wrench you back hard enough pain tears through your shoulders. “Easy!” “Hold her!” Clouser barely reacts. “Take her inside.” “No!” You twist violently again, panic flashing hotter now the second you realize what that means. “Get the fuck off me!” Then your eyes snap past them. “Joel!” Clouser pauses. His expression shifts slightly at the name. Slowly, his eyes drift past you toward the gunfire beyond the barricades. Toward Joel. Joel sees only you. “Kat!” And something inside him snaps completely.

He rises from cover without hesitation and opens fire again. One Wolf drops instantly. Another barely ducks behind a barricade before bullets rip apart the concrete beside his head. But there are too many. Gunfire explodes from three directions at once, forcing him back behind the ruined ambulance near the curb. Taxi barks frantically through the chaos, still trying to crawl toward you. Joel tries again anyway. Of course he does. The second he breaks cover, two Wolves rush him from the side. One slams into his ribs hard enough to drive him sideways into the wall while another hooks his rifle away violently. Joel elbows the first man directly in the throat. The second gets his nose shattered against Joel’s forehead. Then another Wolf grabs him from behind— Joel throws him over his shoulder hard enough to crack concrete— But someone finally jams a rifle against the back of his knee. “DOWN!” The shot doesn’t fire.

Instead the force behind it kicks Joel’s leg out from under him and drives him heavily onto one knee. Three rifles snap toward his head instantly. One pressed directly against his temple. Joel’s chest heaves violently as rain pours down his face. Still fighting. Still trying to look past them toward you. “Taxi!” he shouts hoarsely. The shepherd answers with another desperate bark somewhere nearby. One Wolf glances toward the injured dog lying near the street. “You want me to kill it?” he asks coldly. Clouser presses a blood-soaked cloth tighter against the ruined side of his head while staggering closer through the rain. “Leave it,” he rasps. “Thing’s practically dead already.” Taxi growls weakly anyway. Joel’s entire body tenses violently at the words. Then Clouser finally stops in front of him. Really looks at him. Recognition flickers slowly across his face beneath the blood. “…Well.” Rain drips steadily from his chin while he studies Joel almost curiously. “You’re Joel Miller.” Joel says nothing. His jaw clenches hard enough to twitch. Clouser lets out a faint disbelieving laugh through the pain. “Hm.” He shakes his head slightly. “Funny.” His ruined ear leaves blood running down his neck. “All this way…” His eyes darken. “Just to walk into your own execution.” Joel barely even processes the words. Doesn’t care. The only thing he’s still looking for is you. One of the Wolves glances toward Clouser questioningly. Clouser gives a small nod.

“If you touch her, I swear to God I’ll—” The rifle butt slams violently into the side of Joel’s head. Pain explodes white behind his eyes. Darkness swallows the rest of the sentence whole.

please don't forget that your thoughts and feelings about this story matter deeply to me so please share them with me. Thank you for being here. 💋

taglist : @kluvspedro @balhoneysweetstuff @lailathepedritofan @mirandablue1 @mariiearty @soupiemeowmeow @lamartell @berriesarepunk @demuresfangirlblog @rh1nestonecowg1rl @catofash @shinsegismylove @damnedcinderella @ultra-nina-bella @orcasoul @kaliispunk @sunfairyy @lovesbysblog @faith-alons26 @mellymbee @brittmb115 @anothergojostan @tpwk9740 @daydream-believer19 @yawnzzzzzzzz @pedroslut4eva @queenofodds @blackborndue @jisungandpedrolover @giulia1989ts @missladym1981 @a-girl-who-thinks-too-much @madnessofadaydreamer @marauvderss @mystickittytaco @bueschibaby @theanxietyqueen17 @smvtwitchmiller @picketniffler @iveofficiallylostmymarbles

Then boots step into view beside your head. Worn leather darkened by rainwater steps into view beside you. Jeans soaked dark at the hems. Holster strapped low against his thigh. One large hand gripping a revolver steady at his side— Your revolver. Your pulse stumbles instantly. Then you see the watch. Cracked glass. Worn leather strap. His broken watch. The one that never leaves his wrist. Your breath catches so sharply it hurts. No. No fucking way. Your eyes lock onto his hand again. Calloused fingers. Faint scars across rough knuckles. You know that hand. God, you know it.

It was a terrible night in Jackson. It was raining so hard that the sound of raindrops on the roof had been keeping you awake for hours. The wind was howling so loudly against the walls of your house that you feared you would wake up the next day under a pile of rubble. You weren’t usually the type to be easily shocked, but that night, in your bed, with the blanket pulled up to your ears, you thought you could hear ghosts crawling across the floorboards. In the pitch darkness that enveloped you, you trembled like a leaf.

‘Maybe a cup of chamomile tea might help’, you thought. The idea of ​​going down to the kitchen wasn’t very appealing, but you finally threw back the covers with a huff, grabbed a sweatshirt from the chair next to the bed and threw it over your pajamas.

You padded down the stairs, yawning widely, heading to the kitchen while rubbing your eyes and cursing the dreadful weather. There was a dim light coming from the kitchen, but as you got closer, you thought it was just the moonlight coming through the window. You didn’t bother to fix your hair or even check your reflection in the large mirror hanging in the hallway before entering.

You saw a figure in front of the old open refrigerator. You jumped in fear before remembering that Joel lived in the same house. Yep, the council practically forced Joel to put you up until they finished the repairs in a house near the Tipsy Bison where you could have settled. With Ellie now living in the garage behind the house, Joel's house was unnecessarily large for one person.

So you ended up staying there. 

You tried to be helpful, friendly and grateful. 

But it was as if Joel couldn't help making it clear just how much he disliked having you around.

He walked around grunting, spoke as little as possible, left the house as soon as he sensed you were awake, and came back late every night.

Yes he made coffee before you woke up, leaving a mug in plain sight by the coffee maker for you, along with a small plate of eggs and bacon. He liked things his way and probably hated the idea of you touching his stuff. 

It was giving “either you’re fine with that or you can go to the Jackson’s dining hall, I don’t even care”.

He wasn’t doing anything to make you feel welcomed. 

You were an inconvenience he was forced to tolerate. Nothing more than that.

You rolled your eyes seeing him there, so hard they could’ve stuck in the back of your head. 

“Hey,” you uttered, getting closer to take out an old kettle from the kitchen cabinet. 

“Hey,” Joel grunted back. 

The energy in the room was charged with something unsaid, a linger of tension.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He dared to ask and you huffed a quiet “yeah”. 

He went silent again and kept inspecting his fridge, probably deciding what he was craving as a midnight snack.

He took a bottle of milk out and placed it on the counter before rummaging for a bowl in his cabinet. 

You filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove. 

“Excuse me,” you said, realizing that Joel was standing right in front of the drawer where you kept your chamomile tea. 

He stepped aside, taking his milk and the bag of chocolate cookies that Maria had given him a few days earlier, and sat down at his table. 

Munching on cookies dipped in milk, he looked almost goofy, almost sweet if it weren’t for his frown. You felt like you were bothering him just by standing there in his kitchen.

You turned to take the bubbling kettle off the stove, and poured some water into a cup. 

You sighed, wondering if that night was the right time to bring up the subject. You decided to do it in the end. After all, you were going to be staying at his place for a while longer, and tiptoeing through the house so as not to get on his nerves was starting to wear on you.

“Joel…” you began, with your back to him, your eyes fixed on the steaming chamomile tea cooling on the kitchen counter. 

“Hm?” he mumbled, his mouth full of cookies.

“What exactly have I done to you?”

He swallowed, coughing a little, as if a few crumbs had gotten stuck in his throat from sheer bewilderment.

“What are you talking about?” he replied, a sour note in his voice.

You turned to look at him; he had exactly the expression you expected. 

Annoyed. One eyebrow raised as if to mock you, his mouth twisted into a pout, his hand clenched around the cup, his eyes scrutinizing you.

You felt as if he were looking at you right then, for the first time since you’d set foot in there. 

“You’re avoiding me all the time, you don’t talk to me, you barely even say hello…”

Joel’s shoulders tensed, his chin lifted. “Ain’t true.”

“No?” Now it was your eyebrow that shot up; you could feel disbelief appearing on your face. “Since I’ve been here, that’s all you’ve done. I’m sorry they practically forced you to take me in, and I’m sorry to be such a bother. I wish I had an alternative, but my house isn’t ready yet, and if I go back out there…”

You stopped, a flash passed before your eyes and nearly took your breath away. 

Paul, gutted by an infected while trying to shield you, blood spraying all over your face, his agonizing moans as he died at your feet, and the infected clinging to his neck, sucking, trying to suck away every last drop of his life force.

Your only remaining friend, obliterated in an instant before your eyes, practically a shell of everything he had been up until that moment. 

The blind fury that had exploded inside you, the large rock you’d picked up from the ground, the crack of the infected skull when you smashed it against his head with all the strength that only desperation could give you.

You felt tears stinging your eyes, but tried to keep your composure as you looked up at Joel again.

He seemed smaller now, sitting there in the dim light, the silence broken only by the storm rumbling outside the window.

You walked over to the table, rested your hands on the cold wood, staring at him. 

Joel looked at the cup, then at you, then at a spot behind you as he opened his mouth and said something you couldn’t hear, the words drowned by a thunderclap. 

It felt like the world was about to end out there, all over again. 

And inside, it was a storm of anticipation, silently simmering beneath your skin.

“What did you say?” you goaded him, almost challenging him. At that point, you expected nothing less than for him to throw you out of the house. 

And from the way the wrinkles around his eyes deepened, from the way his eyes seemed to shoot daggers at you, you were convinced he was about to do just that.

Joel stood up and came toward you, barefoot on the wooden floor. 

“Listen, we don’t have to be friends. Why can’t you at least be civil and act like a fucking human being?”

You looked up at him; he towered over you by a full head. His shoulders seemed even broader as he loomed so close to you. He had never been this close before. 

A flash of light illuminated his face, and you thought you saw a hint of sadness in his eyes. 

Maria warned you about Joel being a difficult guy. 

“He’s not bad, you know, he’s just…peculiar. He had to deal with some pretty hard shit.” 

Who hadn’t had to deal with it? You thought. 

You were pretty sure you and Joel would eventually find a common ground.

And somewhere, deep down, you were disappointed in yourself for not having managed to break through Joel’s walls even a little bit.

He still wouldn’t speak to you even then. 

His mouth shut tight and his eyes seemed to be shooting at you.

It was like talking to a wall. And you didn’t know why you were trying so hard. 

Or maybe you did. You wanted him to like you. 

Because it was Joel who had saved you.

He was the one who found you, covered in Paul’s blood, paralyzed with fear, kneeling on the snow-soaked ground with your friend’s head in your lap. 

He killed a couple of infected who were staggering toward you, literally picked you up, and brought you to Jackson without asking any questions. 

And he still hadn’t asked any.

Why go to all that trouble to save you and bring you there if he was just going to act like you never existed?

“Forget it,” you said, picking up your chamomile tea before heading back up the stairs to your room.

You could feel Joel's eyes on your back as you were walking away. 

You crawled back under the duvet, the still-warm cup in your hand, and heard footsteps in the hallway. They got closer and closer until they stopped right outside your door. You could see Joel’s shadow peeking under the door. 

He knocked. 

“Come in,” you said reluctantly.

Joel entered and sat down on your bed. 

Silently.

He was fidgeting with the hem of his night t-shirt. 

“Tell me what you want to say, Joel…I need to sleep.”

“Ain’t no good at this,” he grunted. 

Your patience was thin ice at that point. 

“At what? Fucking talking?”

You regretted being so harsh but you couldn’t help yourself. 

A 60 -year- old man acting like a hermit was driving you mad. And the worst thing was, he was pretty decent to anyone else except you. 

You didn’t know what you did to deserve that stubborn silent treatment. 

“You don’t understand” He tilted his head, watching you through his eyelashes like you were some kind of petty kid, unaware of life and pain and adulting shit. 

You scoffed, “Well, explain it to me, then. Pretty sure you have a tongue and know how to articulate.”

Joel didn’t speak. 

He acted, though. 

He moved closer to you, not tearing those dark, piercing eyes off you even for a second, as if they wanted to pin you to the bed.

Big, sad, and veiled by something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Loss? Fear?

His meaty hand cupped your cheek, his thick thumb pressing against your face right at your cheekbone.

When his face was just an inch from yours, he looked down and shook his head, as if he were once again trying to pull away from something he didn’t want to happen. 

And then, what you least expected, happened. 

He kissed you. 

His lips, chapped from the cold, brushed against yours for just a moment before locking onto them, his mustache scraping against your skin, his nose pressed to yours. His hand slipped down to your neck and rested on your pulse point.

The storm raging over Jackson seemed like a joke compared to the one raging inside you. 

You no longer heard the rain pounding relentlessly on the roof, nor the wind howling like a damned pack of wolves, nor the thunder splitting the sky.

You pulled away from him, your eyes wide like you were a deer caught in the headlights. 

“What the hell does that mean?”

Joel tightened his grip on your neck. 

“You don’t get it?”

You clung to his thick fingers, breaking free from his hold, yelling, 

“First you ignore me like I'm invisible, and then you kiss me... are you fucking messing with me?!”

Instead of answering, Joel yanked you back toward him, kissing you again, this time pressing his tongue against your lips so you’d let him in.

And to your great surprise, your body reacted on its own; your lips parted, your hands clung to his biceps.

You let him in. 

His tongue slid against yours, licking greedily, hungrily, fiercely. 

The voice in your brain that was screaming that it was wrong fell silent, lulled by the taste of Joel in your mouth, by his heavy breathing on your cheeks. Your neck seemed as slender as a flower stem held in his big hand, he was applying a bit of pressure, not hurting you, not choking you, just a possessive grip out of frustration and need. 

You could feel his strength all over you. And Joel kept going. Over and over again, nibbling on your lower lip, sucking it between his own, licking everything he could.

Your tears fell without you even noticing; they rolled down your cheeks and died on Joel’s lips.

You didn’t know why you were crying—or rather, you knew, but you didn’t want to put a name to it.

Frustration. Exhaustion. Nervousness. The need to be accepted by the man who had saved you and then put you aside. 

All you knew in that moment was Joel’s lips casting a spell on you. 

He managed to do that without even talking and it made you feel silly and delusional and dumb. 

But you couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t. 

Because even without naming that overwhelming feeling that was taking over you, it was loud and clear, aching in your bones, igniting in your body like an arsonist's fire. 

Your head was spinning, your breath itching, your pussy screaming between your legs. 

Joel made you lie down on your bed, hovering over you, his hand locked on your neck, his mouth reaching whatever part of you was exposed for him to kiss. 

Your jaw, the tender skin under your ear, your throat, your collarbone. A trail of languid self indulgent kisses ran over you as if Joel was trying to speak through them, as if he couldn’t find his words and was letting his mouth speak in another way. 

The one that brushed over your cleavage was whispering “You mean more to me than you think”. 

The one reaching for one of your breasts over the fabric of your pajamas was saying “that’s what I was trying to suppress.” 

The one on your lips was screaming “I want you.”

When Joel finally muttered something like “We shouldn’t do this” he looked into your eyes searching for some kind of denial, rejection, disgust. 

He only found yearning and need. 

He tried again for some kind of restrain, mumbling “you’re too young” “out of my league” “so pretty it’s infuriating” “I’m just an old cranky man”

but you clung to his biceps in a way that left no doubt about what you wanted, and when your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him close to you, you knew Joel wouldn’t deny the obvious.

Neither of you was strong enough to run away any longer, to fight it any longer, to pretend there wasn’t an invisible force pushing you toward each other—an intricate web of unspoken words and expectations, and bodies yearning for one another in a desperate, carnal, raw way.

His fingers pressing into the soft skin at the back of your neck, just right, holding you in place while he yanked at your too big pajama t-shirt, pulling it down, ruining the hem, the fabric almost tearing up under his force, exposing your breasts. 

His pupils were dilated as he took into the softness of your skin, the roundness of your tits, your pebbled nipples. 

His gaze burned on your skin. 

You moaned as you felt his lips exploring, licking, biting down like he was trying to devour you. 

One of his large palms held your breast firmly, cupping it, while your nipple slipped past his lips, meeting his warm, wet tongue, your body trembling, your head thrown back against the pillow as he swirled around it, suckling on it immediately after, as if he was trying to quench an unquenchable thirst.

Your hips bucked uncontrollably, seeking friction, his hips slamming into you, his growing erection pressing against you. 

“Too many clothes” you moaned in his ear “too many…”

Joel chuckled softly as he felt your hands clutching the waistband of his pants. You didn't want to let go, but you wanted them out of the way—irrational, impatient, frantic. 

“You’re so cute,” he muttered. “Let me go, it’s just a second, I promise”. 

You did as you were told, though not without grumbling.

Even wasting a second felt horrible. He let go of your neck, stood up, and muttered something under his breath “I’m too old for this” or something else you didn’t even hear. 

Old was now your most hated word. He wasn’t old. He was experienced. Your grumpy, moody, irresistible savior. 

He kicked his pants off and he was full commando underneath. A flash of lightning lit up the room and you gasped. His cock was huge, big balls hanging right below it, salt and pepper bush all over his crotch. 

“Fuck,” you uttered. ‘Too much’ was an understatement. But even so, you wanted him more than you had ever wanted anything else.

Joel's cheeks flushed. 

Big, broad, and blushing right in front of your tilted head, your astonished gaze, your half-open mouth.

He tried to look nonchalant with all his might, hopping back on the bed and whispering to you “gonna make it fit” in a hoarse, raspy, voice, as if he had guessed your thoughts.

His hand slipped under your pajama bottoms, brushing against your skin and giving you goosebumps. He moved toward the center, reaching the waistband, and pulled them down.

You kicked them off your legs and to the end of the bed.

Your t-shirt followed right after. 

Joel swallowed. You were almost naked in front of him. 

None of you thought it would have happened and in that moment it felt like you wasted so much time. 

So many weeks holding back, pretending, letting the air charge with a possibility that had seemed unreal, but now seemed inevitable.

Hungry eyes speaking for the both of you. Doing all the work. 

Joel was sitting on his shins on the bed in front of you, your hand instinctively reached for his face, fingertips brushing over the scar on his temple you were dying to know where it came from. 

Every line on his face was telling you more than every word he had ever spoken to you. 

A whole life was in those lines, those birth marks, those faint scars and age spots. 

And those brown eyes. You were drowning in them, willingly. 

“It’s wrong,” Joel hesitated. 

“No”, you placed your index finger on his lips. “don’t say that.”

“Dunno,” Joel insisted again. “Seems pretty fucked up to me.”

You shook your head. 

“I’m a grown-ass woman. Can decide for myself. Frontal lobe fully developed or whatever they’re saying, you know? And I want you, Joel. I want this.”

“Typical of you to use big words at a time like this.”

He was right. It happened quite often when you were nervous. 

You were surprised he had noticed. 

Joel cared about you much more than you'd ever realized. All that bustling around the house, making sure everything was in order, you'd always interpreted it as him liking things his way. Now you understood that his gestures weren't meant to say "don't touch anything else" but "I'm thinking of you," covered up by the gruff, distant demeanor he'd always had.

You moved first, taking his hands in yours, intertwining your fingers with his, before placing them on your waist. 

“Touch me, Joel.” 

His hands remained still, testing your skin beneath his palms.

“Please,” you whined, grabbing at his wrists, sliding them up to your torso, stopping them next to your breasts. 

His fingers tensed, then relaxed and brushed against your nipples. Up and down, gently. 

You moaned. 

Joel’s eyes studied you, as if trying to memorize every distinctive mark on your body, every crease in your skin, every curve.

“Yes…just like that,” you smiled, purring at him like a cat. 

A smirk that he couldn’t hold back played on his lips. 

“So soft and beautiful,” he whispered, almost more to himself than to you, kneading your breasts.

He probably didn’t touch a woman in years but you weren’t even remotely preoccupied with that.

His hands were capable, hands which used to fix, they know how to make things right, they know how to handle with care. 

You’d seen that so many times you’d lost the count. 

You’d also seen how they could be dangerous but you weren’t scared in the slightest. 

You were only scared you wouldn’t know how to stop, craving more and more of what he was doing to you.

You let go of his wrists, caressing the expanse of his shoulders while his fingertips closed around your nipples, pinching and pulling gently. 

A whine escaped your lips as Joel laid you back down on the bed, climbed on top of you, kissed you again, and pressed your body against the mattress.

His rock hard cock was rubbing against your panties, by then so wet that they were useless. 

“Give it to me”, you pleaded, running your hand over a scattering of freckles that dotted his chest.

“Not yet. It'll hurt,” he tried to calm you down. 

Honestly, you were so wet you didn’t believe him, so you kept pushing.

Joel gripped your neck with one hand, letting the other slide down your stomach, all the way to your panties, slipping his fingers under the fabric. 

“Be good,” he teased you, letting you feel his digits just barely on your folds, “or you’ll get nothing.”

You groaned as you felt the tears stinging your eyes again, a single one sliding down your cheek. Joel licked it off your skin and replied unyielding, “Damn, you really are stubborn. 

Maybe I should shut your mouth for a while.“ 

He smiled mischievously, and in an instant a flash of realization hit you.

”Yeah. Maybe you should,“ you nodded. 

”Hmm, want to try? Then maybe you’ll get a sense of what I mean.“

 You watched him straddle you without weighing you down; with both hands under your armpits, he lifted you up and rested your head against the headboard. He picked up the pillow and tucked it behind your neck.

“Like this”

 His cock bobbed in front of your eyes as he stood up slightly to bring it up to the level of your mouth. 

Your tongue shot out instinctively, licking the tip, catching him off guard.

You giggled when you saw him get flustered. 

“Ain’t something to laugh about,” he scolded you, but a small sense of revenge welled up inside you, and you stuck your tongue out again, testing his cock once more. 

It was red and swollen, and you could see a thick vein bulging along its entire length.

It curved slightly upward, which made you think of how deliciously it would hit that spot inside you once it was there. 

It was perfect, and the only thing holding you back was Joel’s stern gaze fixed on you.

His hand was on your neck again as he made you take it into your mouth, pushing you forward. “You want it so bad, huh? All right, show me what you got.”

You tried to relax your jaw as he pushed it inch by inch between your lips, onto your tongue. Salty, thick, and throbbing, you felt it slide across your palate, filling your mouth.

 Joel was right, and it annoyed you to admit it—even just to yourself. 

It was a big deal. Thick, throbbing, and incredibly imposing.

You struggled to get half of it into your mouth, holding the rest in your hand, saliva dripping profusely from the corners of your lips.

Your pussy, deliberately ignored, was crying out for attention, your panties sticking to your folds. 

Joel looked down at you, his eyebrows furrowed, a bewildered expression on his face as he tried to hold back from cumming the moment you started moving up and down his shaft.

Bobbing your head, you pressed it against your tongue, letting its salty taste coat your taste buds, its vein beating against your lips.

“Fuck, what a sweet mouth, honey. Fucking perfect,” he babbled, clinging to your hair. His hips jerked a little too hard, involuntarily, triggering a gag reflex in you that you could barely suppress.

You panicked for a second, then readjusted your jaw to accommodate its thickness, his bush grazing your nose. 

You moaned as he began to move, trying to breathe through your nose, your hand at the base trying to contain his thrusts inside your mouth. 

“Look at me, sweetheart. I want you to watch me while you do it.”

You lifted your gaze to meet his, and you saw it soften, looking a little pathetic. 

He was biting his lower lip, deep wrinkles furrowing his brow, his mustache beaded with sweat, as he was desperately trying to prolong the moment, not to burst into your mouth right away.

His hand clasped around your hair held you in place, almost commanding, but not tight enough to hurt you—just a delightful tug that seemed to say, “Keep going.”

Up and down, completely covered in your saliva, it went deeper and deeper as your mouth. Your eyes were watery, your lips swollen, and your chin wet, yet you didn’t want to stop. 

Your tongue caressed it, your mouth sucked it in, your cheeks hollowed out, its tip finally reached the back of your throat, and you stayed there until you were out of breath.

Joel pulled out of you with a wet pop, and your tongue darted back to the tip in an instant, swirling around it, then focusing on the underside, a couple more licks and Joel was over the edge.

He stopped you just before he exploded in long, sticky white streaks across your face.

You stopped to lick your lips and savor his taste. 

“See? I did it,” you dared to say, smiling proudly at him.

“You did perfectly,” he growled, petting your hair “now lay down for me, honey, let me give that pussy what she wants.”

“For someone who didn't want to do this, you're really going to town, Miller,” you laughed as he helped you lie back down beneath him.

You had never called him by his last name before, but at that moment you found yourself liking it. 

“Aren’t you just a little minx?” He bit back, smirking, manhandling you on the mattress. 

His fingers clung to the edges of your panties, pulling them down past your thighs.

He took a good look at your naked pussy, unconsciously licking his lips at the sight. 

“Fuck, look at her. She’s drippin’,” He whispered, running a finger through your folds and bringing it up to your eyes. “See? Soaking wet.”

You felt your cheeks burn, almost feeling a little embarrassed for a moment, but then turning the tables, taking his finger and greedily licking it in your mouth. 

“Yeah… just like I said… a minx” he uttered. 

He took his cock in his hand, rubbing it against your clit, and your expression changed instantly, a convulsive moan escaped from the back of your throat. 

“Hmm, you’re not laughing anymore, are you?” He teased. 

He entered slowly, sinking deeper and deeper into you, until your hips were pressed tightly together and your foreheads touched.

He wrapped his hand around your head, beginning to move inside you, stroking your hair, while your tongues entwined again in a kiss filled with urgency, mess, and need.

You took him in almost effortlessly, your walls stretched to accommodate him as if they’d been waiting for nothing else, sucking him in as if your pussy wanted to swallow him whole.

 Joel was trembling, sweaty, and hot, his hair plastered to his forehead, as he thrust inside you. He never withdrew completely; he’d pull back a little only to reach that spot again.

For a man his age, he was holding out for an incredibly long time. But then again, he was well accustomed to holding back around you. Few gestures and an incredible number of words that you knew were trapped in the back of his mind.

You didn't know exactly why—no one had ever explained it to you—but you had always sensed that he carried something broken inside him, a wound that had never truly healed.

You could see it even now, in the way he looked at you, in his almost frightened eyes, veiled by something you couldn’t quite put your finger on but that seemed to say, “I’m afraid to show myself so vulnerable. I’m afraid you’ll see right through me.”

You were almost certain he hadn’t been this close to anyone in years—not like that, at least, not in such an intimate and overwhelming way. 

You felt your peak coming, hard and strong, a breathtaking sensation running up from your tummy to your chest. 

As your orgasm streaked, your hand instinctively returned to the scar on his temple, caressing it as if you wanted to heal it, as if your touch were enough to make it vanish, even though you liked it and it was so intrinsically his.

Joel’s body tensed a moment later, and he let out a grunt, muttering, “Dammit, I’m so close.”

You could feel his cock twitching inside you, so hard, its tip pressing against your sweet spot over and over again.

Even though the temptation to keep him inside you was strong—and you’d been on the pill for a while to help with terrible cramps you suffered every month—in a moment of clarity you decided it was too soon.

“Come on my tits,” you moaned, shaken by his thrusts. 

Joel pulled out of you just in time, moving next to you, aiming for your tits as you arched your back welcoming his thick, long streak painting your skin. 

The feeling of his cum running down between your breasts was heady, it made you feel like a whore and a saint at the same time. Your pussy clenched around nothing, still writhing in spasms.

Joel collapsed onto the bed next to you, breathing heavily, his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

“Fuck me…this was…fuck,” he muttered incoherently. 

You chuckled softly as you tried to catch your breath, “Yeah.”

Joel pulled you into his arms and kissed your forehead. “Best mistake I ever made.”

You looked at him sideways, reaching up to his lips and whispering, “But if it feels so good… is it really a mistake?” before giving him a little kiss.

Joel smiled, craning his neck to return the kiss. You felt his smile on your lips.

“Maybe not,” he replied, winking. 

The storm outside was passing and so was the one in your heart. 

first of all… old man joel just hits different for me I’m sorry 😩 I wanna grab those wrinkly cheeks, bite him a little and suck him off immediately AHHH this man genuinely drives me insane.

and the way Joel kept everything bottled up and stayed distant from reader felt SO painfully canon to me. him not knowing how to express his feelings and basically trying to run away from wanting her too much.... yeah exactly that’s MY Joel Miller. and reader being heartbroken thinking he didn’t want her back while he was actually suffering because he wanted her TOO much… ahhhh my HEARTTT

“A trail of languid self indulgent kisses ran over you as if Joel was trying to speak through them, as if he couldn’t find his words and was letting his mouth speak in another way.”

THAT'S SO CANON 😌

“The one that brushed over your cleavage was whispering ‘You mean more to me than you think’. The one reaching for one of your breasts over the fabric of your pajamas was saying ‘that’s what I was trying to suppress.’ The one on your lips was screaming ‘I want you.’”

fuck me that was so sweet and hot 🤤

He was experienced. Your grumpy, moody, irresistible savior.

yeeeees that's HIM❤️

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

thank you @madpanda75 for suggesting this!

let me know if you want to be tagged!

🎶Wildest Dreams by Taylor Swift🎶:

He said, "Let's get out of this town Drive out of the city, away from the crowds" I thought Heaven can't help me now Nothing lasts forever But this is gonna take me down He's so tall and handsome as hell He's so bad, but he does it so well I can see the end as it begins My one condition is

Say you'll remember me Standing in a nice dress Staring at the sunset, babe Red lips and rosy cheeks Say you'll see me again Even if it's just in your wildest dreams, ah-ah, ha Wildest dreams, ah-ah, ha

I said, "No one has to know what we do" His hands are in my hair, his clothes are in my room And his voice is a familiar sound Nothing lasts forever But this is getting good now He's so tall and handsome as hell He's so bad, but he does it so well And when we've had our very last kiss My last request is

Say you'll remember me Standing in a nice dress Staring at the sunset, babe Red lips and rosy cheeks Say you'll see me again Even if it's just in your wildest dreams, ah-ah, ha (ha-ah, ha) Wildest dreams, ah-ah, ha

You'll see me in hindsight Tangled up with you all night Burning it down Someday when you leave me I bet these memories Follow you around You'll see me in hindsight Tangled up with you all night Burning (burning) it (it) down (down) Someday when you leave me I bet these memories Follow (follow) you (you) around (follow you around)

Read on AO3

Main Story

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 - Part 1 Chapter 9 - Part 2 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Epilogue - NEW! 12/5/24

Oneshots

You have a knack for finding trouble, be it in the midst of Galactic Civil War or when trying to live the quiet life after getting out of the game. So when you're stuck fleeing your new home planet after pissing off the wrong people - again - there's only one person willing to take you: the Mandalorian.

But after years of fighting faceless men, you're not the trusting type toward someone always wearing a helmet and the Mandalorian quickly suspects there's more to you than he knows.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

Warnings: Canon-typical violence (and some beyond that), eventual smut, torture, mention of past domestic violence, PTSD, SO MUCH ANGST, absolute idiots in love. No use of Y/N. 18+ ONLY, minors DNI.

On AO3

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 1 - Faceless Man

Chapter 2 - Lightning Storm

Chapter 3 - Battle Scars

Chapter 4 - Even the Score

Chapter 5 - Burn it to the Ground

Chapter 6 - Confessions

Chapter 7 - Old Friends

Chapter 8 - Ancient History

Chapter 9 - Reinforcements

Chapter 10 - Leverage

Chapter 11 - Battleground

Chapter 12 - Reunion

Chapter 13 - Kann

Chapter 14 - Learning

Chapter 15 - Found

Chapter 16 - Heat

Chapter 17 - Distance

Chapter 18 - Fire & Ice

Chapter 19 - Snake Pit

Chapter 20 - The Outpost

Chapter 21 - The General

Chapter 22 - Business

Chapter 23 - Beloved

Chapter 24 - Navigating

Chapter 25 - First Hunt

Chapter 26 - Making a Capture

Chapter 27 - Survival

Chapter 28 - Dreams and Drives

Chapter 29 - Homecoming

Chapter 30 - Out of Reach

Chapter 31 - Captured

Chapter 32 - The Palace

Chapter 33 - Stay

Chapter 34 - Jedi

Chapter 35 - Grogu

Chapter 36 - Unexpected Meetings

Chapter 37 - Understanding

Chapter 38 - Partners

Chapter 39 - Threat

Chapter 40 - Offer

Chapter 41 - Mindflayer

Chapter 42 - Search

Chapter 43 - Share All

Chapter 44 - Riduur

Chapter 45 - Taken

Chapter 46 - Naboo

Chapter 47 - Plans

Chapter 48 - Incursion

Chapter 49 - Gideon

Chapter 50 - Home

Beskar Doll Fan Art

“Um.” She shifts from one foot to the other, stalling for time. “Just, um.” The smile grows wider.

“Are you hungry, baby? Are you rooting around for something to eat?” You turn towards her, you should get up quickly, the animals will be hungry too. She nods, the braids you’d put in her hair the night before frizzy and loose. You let out a yawn as you stretch and rise, let out another sigh as you tie your threadbare robe around your waist. 

“How about we make some corncakes?” The way her eyes light up makes you laugh. “Okay baby, let’s feed the animals and get some milk, and then I’ll make you some corncakes.” Her arms, although little and skinnier than you’d like, wrap around your waist with surprising strength. 

-

The broken barn door, the chipped paint, the untilled earth of your ranch; most days it was these things that made you miss your husband much more than his empty side of the bed. The neglect highlighted his absence, made you mourn him so much more than the loneliness did. 

Millie chases the chickens around the small coop, trying in vain to pick one up. 

“Millie, stop that.” The stool wobbles before you remove the stone under one leg.

“Okay girl–” The cow calms under your soft touch, your low words. With your skirts tucked up high on your thigh you begin the process of milking her. The bucket fills quickly, your back barely aches by the time you’ve finished. Millie squeals with laughter, a chicken clutched within her arms. 

“Look mama, I caught her.” Her dad shines out there too, in her smile. 

“I see you baby, put her down now. Did you feed them?” With a gentle touch you clean the cows udders, and let her reunite with her calf. 

“Two scoops. Just like you said.” Millie sets the squawking chicken down before coming over to your place. She skips beside you, following you closely. 

“What about Bruno?” You ask her, words clipped with the effort of hauling the sloshing bucket.

“A big scoop of oats, and a carrot.” She recites, kicking stones out of her way. 

“And the eggs?” You rest the bucket on the porch step, wiping away sweat from the back of your neck. She gasps, turning to run back towards the coop before answering. 

The milk has been strained and transferred into the butter churner by the time she opens the door. 

“How many do we have today?” You ask her, measuring out enough milk for breakfast. 

“Lots.” She replies, tongue out, concentrating. 

“Count them out for me.” Numbers are a bit of a struggle with Millie, math is a touchy subject. Reading however, words and books, limited as they are, are her favourite. She sighs. 

“Come on baby, you can do it.” You nod, encouraging her. She begins, counting them out loud at the big table in your sunny kitchen.

“Thirty-eight, thirty-nine–and that’s it. Thirty-nine.” The eggs look so big in her little hands, how could I have ever been that little you think to yourself. 

“So that’s how many dozen?” The stove gives off enough heat to pull even more sweat from your skin. She doesn’t respond.

“How many eggs make up a dozen?” Cornmeal, milk, and some honey all go into the bowl. 

“Twelve.” She responds, focused.

“Yes, now how many times can we make twelve with thirty-nine eggs?” You take a couple of them, crack them and mix them into the bowl, letting her mull the question over in her head while you go about cooking the batter. She counts under her breath, one dozen and then another. 

“Three! We have three dozen.” She smiles, proud of her counting.

“That’s right honey, three dozen, which is…?” 

“Thirty-six, and then there’s one left–”

“There were three left, but mama took two, so there would be three dozen, with three left over. Good job baby, you did it.” She’s proud of herself, and she should be, you think, once again mourning the things her father has missed since his death. 

Breakfast comes together quickly, and you eat it in your little space, counting together. 

-

The slow lift of the dog's head pulls at Joel’s attention. The intense focus gives him pause. The loaded shotgun in the wagon bed is out of reach, but his pistol isn’t. With a quick movement it fills one hand, the reins for the two horses pulling him fills the other, a much tighter hold than it had been before. 

If it’s a lone robber then he should be fine, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to fight off someone on the road to trade. If it’s a whole gang however, he may have to give up his things and lose out on any profit. 

When the dog barks, he swears to himself. 

Four men appear before him, smiling in a way he doesn’t like. The dog doesn’t move from his side, but Joel can see the way he’s coiled like a spring, waiting on his word.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” The grip he has on his gun is clammy, but tight. 

“Depends. What you got?” One of the men smiles wider, sweat rings around his collar and on the bandana tied around his throat. 

“Just some textiles, some sewin’ supplies, few metal goods. Nothin’ worth fightin’ over.” He knows if they search the wagon they’ll see the gunpowder, the axe heads, his tobacco. 

“Well I think we’ll be the judge of that. Why don’t you just get off of that there wagon and be on your way. Things don’t gotta get ugly.” An older man calls out, a reasonable tone to an unreasonable request. 

“Can’t do that.” Joel shakes his head, leaning back slightly. 

“Yes you can, ain’t no need to lose your life over a few things.” One of them takes a step forward, and the dog beside Joel growls. He shoots first without waiting, knocking the man who moved closer off his horse. The dog takes off at the sound and then all hell breaks loose. 

-

All the eggs sell, blessedly, and so does the butter. It’s a good thing too, there were some things you desperately needed and with half the field empty of much needed crop, this coming winter would be very hard. Better to sell all the eggs and butter you could spare and fill your stores before the cold came. Snow, brutal cold, the decrepit barn worries you. Your husband meant to get around to fixing it, he meant to do a lot of things but him dying left it all to you. With a little girl and all. 

She smiles at you, and you smile back, the two of you walking down the dirt road towards home. The worries are yours to deal with, not hers. 

The dog comes bounding over fast enough to make you jump out of your skin. He’s sleek, coat shiny, almost blue and he’s barking loud enough to hurt your ears. He runs circles around the two of you, barking and darting back through the trail. Millie clings to your side, until she realizes he’s not trying to bite. 

“Can we keep him mama?” She tries to follow him but you hold her back. 

“Careful baby–” The dog comes closer, takes a hold of your skirt in its jaw and pulls and you know he wants you to follow. 

“What is it?” He’s strong, pulling hard enough to almost trip you. Worry fills you to the brim. With all of the gangs running loose, with the ever-looming threat of robbers and bandits this could very well be a trap. It wouldn’t be a trap you’ve ever heard of but a clever one just the same. The dog lets go and trots away, looking back to make sure you’re following. 

Fear curls around your guts, threading through every inch of you. Millie runs after the dog despite you calling after her. 

“Goddamn it Millie!” You call, running after both of them. 

The scene that greets you is something straight out of the newspaper, and regret floods just as easily as fear. The wagon is half empty, things scattered, horses untied and grazing in the grass. This is bad, this is so bad, you think. 

“Mama!” Milie calls out from somewhere in front of the wagon, the fear grips tighter as you run to her side.

He's unconscious, face down in the dirt with the dog nosing at his shoulder. There’s blood on his scalp, blood on his shirt, more seeping into the dirt around him. 

“Get away from him baby.” You call out to her, she’s too young to see this, a dead man on the road. This is bad you think again. The dog whines, still digging at his owner, begging in his own way for the man to wake. You understand the creature, after all you’d done the same thing. 

“We have to help him mama, he’s hurt.” You move her out of the way before she can touch him. 

“Baby there’s nothing–” You start but are cut off by an insensate groan. With a curse to yourself, and more doubt creeping in at the whole situation, you approach him. His pulse is weak, but it’s there, slowly beating his life away. 

“Baby, do me a favour and grab me some of the fabric from the back, quickly now.” The dog sits next to you, watching you work on him. He’s so big, it’s going to take the hand of god to get him back to your house. With the scraps Millie brings you pack his wounds to slow the bleeding. 

Please don’t let me regret this. 

Carefully, slowly, you manage to somehow get him onto the wagon. The dog barks, jumps up and lays beside the man. He watches you but lays his head on his owner's chest. 

“Millie, get in the front and stay there, I’m gonna go get the horses.” She nods and obeys while you carry on. The sweat soaks through your dress and your back screams, you know it’ll scream louder tonight. The horses are gentle and you coax them easily back to the wagon. 

“Will he be okay?” She asks in her little voice when you fall into the bench next to her. 

“I hope so, baby, I hope so.”

-

Getting him into the house is a whole other ordeal. With the sunlight fading, with your strength diminishing, lugging this broad, heavy man off the wagon and into your little house proves to be the test of your life. 

“Oh come on, work with me here.” You pant, fingers dug under his arms, sweat rolling down your back as you finally get him inside. The dog follows you, seemingly unaware of Millie trying to pet him. “Leave him, baby, he’s only focused on his owner. Why don’t you fetch him some water?” 

She takes off for the well, the dog doesn’t follow her.

“Okay, just a little more–” You drag him to the bed, and set him down beside it. Your whole body aches something fierce. The blankets would help you think, so you grab them from the chest near the wall, roll him onto them and then pull him up. With a last effort and a scream of frustration you get him onto the bed. 

“Mama?” Millie finds you breathing hard on your floor, back aching, sweat beading on your skin. You can feel the heat coming off your skin. 

“I’m alright, just need a minute is all.” She nods, sets the water bowl down with a slosh, the dog comes at the sight and drinks everything that doesn’t end up on the floor, which is more than you'd like. The light is fading fast, shadows fill the small space without the fire going. 

“Okay, let's get started.” You sigh, rising despite the burn in your muscles.

-

It takes a few hours to get everything sorted. With water boiled, with his wounds dressed and tended to as best you could, with Millie and the dog fed you set about getting him cleaned up.

He’s older, hair greying at his temples and on his cheeks. He’s handsome, you don’t fail to notice. Rugged, strong and broad. He’s got more than a few scars, and now he’ll have a few more. He’d been shot in the neck but it’d gone clean through and somehow managed to miss the major artery. Lucky bastard. 

“Who are you huh? What happened?” You ask him gently, wiping the dirt and dust from his brow. 

Millie yawns, belly full and no doubt exhausted from the day's excitement. You can’t sleep with him, neither of you can, and there’s no way you’re moving him off this bed so it’ll have to be the cot for you and Millie. With just the two of you in the house there was never any need for modesty, but now, with a man you didn’t know here precautions would have to be taken. 

A blanket hung across a corner would serve. 

Behind the makeshift cover, you get her clean and ready for bed. There are enough blankets and sheets to make the cot less uncomfortable, for you anyway. Millie is asleep before you can cover her up. 

“What about you? I take it you won’t be sleeping on the floor huh?” You talk to the dog, curled up at the man's feet. He lifts his head, watches you speak but stays put. “I figured as much. You better not have fleas, you hear me? Or it’s outside with you.” You warn him, he whines.

“Sarah…” It’s a low whisper, a dream or a nightmare. You press the back of your hand to his forehead, it’s a little warmer than it was an hour ago. 

“Who’s Sarah?” You ask him gently, “She your wife? Shall I send for her?” He stirs slightly, only repeating the name before falling deeper into the pit of sleep. He’ll be burning up soon you think, better to try and have him drink something now. 

There’s a bit of the tonic left, it usually worked wonders for Millie when she was sick. You mixed it in with some of the leftover broth you’d made. 

“Come on, let's get this down.” You lift his head, and tip some of the liquid into his mouth. He sputters at first, coughing but you persist. “Breathe, that’s it, swallow–just a little more, that’s it, good.” You can’t help but smile at the accomplishment, at having managed to somehow get this big man to safety. You just hoped to god that he wouldn’t make you regret it. 

The ache shows its true colours as you ready yourself for bed, muscles you didn’t even know you had pulse in pain with the effort of pulling your dress off, when you lift your arms above your head to pull your nightdress on. Millie took no notice of you slipping into the cot behind her, and sleep pulled you down just as swiftly as it did her. 

-

Joel woke with a gasp. The pain in his neck was so great it made him groan out loud, and that made the pain even greater. He swore to himself, throat aching, limbs numb. Bandages manifested under his fingers when he clutched at his neck, and he was shirtless. Everything was too bright, too quiet–except–there were sounds, but not the sounds he expected; not the sounds he remembered. 

Laughter, young, girl-laughter, a sound he hadn’t heard in so long it froze the breath in his lungs. Had it all just been a dream? A horrific nightmare? His surroundings were nothing, his pain was nothing compared to the need to see where that sound was coming from. It all crashed around him at the sight. It wasn’t Sarah. It would never be Sarah again. 

Patch chases the young girl around, nipping at her skirts, drawing that sound from her while a woman smiles. She’s young, the woman, younger than he’d been when Sarah died. She smiles at the little girl and his dog, brushing his horses where they graze a few dozen yards from where he stands. Joel is at a loss. 

Memories are sparse, a road, a wagon, a shootout–how long had he been on that road? The effort of standing makes him dizzy, sweat drips down his nose and he stumbles back into the bed that isn’t his, in the house he doesn’t recognize.

The room almost stops spinning when the door opens. 

“Oh, hello there.” The woman says to him, wary. Patch is anything but, he runs over at Joel full speed, jumping up onto his thighs to lick at his face. The little girl giggles again. 

“How long have I been out?” His voice is a painful rasp. 

“Few days, how’s your neck?” There’s a small knife tucked into her apron, Joel can see the shape of it in her hand through the fabric. He doesn’t blame her. 

“Been better.” His vision is still grey from the effort of movement, the floor is moving, his stomach twitches. 

“You need to eat something, haven’t been able to get you to take anything except broth. Lay back and I’ll fix you a plate. Millie baby, why don’t you go and see to the chickens?” She stops the little one from getting too close, he doesn’t blame her for that either.

“But I already fed them–”

“Millie. Go.” Her tone brooks no argument, the little one sulks off and to his surprise, Patch follows her.

It’s quiet when they leave, awkward and tense. 

“I believe I owe you my life.” Joel calls out, “I wanna thank you and your husband–”

“I don’t have a husband.” Her tone doesn’t soften, and he instantly understands. 

“I’m sorry.” He grits out. 

“My daughter and I, we’re alone out here. I took a chance in lugging you back, I dressed your wounds and did the best I could, kept your dog fed and warm. All I ask is that you don’t hurt us. Can I count on that?” Joel watches her, sees the effort it takes for her to say these things to him. 

“Yes ma’am. I’m grateful.” She watches him, studies his eyes and his body language. He cannot help but notice how beautiful she is, how fierce. 

“Good. What can I call you?” 

“Joel, Joel Miller.” He stands slowly, takes a few careful steps to her table and sits.

“Nice to meet you.” 

When the little girl–Millie–comes back inside, Joel is eating the best fried eggs he’s had in years. 

“Hi.” She says to him, smiling through a gap-toothed smile. 

“Hello.” He says back.

“Millie, this is Mr. Miller.” The woman says, setting down a plate for each of them, he doesn’t fail to notice that there are a few scrambled eggs in a bowl for his dog. 

“Joel is fine.” He nods at the girl. He’s not really sure how to interact with them, it’s been a while since he’s been alone with a woman, in any capacity, even longer since he’s been around any kids. 

“I like your dog.” The girl says, dipping her bread into the yoke of her egg. 

“His name is Patch.” Patch lifts his head at that, but lowers it back into his bowl. The little girl squeals, calls him over to pet. It’s almost strange to see the dog so friendly, usually he keeps to himself, much like his owner. 

“You should let me take a look at your neck after you're done.” Her voice cuts through his musings, and he nods around a bite. “Millie and I have to go into town, but there’s hot water by the fire if you’re wanting to get yourself cleaned up. There are a few shirts in the chest by the bed that might fit, few trousers too. Please, help yourself.” 

“Thank you, Ma’am.” All the nodding is hurting his neck. He finishes what he can, and lets her take the bandages off. Her hands are gentle, but proficient. He can see the knowledge in her gaze, a recognition that this isn’t the first wound she’s ever seen or dressed. 

“Looks good. You let me know if the pain gets to be too much, I’ll take another look later on tonight.” She wipes her hands on her apron, a soft smile gracing her face. “Come on Millie, let's give Mr. Miller some privacy.” 

“Joel, please.”

She smiles again politely, but doesn’t respond. Patch whines when they leave, circling a few times before curling up at the foot of what’s been Joel's bed. 

The house is intensely quiet with them gone, and he takes the opportunity to put that hot water to use. Slowly, carefully he gets himself clean, breathing deep. It takes him a long time, longer than it should and by the time he stumbles back into the chair, he’s out of breath. The sweat beading on his forehead annoys him, he’d just gotten clean and already he’s a sweaty mess. 

–

“How long is Mr. Miller gonna be at our house, mama?” Millie skips alongside you, kicking small stones in her path. 

“I don’t know, baby. Until he’s better and can make his way back home.” With all the eggs sold, as well as some fresh cream, there’s enough to have a nice meal tonight. 

“I hope he stays, I like Patch.” Her hair is getting so long, the same dark shade as her fathers had been. 

He’s clean and dressed when you get home, pale though, no doubt exhausted from the effort. Millie squeals, Patch has gotten so attached to her, when they do end up leaving you know it’ll be hard for her. Goddamn, now you’re going to have to get this girl a dog. 

“So, Mr. Miller–”

“Please, call me Joel.” He interjects, you nod. 

“Joel, is there a message you’d like me to send to your family? I can stop by the post office tomorrow, maybe get a letter to Sarah now that I know your lastname–” 

“How do you know that name?” The temperature in the house drops, his eyes grow cold. “Where’d you hear that name, did you go through my things?” He’s angry, and all at once you recognize the same grief that lives inside you. 

“You mentioned it in your sleep, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to upset you, I didn’t go through anything.” Your heart races. He lets out a breath, shakes his head. There’s something he’s reliving, something he definitely doesn’t want to discuss flashing across his face. Millie feels the change and moves to stand behind your legs. All of a sudden it’s gone, he frowns, regret visibly replaces the anger. 

“No, no, forgive me. I jus’, I haven’t–No. There’s no one.” He lets out a breath, scrubs a big hand down his face. “It’s jus’ Patch and I. Thank you though.” The smile on his face is clipped, it softens when he catches Millie's eye.

“No harm done.” You run a hand through Millie’s hair, press a kiss to the top of her head. 

The food comes together and by the time night has truly fallen, everyone is seated and eating. It’s a largely quiet affair, the mention of Sarah had definitely put a damper on things. His enjoyment of the food helps though, it’s obvious that home cooked meals are not a regular occurrence for him. 

“There’s more, if you’d like.” He puts the bowl into your outstretched hand, spoon clutched within his grip. 

“It’s real good, best I’ve had in some time.” He digs in once you put the newly filled bowl in front of him. There’s a pride that swells in your chest at that. 

Things settle more after the meal is finished, with your bellies full and the hour growing late. He’s apologetic about not helping clean up, you wave it away, grateful for the mere thought. 

“Okay Millie, let's get ready for bed.” You call out to her once everything is set to rights. With her and your nightclothes in hand, you herd her behind your makeshift room divider and get to work. Her hair is tangled and despite her protests you finger comb it before wiping her face. 

“Okay okay, enough of that.” She frowns, looking so much like her father it hurts. “Go on, get tucked in and I’ll be there in a second.” 

Joel is standing when you come out from behind the blanket.

“I’ll take the cot, I’ve been takin’ up your bed long enough.”

“Oh that’s not necessary–” You begin, with his injury, with his weakness he needs rest. He shakes his head, firm. 

“I insist. I won’t be takin’ no for an answer.” Millie needs no more elaboration, she runs over to the bed and jumps in. “Atta girl.” He smiles at her, a little bigger than you’ve seen so far. 

“Let me give you a few more blankets at least, I fear your neck’ll hurt something fierce in the morning.”

“I’ve had much worse, this is perfect.” 

“Alright then, good night Joel.” You call out, blowing out your candle.

“Good night.”

The injury had taken his dreams away, but they were back. The quiet peace of the house doesn’t help, despite it being what he’s been craving for so long. Joel could still see it when he woke, a flash behind his eyelids, the nightmare–the memory of her death. He sighs in the dark, eyes shut tight, an attempt to blink it away. It doesn’t work, it’s never worked. He rises, he feels stronger than he had this morning, a testament to the meal she’d fed him and he takes advantage of it. Silently he and Patch slip out the door, he breathes in the cool night air. It’s a gorgeous piece of land she has, lush green grass, big trees that offer just enough privacy, fertile soil; although it’s definitely not being worked. 

She could be growing feed corn for not just her animals, but to sell to other farms. She could be growing wheat, she could be making a nice living. He thinks about how quickly he could do it, it would only take him a couple of weeks to till it, plant seed and get it going. His own mind smacks him upside the head, reminds him it’s not up to him to make any sort of plans with this land that doesn’t belong to him. That reminder doesn’t stop him wanting to do it, maybe he could help her get started as a thank you. Had it not been for her he would surely have died. 

The decision is made by the time he falls back into bed, he realizes. Once he’s stronger and healed, he’d help her out as much as he could. A thank you, he reminds himself, nothing else. 

-

He’s not in the cot when you wake. The first thought that occurs to you is that he’s left, that he felt better and decided to get out of your hair. A cruel, pessimistic voice whispers that you should check your things, you shake it away. Carefully, so as not to wake Millie just yet, you slip out and dress quickly, the fire will have to–you frown, the fire is lit and wood is stacked neatly in the iron basket beside it. That was kind of him, you think, to stoke it before leaving. 

With your boots on, and the apron tied tightly you head out but another surprise greets you. Joel stands just outside the coop, the egg collecting basket in his hand. 

“Mornin’, I took the liberty of feedin’ ‘em, horses too. I didn’t thank you for takin’ care of mine.” He looks strong, the colour has crept back into his face a little. 

“Thank you, this was kind–” He shakes his head, waving you away. 

“I collected the eggs too, they’re real gentle, your chickens.” He hands you the basket.

“You’ve done Millie’s chore.” You smile, “She’ll be thrilled.” He lets out a huff of laughter, his eyes disappear with a smile. He’s so much more handsome when he’s happy. 

“Thank you, Joel.” 

“It’s not a problem.” Millie runs out then, face scrunched up in anger at having been left alone. 

“I don’t think so, back inside, get dressed.” You raise an eyebrow at her, she huffs and goes back inside. Wordlessly, you both go about tending to the animals. 

“You alright with eggs again Joel?” You wipe your hands on your apron before lifting the bucket of milk. 

“Let me get that for you.” He takes it from your hands, waving away your concerns for his strength and his injury. “If you’ll be makin’ ‘em like you did yesterday then I’m more’n alright.” 

“I have some buttermilk leftover, I could make some biscuits too.” You almost laugh at the way his face lights up. “I”ll take that as a yes.” He nods.

Millie helps with breakfast, her little fingers crumble together butter and flour, taking much longer than necessary but you encourage her all the same. With Joel there, you have access to some of the pans hung higher on the wall, things your husband had hung up for you. You try not to think about it, and fail. 

“Okay, help yourself.” You set the hot pan onto the table, alongside a mess of fried eggs and a few pieces of bacon you’d been saving. They both dig in with the same enthusiasm, two children excited for a good meal despite their vast differences in age. The clear enjoyment only sweetens the taste, your husband had appreciated your cooking too. 

“Have as much as you like.” You see him eyeing the biscuits despite being halfway through his first one, he nods and takes another. Millie picks hers apart, a bite of this, a bite of that, mostly paying attention to the dog at her feet. He benefits from the little crispy edges she feeds him. 

“You could sell these.” He gets the words out between buttery bites, the pride swells bigger. 

“Oh I don’t know about that.” 

“I do. I’d buy ‘em.” He splits the second one, butters it a bit and puts an egg in between. Once most everything has been eaten, it’s time to clean up. 

“I was thinkin’.” He starts, handing you plates and cutlery despite your assurances that you could do it. “There’s a lot of good land out here, you should be workin’ it. Could plant you some feedcorn, some wheat, make enough money for the two of you to live pretty well.”

“Yes, that was the original plan before… Well, things didn’t work out.” 

“I could help.” He begins, clearing the rest of the things off your table. 

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.” He shakes his head, you’ll have to take a look at his injury again. 

“I’m offerin’, a way to repay you for savin’ my life.” It’s a bit of an overstatement you think, but then again had you and Millie not come along, had Patch not found the two of you. Maybe he was right, fancy that. You’d saved a man’s life.

“It’s an awful lot of work though, Joel, a lot of labour you’d be doing.” You lean against the stove, arms crossed. “And you’re barely healed as it is.” 

“I’ll be back to normal in no time, so long as you got tools I can get this land where it needs to be. Long as you’re okay with me hangin’ around for a spell, jus’ until I’m done.” He crosses his arms, he seems a lot better already but you knew that it went deeper than that. He needs rest and pushing himself too hard would hinder his healing. 

“That would be just fine, but I insist you rest and let yourself heal fully before you do anything.” Carefully, tactfully, you broach the subject of family, “Are you sure there’s no one that should know you’re alive? I wouldn’t want anyone to worry about you.”

“Believe me, there’s no one.” He picks at the bandage, a nervous habit hopefully, and not a sign of infection. 

“Lemme take a look at that.” He lets you guide him to the chair, lets you prod around and peel the bandage back. You don’t let on how relieved you are to see the wounds knitting together cleanly, healthy pink skin stitching together without corruption. 

“Does it hurt?” You clean it gently, touching as lightly as you can.

“Bit sore, but I’m good.” Millie comes over, inspects his neck with a comically critical eye. 

“Looks like it hurts.” She says, wrinkling her nose at it. 

“Mind your manners.” You remind her. He lets out a little huff of amusement. 

“Probably looks somethin’ awful. Your mama did a good job patchin’ me up though.” He speaks to her softly, a fatherly tone. She nods. 

“Joel collected the eggs today, so you’ll have to pick up another chore.” With his new bandage in place, you wipe your hands on your apron. “Maybe you could go pick stones wherever Joel tells you to.” She frowns, and you raise your eyebrows. 

“Don’t give me that look young lady, and while you’re here let me brush out that hair.” She tries to squirm away but you’re too wise to her moves now, with minimal effort you have her sitting in another chair, whining loudly. “Enough of that, it’ll only take a second.” 

Joel smiles a small smile before excusing himself, there’s an inkling about what he’s gone through, what he might have lost in the back of your mind and the implication is too big to dwell on. It’s none of your business anyhow, unless he decides it is.

-

A month passes, a quiet month where you accustom yourself to his presence. You check on the wounds every day, and despite how bad he’d been when you’d found him, he’d made a full recovery. Lucky bastard. 

Millie likes him, likes Patch more though and they both seem to know it. He doesn’t speak much at first, a few low words to the dog throughout the day, but it changes. You find him more often than not speaking to the horses, calming them and the cows. The chickens too. That’s another thing Millie likes, the way Joel has taken on her outdoor chores. You try to beat him to it but it's no use. He seems to rise with the sun and half the time most of the outdoor chores are done by the time you girls are both dressed and ready. 

You continue to sell your eggs, milk, butter and cream. Joel never accompanies you, and you prefer it that way. It’s better you think, that no one knows he’s staying with you. Part of it is saving yourself the need to explain that he’s just someone you helped, who’s now helping you back. Another part of it is preservation, for both of you. After all you still had no idea who had attacked him and there was absolutely no need to put yourselves in danger. Millie was good about keeping your guest a secret, the dog though, him she would not shut up about. 

He’s got one of the horses set up with the tiller when you get back, slowly marking out where to grow the crops. He tips his hat when he sees the two of you, Millie waves big. It’s hard not to watch him from inside the house, it’s clear to see just how much work it is, even with the worst of the sunlight already fading. Sweat makes his shirt cling to his back, broad and strong. You sigh, turning away, you’ve been alone too long you think. 

Millie is focused on her workbook when he comes in a few hours later, face red, shirt drenched. 

“There’s clean water in the basin, freshen up and I’ll fix you a plate.” You keep your eyes on the food you’ve prepared, and not the flex in his arms in your periphery. 

“I set up the tub outside, I’ll fill it after supper so I can get properly clean. I must smell like a horse.” That’s a minefield you think, the thought of him bathing just outside. You shove it away and nod, still not meeting his eye. 

“Baby, put your book away, you can work on it after you eat.” You set the plates in front of her and Joel, before sitting with your own. 

“I’m almost done.” She screws her face up, numbers, must be to see her so focused. She lets out an aggravated sigh. Joel cranes his neck to see what she's working on. 

“Hm.” He comments, “Division wasn’t my favourite neither.” Sympathetic, knowing. 

“It’s hard.” She sighs again. 

“Yes it is, unless you cheat.” He raises his eyebrows, she mirrors him. “See, if you find things to count with your hands, it’s like cheatin’, ‘cause you can see the answer.”  His finger lands on her math problem. 

“See that, thirty-six divided by nine, you need thirty-six things you can count and you gotta make nine piles. What do you have thirty-six of?” 

“Nothing! I don’t have thirty-six of anything.” She frowns at him, he’s patient regardless. 

“Oh I dunno, I think you could make thirty-six somethin’s.” He digs into his food. “You got paper, rip it up.” You almost laugh at the look on her face. “May I?” He reaches for an empty page in her work book, she lets him. 

“Seems to me you gotta work with what cha got.” He rips the page into strips, carefully dividing it up. “Count me down.” He prompts her, and together they do. Once he has the strips he hands them to her. 

“Reckon you can take it from here?” He asks her, she nods. Slowly she divides, counts out nine piles and sorts her pieces. 

“Four!” She practically screams. 

“Atta’ girl.” It’s almost a smile, a crinkling of his eyes, a tiny upturn of his mouth before it’s gone. When his eyes find yours it’s truly gone, and there's something else in its place, something that looks more sad than anything. You mouth a thank you anyway. 

“Good job baby, it’s time to eat now. Put it away.” She does, and the meal is enjoyed in peace. 

-

The water is hot enough to burn, but it feels too good to care. His muscles ache, the good kind of ache though, a testament to the work he's put in. The moonlight shines on him in the open air behind the house, highlighting the surface of the water, the steam coming off both it and his body. Feels too fucking good to do anything but relax. With his belly full of the best food he’s eaten in years, with his pains melting away in the water, with the peace of this place he sinks deeper. 

His mind drifts to her, to the woman who’d taken him in and saved his life. The ray of sunlight that greeted him each morning, the desert rose that bloomed in adversity. His cock stirs against his will, an altogether different ache, one that he’s been ignoring. He hasn’t been with a woman in so long, longer still since he thought about one in the way he thought about her. There’s an intense curiosity as to whether she might think or feel the same way, he’s caught her looking at him enough to. He sighs and sinks under the water. 

Maybe it’s just self-preservation he sees. A woman, alone staying sweet, staying friendly so they’ll get along. He sees it then, the fire in her eyes when she gets angry at something and that line of thought disappears. She’s not afraid of him, not anymore. Joel knows that if push came to shove she’d defend herself well enough. Not that she’d need to against him, he’d never hurt a woman in his life. 

He just needs time alone, privacy, she does too. 

-

He’s kinder than he lets on, it’s obvious to everyone but him. Despite the arrangement, you can see he enjoys being there. You can’t deny the sense in it. A woman and a small girl living on their own is dangerous, has always been so. You’ve been exceedingly lucky, not counting the tragedy that brought you here in the first place, you’ve lived in relative peace. No robbers, no lawmen hassling you for the land you can only afford by the skin of your teeth. No problems as of yet but you knew in your heart that could change at a moment's notice. At least with a man there, a strong, serious man like Joel would make any other think twice. 

He makes himself incredibly useful, he feeds and waters the horses, he makes steady progress on the land as best he can with the tools left behind, he’s even begun to rebuild some of the barn when he has a minute to spare. Millie has taken to him, and despite his silences, you can see that he has taken to her as well. 

You watch her run around with the dog while he sits on the milking stool, catching a much needed breath. It feels a little like it did before her dad died, the tableau is an echo of the past only with a stand in. He doesn’t feel like a stand in though, maybe that realization should hurt you, but it doesn’t. He laughs, a deep belly laugh at something Millie says, the corners of your lips curl up. He slices an apple and eats it piece by piece, but he shares it with her. A feeling in your chest swells and blooms into your limbs, an inkling of something you’ve been ignoring, repressing, hiding. No, not a stand in at all. A natural progression. 

-

“You need more room.” He speaks low, careful to not startle the horse he’s brushing.

“I have enough room.” You respond, voice clipped. Daisy, your best dairy cow, fusses. You’d waited a little too long to milk her. 

“You need your own space, Millie too. I could build it.” 

“You don’t need to do that, you’re already working your fingers to the bone tilling as it is. Shhh, it’s okay girl.” You speak softly, calming her as you work. 

“I like workin’ with my hands, I like buildin’ things. Growin’ girl needs her own space and so do you.” He sounds gruff, almost annoyed at your refusal. 

“Do I got a choice here, Joel?” You ask, almost laughing.

“No, I don’t believe you do.” There’s something in his voice, an amusement, a playfulness you hadn’t heard yet.

“Well then, I guess you can go ahead and build.” With Daisy milked, you rise and wipe your hands, leaving him with both the horse, and his plans. 

-

He comes home with lumber, a wagon full of it a week later and begins his project right away. Joel is definitely older than you, by the looks of him well into his forties, probably into his fifties, but he works like a man twenty years younger. You wonder where the hell he gets the stamina. 

Millie inserts herself into his work and you try to correct her, keep her from getting underfoot but he waves it away. He lets her ask her questions and does his best to teach her what he’s doing and why. It’s hard to watch at times, to know that her father would have loved to have done this but that he can’t, that he never will. You don’t let them see you cry. 

Another month goes by, and the crops are planted and watered, seedlings have sprouted and for the first time in a long time there is hope. Joel tends to everything growing in the morning after seeing to the animals, and before continuing his project. It’s come a long way too, the framework is up and attached to the main house. It’s bigger than you’d imagined, enough for two extra rooms. Fancy that, two bedrooms. 

It had occurred to you that he hadn’t built himself a place to stay, and the most logical conclusion would be that once he’d finished, he'd be on his way. Something about that needles you, you don’t actually want him to go. You’re not sure he wants to go either, not with how comfortable he seems to be, how much he’s opened up to the both of you. 

You dwell on it over dinner, but don’t say anything. Maybe he’ll take your questions the wrong way, maybe he’ll think you want him to leave. Millie is tuckered out from helping him, her head dips with the effort of staying awake. 

“This girl is gon’ drown in her soup.” He huffs out, half amused. 

“Let me put her to bed.” You start to rise but he stops you. 

“You finish eatin’, I’m done. I got her.” He scoops her up, shushing her softly before walking her over to the bed and setting her down. He takes off her boots with gentle hands, and covers her with the blanket. Something in your chest cracks open, this is a father, clear and simple. 

“She’s exhausted.” He laughs, coming to sit at the table once more. You want to ask him, but ultimately you don’t. If it’s something he wants to share, he will. 

“You’ve been putting her to work.” You stack the plates, prepping them to be cleaned. “I appreciate you being so patient with her. I know she can slow you down.” 

“Oh she’s no trouble, it’s good for me to slow down, stops me from makin’ too many mistakes.” 

“Well I appreciate it anyway.” You rise, he follows. 

“No trouble, darlin’.” 

Joel is already asleep by the time you get to bed. Carefully you get Millie out of her dress, it can’t be too comfortable sleeping with all those layers, not that you’d know by the look of her. She barely notices you lifting her arms, doesn’t wake when you pull the bigger quilt out from underneath her. She’s getting so big, so funny and smart, so precious. Thoughts of what might have happened to Joel flood your mind, had he lost his wife? His mother? A sister or heaven forbid a daughter?

You move the hair away from her face, do your best to pull it all into a loose braid and thank the Lord that you have her. 

-

By the end of the third month of his stay, the crops are growing nicely, and one of the rooms, the smaller one, is done. Millie is immensely proud of her work, she pulls you around to inspect, showing you exactly which boards she herself measured, which nails she helped Joel hammer in. It was nice to see her so invested, so happy and accomplished. 

“Wow, you did so good baby, I’m so proud of you!” She beams. 

“Joel said he’d help me build a new bed too, and a desk for my workbooks.” She skips around the room, excitedly telling you exactly where she’ll set up her bed, where she wants to put her things and while you are very happy for her to have her own space, it’s yet more work for Joel. 

He’s working away on the second, bigger room when you find him. 

“Whad’ya think?” He asks, a nail hanging in the corner of his mouth. 

“It’s perfect, she’s so happy.” You admit, trying and failing to notice the flex in his back. 

“Yeah she is, I’ll get a bed together for her, then we can see about findin’ a mattress.” 

“Joel, I appreciate all this work you’re doing, truly, but this is so much. You’re breaking your back here–” He waves it away, your worries for him are errant flies. 

“It’s nothin’, I told you I like workin’ with my hands, and I owe you–”

“You don’t owe me an indefinite amount of labour, how much did all this cost you? I can’t keep accepting all this with no promise of payment or anything. I’ve given you room and board, yes, and I’ll be honest it’s nice having you here but I don’t want you to waste your time.” 

“I’m not wastin’ my time.” He stops, there’s a frown on his face, one you can’t decipher. 

“Let me pay you for your work.” You offer, he shakes his head again. 

“You paid me, by savin’ my life, and you pay me every day by feedin’ me and the dog.” There’s an annoyance in him, a frustration and then you understand. He likes being useful, he needs to feel needed. He needs a home. There’s a warmth at that realization, sunlight in the early morning when the world is quiet, that this would feel like home to him. 

“You hungry?” Tentatively, you place your hand on his shoulder, warm, sturdy. “I could fix you something while you work.” He smiles a little smile, and nods. You leave him to it.

-

Tag list: @frannyzooey @greeneyedblondie44 @lola4pedro @221bshrlocked @artsymaddie @supernaturalgirl20 @sleep-tight1 @sherala007 @cannedsoupsucks @thirstworldproblemss @ilikechocolatemilkh @hrk-fic-recs @maxwell--lord @the-feckless-wonder @kirsteng42 @thisshipwillsail316 @feministfanboi  @stevie75 @readsalot73 @pedrostories @tobealostwanderer @mandocrasis @elegantduckturtle @diogodxlot @alczysz17 @evyiione @absurdthirst @beskarboobs @andruxx @littlemissoblivious @1800-fight-me @maievdenoir @gracie7209 @omlwhatamidoinghere @magikfanatic @frankiecatfish @pedritoispunk @studythoreauly @missswriter @pintsizemama @mswarriorbabe80 @a-trial-run-on-paper @la-le-lu @chickadee-djarin @dobbyjen @rosiefridayrogersunday @ajeff855 @johnsrevelation @the-witty-pen-name 

@zombiesnips-blog @sarahjkl82-blog @fan-of-encouragement @queenofthecloudss @deadhumourist @felicisimor @toomanystoriessolittletime @what-iwish-you-knew @pedrostories @athalien @bi-thewayy @literallydontlook @pedrosbrat @luxmundee @iamafadedmoon @nakhudanyx @littlemisspascal @grogusmum @heyitmelexie @killyspinacoladas @gothicxbarbie @evildxad @dragonslarimar @spideysimpossiblegirl @chemtrail-mix @breezythesimp @altarsw @staygolddindjarin @softsweetedbeauty @littlemisspascal @yuiopiklmn @squidwell @just-blogging-around @bbyanarchist @girlofchaos @maddiedrmr @frasmotic @acourtofsnakes @buckybarneshairpullingkink @astoryisaloveaffair @harriedandharassed  @shirks-all-responsibilities @alwaysachorusgirl @dindjarinsmut @captain-jebi @gallowsjoker