cupcake

It wasn't raining, but the air above the coast was so humid and heavy that it felt like you could cut it with a knife. It was a muggy, sticky night in Oceanside. One of those nights when no one sleeps, and the criminal chronicle of the city is updated with dozens of new entries.

You were sitting in his old pickup truck, parked at the very edge of the sandy embankment where civilization ended and the wild, roaring ocean began. The engine was turned off. The glass inside was instantly covered with a dense band of steam from your breath, cutting you off from the whole world. The cabin smelled of old leather seats, cigarette ash, and that subtle metallic smell that always emanated from Pope when he returned from Smurf after a difficult conversation.

He hadn't moved for twenty minutes. His hands were on the steering wheel, his fingers gripping the braid so that his knuckles looked white in the faint, bluish light of the radio.

"She knows," he said dully. His voice sounded too close in the enclosed space of the car, making you flinch.

"She knows I'm coming to you." She asked me why I smell like your hair.

"And what did you say?" You turned your head, peering into his sharp profile.

Pope slowly turned his head towards you. In the semi-darkness, his eyes looked completely black, the pupils were dilated from adrenaline and the inner storm that he was trying to contain.

"I told her not to stick her nose in my life— his jaw tightened.

"She got angry. When she gets angry, she starts smiling. You don't know what it's like... watching her smile and think about how to destroy you."

You couldn't stand the distance. Taking a deep breath, you unbuckled your seat belt and moved from your seat to his— to the wide driver's seat. The pickup was old, there was almost no space between the seats, and you literally squeezed between the steering wheel and his massive body, sitting on his hips.

Pope instantly froze, stopped breathing. His hands slowly lowered from the steering wheel to your waist, locking you in place.

It was too close. Your knees were pressed against the paneling of the door, and your chest was touching his chest through the thin fabric of your T-shirt. You could feel how hot he was—there was a physical, almost tangible warmth coming from him, like from a red-hot furnace.

"You shouldn't be here,— he whispered, but his hands tightened on your waist, belying his own words. His fingers slowly crept up, crushing the fabric of his T-shirt, touching the bare skin on his ribs.

"You can't come with me. You're going to burn."

—Let them," you replied, leaning forward.

You touched his lips with yours. It wasn't a gentle kiss—there was too much tension accumulated over the weeks. Pope responded instantly, as if he had been waiting for this push to break loose. His mouth was hot, dry, and he kissed you with a kind of frightening, possessive greed. His tongue invitingly plunged into your mouth, intertwining with yours, and you moaned softly, feeling his big palm move to the back of your head, firmly fixing your head, not allowing you to pull away even a millimeter.

The ocean behind the glass was crashing against the rocks with a dull, rolling roar, but for you this noise merged with the beating of his heart, which was pounding against your ribs.

His other hand went down to your hips, abruptly pulling your pelvis closer to him. You felt how hard he was under his tight jeans — his arousal was heavy, obvious, and it weighed on you, making everything inside contract from the sweet, pulling expectation. You instinctively rocked on his hips, and Pope growled deep into your mouth.He pulled away from your lips, breathing hard and fast. His face was soaked with sweat, and his hair was disheveled. His mouth moved down to your neck. He wasn't just kissing—he was biting into the delicate skin at the base of your throat, leaving wet, hot marks there that sent goosebumps through your body.

His hands rose higher under your T-shirt, cupping your chest. Rough, callused fingers roughly pulled at your nipples through the fabric of a thin bra, and you arched in his arms, throwing your head back and hitting your back against the steering wheel of a pickup truck. The horn blared briefly and absurdly on the deserted shore, but neither of you even paid attention to it.

—Andrew...— your voice dropped to a shaky whisper. Your fingers clutched at his short, coarse hair, holding his face against your neck. He looked up at you. In the dimness of the cabin, his face looked predatory, primal. He slowly slid his palm under your shorts, his fingers touched the inside of your thigh — the skin there was wet and sensitive. He rose higher and higher, his hot palm covered your crotch through the fabric of your underwear. You felt him press down with the base of his palm, and a ragged sigh escaped your lungs. You were completely wet, ready, and he knew it.

—Look at me,— he ordered in his low, vibrating bass. "Look what you're doing to me.

You opened your eyes, meeting his insane, lust-clouded gaze. His fingers began to move slowly, teasingly, rubbing moisture through the fabric, making you convulsively squeeze your hips, trying to catch the rhythm. The pleasure grew so fast that the air in his lungs began to feel scalding.

He didn't go any further. He didn't take off your clothes, didn't take that final step that would turn this night into a final fall. He kept you on that very edge, at the peak where physical attraction becomes almost painful.He held you so tightly that it felt like he was trying to press your body into his own. His face was buried in the curve of your shoulder, and you could feel his lips twitching convulsively against your skin.

—"Smurf thinks she's in control," he whispered, his breath searing your collarbone. "But she's not here."

It's just you here.

You're my fix.

My clean air.

You hugged him behind his broad back, feeling his huge shoulders slowly relax under your fingers. The tension that had almost torn this car apart from the inside began to subside gradually, leaving behind a pleasant, debilitating weakness.

You sat like that in silence for a very long time. Outside, the ocean continued its eternal, monotonous dance, hurling water against the gray cliffs of Oceanside. The fogged windows of the pickup truck slowly cleared, revealing a view of the fading night sky.

Pope didn't let you go until the morning. His hands continued to rest on your hips under your T-shirt, warming you with their weight. It was their personal calibration, an intimacy that didn't need a final chord, because this very balancing act kept him from falling into the abyss better than any medicine.

Spring in Jackson always came hesitantly, as if afraid of melting the heavy snow caps on the mountaintops too quickly. But today, the sun seemed to finally have the upper hand. Its lazy, warm rays filtered through the loosely drawn bedroom curtains, drawing golden stripes on the wooden floor and on the edge of the heavy blanket.

You woke up to a familiar, barely perceptible rustle. The place next to you had already cooled down, but the pillow still retained a faint smell of tobacco, cedar oil and native warmth. From the kitchen, separated from the bedroom by only a small archway, came the muffled clatter of dishes and a quiet, barely audible rasp — Joel was trying to behave as quietly as possible, which with his build and heavy steps was an almost impossible task.

You smiled, stretching under the covers. Your hand dropped to your stomach by itself. He had already noticeably rounded out — the sixth month was making itself felt—and the usual, trembling warmth spread under the palm of his hand. The baby inside was quiet for now, as if he, too, was listening to the sounds of the house waking up.

When you wrapped yourself in Joel's voluminous flannel shirt (your own clothes were barely coming together at the waist) and slipped barefoot into the hallway, the floorboard creaked treacherously under your foot.

Joel, who was standing at the stove with his back to you, immediately turned around. He was wearing old, worn jeans and a gray shirt, the sleeves of which he habitually rolled up, exposing strong forearms covered with rare scars. He was holding an old cast-iron frying pan in his hand. When he saw you, he frowned, with that trademark, assumed severity behind which he had long been unable to hide his tenderness.

—Hey," his low, sleep—hoarse voice made your heart do its usual soft somersault.

"I told you to lie down." The sun had barely risen.

"I'm bored lying alone," you replied softly, coming closer.

"Besides, someone was so desperate to be a silent ninja that they would have woken up an infected person in the basement.

Joel let out a short laugh, shaking his head, and set the pan on the cold hob. He took a step towards you, and at the same moment his gaze fell on your bare feet. The touch of mild irony immediately evaporated.

—Honey, for God's sake," he growled, rapidly closing the distance between you. — The floor is icy. How many times should I say it? Tommy fixed the heating, but there are still drafts coming from below.

Before you could say a word in your defense, his strong arms wrapped around your hips and back. Joel lifted you up as easily as if you hadn't gained ten pounds in the last few months. Laughing, you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your nose in his coarse, slightly prickly beard, which smelled of morning freshness and light smoke from the stove.

He carried you to a massive wooden armchair, on which a thick woolen blanket was casually draped, and gently lowered you. Immediately, without getting up from his knees, he reached for your warm wool socks, left yesterday on the armrest, and began to carefully pull them on your feet. His huge, calloused fingers were surprisingly sensitive and careful.

"That's it," he grunted with satisfaction, tucking the edge of the plaid under your feet. "Now sit down. The coffee is almost ready. Well, more precisely, what we call coffee here. Chicory is mixed in half with the remains of real grains that were exchanged from merchants last week. But it smells good.

"And the eggs?" You asked hopefully, glancing at the stove.

"And eggs," Joel nodded, standing up to his full height and looking down at you with a soft, barely noticeable smile that made lines of wrinkles gather around his eyes. — Maria handed over the fresh ones from the poultry house. She said you need more protein right now. She generally controls your diet more strictly now than the patrol schedule.

You leaned back in your chair, feeling absolute, concentrated happiness spreading inside. In this harsh, dilapidated world, where every day outside Jackson's walls was a struggle for survival, it was safer here in this small wooden kitchen than anywhere else.

Joel returned to the stove. Watching him at such moments was your favorite pastime. The man who could reload a gun in one motion and whose name once made smugglers in Boston whisper, was now turning over an omelet with the most serious look, making sure that the yolk did not spread, because "you like liquid."

There was a crash from above, from the second floor. Judging by the sound, someone kicked the bedside table with a swing, and then a dull, sleepy curse was heard.

Joel didn't even turn his head, just sighed heavily, and the corner of his mouth twitched up again.

"Our patrol storm has woken up,— he stated quietly.

A minute later, Ellie appeared on the stairs. Her brown hair stood on end, a pillow mark was imprinted on her cheek, and a huge flannel shirt hung on her like on a hanger. She walked, shuffling her sneakers down the steps, and rubbed her eyes with all her might.

"What's that stink?".. — she croaked instead of greeting, but immediately caught the scent of food, and her eyes opened wider. — Oh. Grub. Joel, if you overcooked the bread again, I'll feed it to the horses.

—Good morning, Ellie. It's good to see you, too," Joel replied dryly, putting breakfast on plates. — And the bread is perfect. Sit down at the table and wash up, don't forget, it's scary to look at you.

Ellie made a face at him behind his back, a gesture that has become a mandatory morning ritual, and immediately turned her gaze to you. Her face softened instantly, although she tried to maintain her usual independent look. She came up to your chair, rested her elbows on the armrest and looked into your face.

—Hi,— she said softly.

"How are you?" This… Did the big guy inside you kick too hard last night? Otherwise, if he's taken after Joel, he's probably already trying to squeeze out more space for himself.

—Good morning, Ellie," you smiled, running your fingers through her disheveled hair. — Everything was quiet at night. I think we slept like marmots.

—Well, that's great," Ellie sniffed and squinted at your stomach, which was clearly visible under the loose shirt. She still sometimes looked at him with a kind of childish, timid apprehension, as if she was afraid that if she got too close, she would break some kind of magic. — Okay, I'm going to splash water on my face before the old man starts grumbling that I'm spreading the infection around the house.

—I can hear everything,— Joel replied from the stove, putting three plates and two mugs of hot drink on the table (herbal tea for you, coffee for him, and water for Ellie, since she didn't like to drink something hot in the morning).

Ellie just grunted and ran into the bathroom, taking the stairs two at a time.

Joel came up to you, holding your mug in his hands. He placed it on a small table nearby, and then he squatted down in front of your chair. His gaze has changed — the morning fuss has disappeared, giving way to something so deep and intimate that it takes your breath away.

When the bathroom door on the top floor slammed shut and the sound of running water could be heard, a ringing, almost tangible silence reigned in the kitchen.

Joel did not get to his feet. He remained squatting in front of your chair, looking up at you. His brown eyes, usually wary and tired from years of living, have now darkened, covered with a viscous, lazy haze. He reached out and gently took your hand, intertwining his long, callused fingers with yours.

"You look pale today,— he said softly, and his deep voice vibrated somewhere in your chest. — Are you sure you're feeling well? Did the baby bother you?

"It's okay, Joel,— you breathed out, feeling pleasant goosebumps on your skin from his proximity. "Just a little sleepy."

He gently released his hand and moved it to your thigh, squeezing it almost imperceptibly through the thin fabric of your house pants. His palm slowly, inch by inch, crept up until it rested on your rounded stomach. Big, hot, it covered him almost completely. Joel froze, listening, and his stern face smoothed out. He gently, barely pressing, ran his palm along the round curve, outlining the contours of their unborn child.

"Sleeping," he stated softly, and a faint smile appeared on his lips. — Obedient. Just like you.

But the pious concern in his eyes began to change rapidly. Joel's gaze slid higher, to where the collar of your loose flannel shirt was slightly askew, exposing your collarbone and the pale skin of your neck. His fingers, which had just been stroking your stomach, slid possessively but incredibly gently under the fabric, rising to your ribs and then higher.

You gasped softly as his other hand moved behind the back of your head, tangling slightly in your hair and forcing you to lean forward.

— Joel… You warned in a half—whisper, even though your own fingers were already gripping his sturdy shoulders by themselves. "Ellie will be down soon.

—Ellie's going to be stuck there for at least ten minutes, I know her habits," he growled against your lips. His breath, smelling of morning coffee, scorched your skin.

He kissed you, gently at first, probing the ground, but sensing your instant response, he deepened the kiss. His hot palm moved confidently up under your shirt, stroking your heavy chest, forcing you to sigh softly into his mouth. His other hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer to the edge of the chair, closer to him. Joel leaned forward, looming over you, and his kisses went down to your jaw and then to your neck, where he began to leave wet, teasing bites that made your knees weak.

—Joel, wait," you gasped, throwing your head back and melting at his touch.

His fingers tightened on your thigh, lifting the hem of your shirt even higher, and he possessively pressed his whole body against your legs, not letting you pull away. He acted confidently, with the same masculine gravity that you could never resist, especially now that your hormones were already making you want his touch every second.

And it was at that moment, when his lips covered yours again, and his hand under your shirt made you gasp, that you heard the distinct click of the door opening from above.

You didn't make it. More precisely, Joel tried to pull away as calmly as possible, but when Ellie, cheerfully jumping two steps at a time, flew into the kitchen, the oil painting appeared in front of her in all its glory: Joel, breathing heavily, with slightly smudged lips, is sitting on his knees in front of you, his hand is still suspiciously close to the hem of your shirt. And you're sitting there with a flushed face and disheveled hair, frantically adjusting your collar.

Ellie froze on the last step. Her eyes widened, and her face reflected a mixture of the deepest disgust and teenage malice.

— Oh-oh, ugh! — she drawled loudly, theatrically covering her eyes with her palm, although she still peeked through her outstretched fingers. —Really?" Right in the kitchen? Right before breakfast?! My eyes! My psyche is destroyed forever!

Joel slowly got to his feet. All his morning tenderness was instantly hidden behind a stony expression, although his ears were suspiciously red. He turned to Ellie, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Ellie, shut up and sit at the table," he cut her off dryly, trying to return to his usual commanding tone, which was coming out pretty badly.

— No, are you kidding me? Ellie walked over to the table, ostentatiously walking around Joel in a wide arc, as if he were contagious. — Joel, you're over fifty, for God's sake, she's got a baby inside, and you're still not going to calm down!

—Ellie! Joel growled louder and with a warning in his voice, but you saw the laughter tremble in the corners of his eyes in panic.

You couldn't stand it and giggled into your fist, hiding your face in a woolen blanket.

Ellie pulled out a wooden chair with a bang and plopped down on it, still grumbling under her breath and ostentatiously staring at the ceiling, pretending that she was afraid to look in your direction.

Joel sighed heavily, ran his hand over his face, trying to wipe away the remnants of the surging desire, and returned to the table. He silently pushed a plate of scrambled eggs and toast towards Ellie, and then took your portion and carefully brought it to you right by the armchair, along with warm herbal tea.

—Here,— his voice became soft again when he spoke to you, although he still tried not to look you straight in the eye, so as not to completely betray his inner embarrassed heat. "Eat before it gets cold."

—Thank you, Daddy,— you whispered softly, with your lips alone, accepting the plate.

Joel barely twitched his cheek, giving you a meaningful look that clearly promised * "we'll talk about this later when someone leaves"*, and sat down across from Ellie.

There was relative silence in the kitchen for a couple of minutes, broken only by the clatter of forks. Ellie was eating breakfast with the appetite of a teenager, but her malicious gaze kept darting from Joel to you.

—So,— she finally couldn't stand it, swallowing another piece of toast and resting her chin on her palm. "Since we're all here… ahem… "We're awake." What are your plans for today? Joel, are you going to spend all day in Tommy's workshop pretending to be very busy instead of mopping the floors?

"I have a shift at the mill today,— Joel replied calmly, without looking up from his plate. — We need to check the gears before the flood waters from the mountains come in full force. And after lunch, I promised Tommy I'd help fix the fence by the horse pens. So I've got my hands full. As far as I know, you're on patrol today.

Ellie immediately became serious, her shoulders slumped slightly, and the usual stubbornness flashed in her eyes.

—Yes,— she muttered. — Dina and I are leaving in an hour. Let's check the southern sector. The guys from yesterday's shift saw some footprints at an abandoned gas station. Most likely, they're just deer, but we need to check it out.

Joel pursed his lips at the mention of the patrol. It was his habitual, involuntary movement—he still hated letting Ellie go outside Jackson's walls, even though he understood that she was already an adult, trained and able to stand up for herself. But now, with a pregnant you waiting for him at home, his protective instinct seemed to have escalated to the limit, spreading to their entire little family.

"Be careful," he said dully. "Don't get into trouble. If you notice anything bigger than a couple of stray clickers, come back and report to Tommy. No need to be heroic.

—I know, I know," Ellie said, but there was no anger in her voice. She turned to you, and her face instantly softened. "You'll be home, right?" Don't carry heavy buckets of water, okay? If you need anything, tell Maria, she'll send one of the guys. Or I'll do it myself when I get back.

"It's okay, Ellie,— you smiled, touched by her clumsy but so sincere concern. — Joel has already brought firewood and water for three days in advance. I was just going to go to the library and spend some time in the garden, weather permitting.

Ellie nodded, finishing the last bite. She got up, took her plate to the sink, and suddenly froze as she passed your chair. She looked at your stomach, which seemed especially large now that you were sitting in a flannel shirt.

She hesitantly shifted her weight from one foot to the other, hiding her hands in the pockets of the jacket she had already draped over her shoulders.

"Listen to me… — she began quietly, squinting at Joel, who at that moment pretended to be very absorbed in his coffee. — And he is… Well, or her… Have they heard anything yet? Well, outside?

You smiled softly and set the plate down on the table.

— They say that by this time they can already hear sounds perfectly. Especially low voices, and… he can definitely hear your voice, too, Ellie.

Ellie sniffed, a slight blush appearing on her cheeks. She took a step closer and, reaching out, quickly, as if afraid that she would be electrocuted, touched her fingertips to your stomach. At that very second, the baby inside, as if sensing the presence of his "older sister," responded with a distinct, gentle push directly into her palm.

Ellie flinched and widened her eyes, pulling her hand away, but immediately pressed it again, this time with her whole palm.

— Awesome… — she whispered, and a huge, silly and absolutely happy smile spread across her face. "He just kicked me!" Hey, little one, do you hear? This is Ellie. Just try to be born a grump like your dad, I'll personally teach you bad words and how to steal cigarettes from Tommy.

—Ellie,— Joel said with a warning laugh, but there were tears of pride and tenderness in his eyes, which he tried his best to blink away.

— That's it, that's it, I'm leaving! Ellie shouted cheerfully, grabbing her backpack by the door. — Bye! Joel… At least don't bother her until I leave the gate!

The door of the house slammed shut with a loud bang, and her footsteps quickly died away on the veranda.

Joel slowly got up from the table, shaking his head, and walked over to you. The tension of the patrols and the morning rush was gone, leaving just the two of them in a warm, spring house.

Evening fell on Jackson imperceptibly, enveloping the wooden houses in a cool bluish twilight.

Evening fell on Jackson imperceptibly, enveloping the wooden houses in a cool bluish twilight. After returning from Tommy's shift, Joel immediately got down to business: he lit the fireplace to expel the dampness that had accumulated during the day from the corners. After the noisy return of Ellie, who, after hastily having a snack and excitedly talking about a calm patrol, ran away to spend the night with Dina, the same secluded, ringing silence finally reigned in the house.

You were sitting on a small sofa right in front of the fireplace, tucking your legs under you and looking at the dancing flames. From the dimness of the room, heavy, measured footsteps came from the direction of the kitchen. Joel came up behind you, and you felt the couch sag slightly under his weight.

His big hands, smelling of wood and barely perceptible gun oil, rested on your shoulders. He began to slowly, strongly stretch the muscles that had become numb during the day, forcing you to blissfully close your eyes and lean your head back against his chest.

"Tired?" "What is it?" he asked softly, his deep voice close to your ear sounding like the rumble of distant thunder.

"My back hurts a little," you admitted, covering his hand with yours. "We're growing too fast.

Joel didn't say anything, but his hands immediately slid down your collarbones, over your breasts, until they settled on your rounded stomach. He sat down more comfortably, pulling you back against his broad chest, completely wrapping you in his warmth. His calloused fingers gently and methodically stroked the fabric of your nightgown. Under his palms, the baby turned lazily a couple of times and lay still, lulled by his father's warmth.

—You know,— Joel spoke softly, and you felt his beard tickle your neck. — I was working at the pens today and caught myself thinking… that I just can't get used to it. To the fact that it's all for real. You, this house, the child. Sometimes it feels like I'm going to wake up somewhere in Boston on a dirty mattress, with nothing but contraband and quarantine walls around me again.

You turned your head, catching his gaze, full of old, but gradually fading pain.

"It's okay, Joel. There's nothing to worry about."

He looked at you, and in the firelight his eyes darkened, filled with a thick, heavy tenderness. Joel gently turned you around, bringing you face-to-face on his lap. Your stomach is gently pressed against his firm abs.

"I've been thinking about this all day," he admitted hoarsely, brushing stray strands from your face. His breathing quickened.His lips covered yours, this time without the morning rush, but with incredible, hungry depth. Joel kissed you as if he were putting all his devotion into that kiss, possessively wrapping his arms around your waist.

He slowly lowered you from his lap right onto the soft pile of the carpet in front of the fireplace, throwing pillows from the sofa under your head. All his severity, his enormous strength, were now subordinated to one goal — to be as careful as possible with you. Joel was leaning on top of you, leaning on his elbows so as not to put his weight on your stomach.

His fingers, hot and eager, slid to the hem of your thin chemise. Lifting you slightly, he pulled the fabric over your head in one smooth motion and threw it somewhere into the darkness of the room.

In the semi-darkness, illuminated only by the golden flames of the fireplace, your heavy chest and rounded belly looked like a real miracle to him. Joel froze for a second, his heavy breathing scorched your skin, and his darkened eyes reflected a deep, almost religious adoration.

"You're so beautiful,baby girl" he breathed, and his voice cracked.

He reached for the hem of his sweatpants, hastily but carefully getting rid of the remnants of his clothes. Throwing them off, he exposed his sturdy, scarred body, and the contrast between his rough, masculine strength and your soft, feminine figure seemed incredibly right now.

Joel lowered himself lower, covering your neck, collarbones with kisses, catching your first quiet sobs with his lips. His palms caressed your thighs, slowly rising to your waist. He stopped at your stomach, pressing his lips to the round curve and leaving there a long, tremulous kiss that made your stomach ache sweetly. You felt a wave of tenderness rise in your throat, and you sighed shakily, twining your fingers into his coarse, gray-streaked hair at the back of his neck.

When his fingers gently touched your inner thigh, gently spreading them apart, you moaned softly with impatience. You were wet and hot, completely ready for him, and the hormones of pregnancy only aggravated every touch to the limit.

Joel lifted himself up, settling between your thighs. He entered you in one smooth, slow and careful motion, forcing you to convulsively arch your back and gasp for air. A long, hoarse sob of pleasure escaped from your chest. Joel froze inside, his muscles tensed, and large beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He held himself back with all his might, peering into your face, checking if you were okay.

Catching your pleading, lust-clouded gaze, he began to move.

It was slow, deep, and incredibly slow. Each of his thrusts was filled with such a weighty, tangible tenderness, from which everything inside was compressed into a sweet, tight spiral. Joel intertwined his fingers with yours, pressing your hands to the floor, and his movements became a little faster, but remained just as sensitive.

— Joel… Oh my God, Joel," you sobbed, breaking into a whisper as he touched the most sensitive points inside you.

He caught your every breath, every soft moan, eagerly biting into your lips to kiss those sounds. The golden glow of the flames danced on his broad, bulbous back. The heat inside grew, filling his entire being. You freed your arms and hugged him tightly around his neck, nuzzling his shoulder, smelling of skin and male sweat, suffocating from the avalanche of feelings that covered you.

You pulled him towards you, demanding more, tightening your thighs around his waist. Joel moaned into your neck in a low, hoarse voice and gave up—his thrusts became a little harder, more confident, but he still took care of your stomach, keeping his weight on his hands. It was a balancing act on the verge of completely dissolving into each other. At the peak of your pleasure, you squeezed your eyes shut, shouting his name, feeling everything inside explode with sweet, convulsive waves of ecstasy. Joel pushed into you one last time, hard and powerful, and with a broken, hoarse exhale he poured out inside, shuddering all over his body and holding you tightly to him.After a long time, when the flames in the fireplace had turned into comfortably smoldering coals, you were still lying on the floor, covered with a heavy woolen blanket.

Joel was lying on his side, hugging you from behind. His hand, as always, rested on your stomach, slowly and reassuringly stroking your skin. Your breathing became even, and Joel's heartbeat at your shoulder blade was pounding steadily and reliably. In this house, lost among the snows and forests of Wyoming, protected by his huge palms, you fell asleep with the absolute knowledge that you were completely safe.

The cold spring air outside the dining hall felt clean, cutting through the heavy smell of stew and damp wool that Joel had carried out with him. He didn’t go far. He stepped into the shadow of the porch, pulling a worn silver case from his pocket, and lit a cigarette. His calloused hands shielded the tiny flame from the damp wind, a habit so old he didn't even think about it anymore. Maria was already there, leaning against the wooden railing, her eyes fixed on the closed door of the dining hall.

"They're jumpy," Maria said quietly, breaking the silence.

"The boy looks like he's ready to tear the throat out of anyone who gets within three feet of his sister." Joel took a slow drag, the amber glow illuminating the deep lines around his eyes. He looked out over the muddy street, where the snow was turning to gray slush.

"Do you trust them?" Joel didn't answer right away. He thought about the way Eli had stepped in front of the girl back in the stables—reckless, terrified, but completely unyielding. It was the defensive, ugly pride of someone who had nothing left to lose but the person standing behind him. And then he thought about the girl, Leia. There was a quietness to her, a stillness that didn't belong to someone that young. It was the kind of stillness that only came after you'd seen the worst the world had to offer and realized screaming wouldn't change it. It felt entirely too familiar, a dull ache in his chest he didn't care to analyze.

"The boy claims he's an engineer. Said he can fix the turbines," Joel said, blowing a stream of smoke into the chilly air. "We could use the hands if he's telling the truth. As for trusting 'em... they don't have enough meat on their bones to be dangerous right now. Let 'em eat. Let 'em sleep. We'll see who they are when they thaw out."

Maria watched him for a moment, her gaze perceptive, catching the subtle way his posture shifted whenever he looked toward the dining hall. She noticed the heavy, old shadow passing behind his stare. "Alright. I'll split them up into separate quarters tomorrow," Maria said smoothly, adjusting her denim jacket. "Give them some space to breathe. Let the boy see we aren't locking them in. But keep an eye on them, Joel."

Joel gave a faint, single nod, dropping the cigarette butt into the slush and crushing it with the heel of his boot.

"Always do."

He didn't go back inside. Instead, he stood on the dark porch for a long minute, watching the pale yellow light from the dining hall windows cut through the wet, foggy night, before turning his collar up against the damp cold and walking toward his own house.

The next morning, the damp cold of early spring was still hanging low over the valley, thick with the smell of wet earth and melting pine needles. Joel walked toward the secondary residential block with a heavy, unhurried stride, a tin mug of black coffee warming his hands. He found Maria standing outside the door of the small cabin where they’d put the siblings.

"Did you tell them yet?" Joel asked, his voice rough with the morning chill.

"Just did," Maria sighed, crossing her arms against the crisp wind.

"The boy didn't take it well. I told him we’re moving him down to the block near the repair shops so he’s closer to the turbines, and leaving Leia here where it’s quieter. He nearly took a swing at Tommy."

Joel didn't say anything, but his jaw tightened. He set his coffee down on a wooden bench near the porch and stepped past Maria, pushing the door open without knocking.

The room was warm from the wood stove, but the air inside was completely rigid. Eli was backed against the small window, his chest heaving, his hands curled into white-knuckled fists. He looked like a wild animal that had just realized the cage had a partition. Leia was standing a few feet away, her hand resting flat against Eli's chest, her voice a low, urgent murmur trying to ground him.

Tommy was standing near the door, his hands held up in a peaceful gesture, his face a mix of sympathy and stubborn patience.

"Look, kid," Tommy was saying, his voice calm, trying to soothe the tension.

"Nobody's splitting you up to hurt you. It's just how the housing works here. You’re working the grid, you sleep by the grid. Your sister’s safe here. I give you my word."

"Your word means nothing to me!" Eli spat, his voice cracking with a terrifying, raw desperation. He looked past Tommy, his eyes locking onto Joel as he entered. "We didn't ask for this. We can leave. Give us our rifles back and we’ll go right back out into the snow."

"You wouldn't make it past the ridge, pal," Joel said quietly, his voice cutting through Eli’s panic like a blunt instrument. He didn't move aggressively; he just stood there, heavy and solid, filling the doorway.

"You're both still starving. You go back out there, you die. Simple as that."

"Then let us stay together," Eli pleaded, though his voice was turning bitter, realizing he had no leverage. "We’ve survived this long because we don't separate. Never."

Joel looked from Eli’s furious, terrified face to Leia. She was pale, her fingers digging into the fabric of her brother's worn coat, but she wasn't panicking. Her eyes met Joel's—wide, dark, and filled with a quiet, exhausted understanding. She knew they had no choice. She knew that fighting here meant losing everything.

"Eli," Leia said softly, her voice barely louder than the crackle of the wood stove, but it made her brother freeze. "Eli, stop. Look at me."

Eli slowly lowered his eyes to her face, his shoulders trembling.

"They aren't hurting us," she whispered, her gaze fierce with an unspoken plea for him to use his head. "You wanted a roof. You wanted a place where we could pay our keep. This is it."

The silence in the room stretched out, heavy and suffocating. Eli looked at her for a long, agonizing moment, the defensive armor around his posture slowly cracking until he just looked tired. Incredibly tired. He let out a long, ragged breath, his fists slowly uncurling.

"Fine," Eli muttered, his voice dead. He didn't look at Tommy or Joel. He just picked up his small, battered canvas pack from the bed and walked toward the door.

Tommy gave a small, relieved sigh and reached out to pat Eli's shoulder as he passed. "Come on, kid. Let's get you set up."

Eli flinched away from the touch but followed Tommy out into the damp morning air, leaving the door swinging open.

Joel stayed behind for a second. He looked at Leia, who was now standing alone in the center of the cozy, quiet room. She looked so small against the backdrop of the large patchwork quilt and the sturdy wooden furniture. He remembered what it felt like to be stripped of everything, to have the one thing you were protecting pulled just out of arm's reach.

"He'll be alright," Joel said, his voice dropping into a lower, less gravelly register. "Tommy’s a good man. He'll keep him busy."

Leia didn't look up immediately. She kept her eyes on the floorboards where Eli's muddy boots had left prints. When she finally looked at Joel, there were no tears in her eyes—just that same ancient, unyielding stillness.

"I know," she said quietly. "Thank you."

Joel gave her a short, solemn nod, grabbed his tin mug from the porch, and closed the door behind him, leaving her to the quiet warmth of her new home.

Joel didn't follow Tommy and the boy down to the repair shops. He stood on the porch for a moment, listening to the squelch of their boots fading into the distance, before turning his steps toward the communal kitchen. The town was waking up around him—smoke rising from chimneys, the rhythmic thud-thud of an axe chopping wood behind the stables, the sharp smell of pine and wet earth baking under the pale sun.

He walked into the kitchen, nodded to the women baking the morning's sourdough, and filled a small tin tray with a bowl of warm oatmeal, a piece of bread, and a small jar of preserved mountain berries. When he got back to the secondary block. He just gave the wood two short, heavy raps and pushed it open with his elbow.

Leia was already up. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her boots laced back on, staring out the small window with a calm, analytical expression. She didn't flinch or jump when he entered; she just turned her head, her dark eyes locking onto him with a steady, unblinking focus. She looked exhausted, yes, but her posture was rigid and alert. Joel set the tray down on the small table near the stove. He didn't say anything at first. He walked over to the wood stove, picked up the iron poker, and shifted the logs inside until the embers caught, sending a fresh wave of dry heat into the room.

"You need to eat," he said, his back still turned to her.

"The boy's going to be working through noon. If you don't keep your strength up, you're just going to make him worry more than he already is."

Leia stood up without hesitation, her movements efficient and deliberate. She walked over to the table, sat down, and pulled the tray toward her. She picked up the spoon with a steady hand, dug right into the oatmeal, and took a solid bite. There was no hesitation, just the practical efficiency of a survivor fueling up when food was available.

"He's usually more level-headed," Leia said, her voice smooth and grounded as she chewed. She looked up at Joel, her expression deadpan.

"He's just defensive. Sorry about him nearly taking a swing at your brother. He'll clear his head once he sees the hardware."

Joel stopped messing with the fire. He set the iron poker back in its stand, turned around, and leaned his heavy frame against the log wall. He hooked his thumbs into his belt, a faint, barely perceptible twitch of amusement hitting the corner of his mouth at her blunt apology.

"Tommy's a soft touch, but he isn't stupid," Joel said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "He'll show the boy the grid. He'll let him look at the wiring. If your brother is as good as he says he is, he'll be too busy trying to prove himself to cause any trouble. Nobody here is looking to hurt either of you. We've got enough problems keeping the cold out." Leia nodded once, dipping the bread into the oatmeal and taking a large bite. She didn't look like a girl drowning in fear; she looked like someone assessing a new base of operations.

"Good to know," she said simply.

"Maria will probably come by later to find something for you to do," Joel added, his jaw tightening slightly as he straightened up from the wall.

"We don't keep idle hands here."

"I can handle myself," Leia replied, meeting his gaze evenly. "Just tell her where to put me."

Joel watched her for another second, respect keeping his stare steady. He walked to the door, his hand resting on the iron latch.

"The doors don't lock from the outside here," he added, looking back over his shoulder. "Only from the inside. If you need some peace, just throw the latch."

He stepped out into the crisp morning, letting the door click shut behind him. He took a deep breath of the freezing mountain air, feeling a little better about the two newcomers. The boy was a live wire, but the girl—she had a solid spine.

The stables smelled of old hay, leather, and the sharp, clean scent of cedar shavings. It was a dry, heavy warmth that hit Leia the moment they stepped inside, making her eyelids feel impossibly heavy.

The gray-haired man moved with an easy, unhurried rhythm, loosening the cinches of his horse's saddle with large, methodical hands. He didn't look back at them, but his presence filled the space between the wooden stalls.

Eli stood near the entrance, his back pressed against the rough-hewn timber wall. Without his rifle, he looked smaller, sharper, like a stray dog cornered in a brightly lit room. His gaze darted from the pitchforks resting in the corner to the wide, open doorway that led into the heart of Jackson. His jaw was clenched so tightly that a muscle pulsed beneath the graying stubble on his cheek.

"They'll be taken care of," the man said, his low voice echoing softly against the high rafters as he patted his horse's flank. He finally turned around, leaning back against the wooden partition. He looked at Leia, his eyes lingering on the faint purple shadows under her eyes, then shifted his gaze to Eli. "The dining hall is just past the main square. Maria—she runs things around here—she'll get you set up with a place to sleep. But you get some food in you first."

"We don’t need charity," Eli cut in, his voice sharp, slicing through the quiet hum of the stable. He shifted his weight, instinctively stepping closer to Leia to block her from the stranger's view. "We carry our own weight. I’m an engineer. I can fix your grid, your turbines, whatever patched-up system you've got running this place. We pay for our keep."

The stranger didn't flinch at the hostility. He just watched Eli with a flat, unreadable expression, the corner of his mouth twitching with that same faint, grim understanding.

"Nobody's calling you beggars, pal," the man said quietly, straightening up from the stall. He hooked his thumbs into his belt, right next to the worn, cracked watch on his wrist. "But the kitchen closes in an hour. And your girl looks like she's about to drop."

Leia didn't argue. She didn't have the strength to match Eli's pride. The tips of her fingers were burning as the blood slowly began to return to them, and the distant, muffled sound of children laughing somewhere outside the walls felt incredibly surreal, like a broadcast from a world she had forgotten twenty-two years ago.

"Lead the way," Leia said, her voice small but steady enough to stop Eli from throwing another insult.

The gray-haired man gave her a brief, solemn nod, stepped past Eli without a word, and walked out into the pale, blinding winter sun.

They stepped out into the main square, and the sheer scale of the settlement hit Leia like a physical wave. It wasn't just a camp; it was a living town, holding its breath against the damp, biting spring. The wide street was lined with wooden houses, their roofs heavy with melting, dark-rimmed snow. In the center, a large pine tree stood with its lower branches bare and wet. A few locals walked past, carrying tools and bundles of damp firewood, navigating the slushy pathways. They cast brief, curious glances at the newcomers but didn't linger. Jackson had its own quiet, rhythmic pulse.

The man walked a pace ahead, his boots crunching heavily on the wet, packed slush. He seemed to belong to this place entirely, a permanent fixture of the landscape.

As they neared a large, two-story wooden building with wide windows—from which the warm, rich scent of stew and fresh bread drifted—a woman stepped out onto the porch. She wore a heavy denim jacket lined with wool, her blonde hair pulled back neatly. Her eyes, sharp and perceptive, instantly locked onto the strangers, and then moved to the man leading them.

"Joel," she called out, her voice clear and authoritative, cutting through the frosty air. "Who do we have here?"

The man stopped at the base of the porch steps, wiping a patch of slush from his boot against the bottom wooden riser. He didn't look up at the woman right away, keeping his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets.

"Found 'em near the old bridge, out past the eastern ridge," his low, raspy voice carried clearly in the damp air. "They're freezing, and they haven't eaten in days."

The woman looked down at Leia and Eli. Her gaze was intense, assessing the damage—the hollow cheeks, the frayed edges of their clothes, the raw, wind-chapped skin. But when her eyes drifted to Eli, she noticed the tense, coiled posture of his body, his hands buried deep in his pockets, still twitching as if looking for the phantom weight of his rifle.

"I see," she said quietly. The sharp edge in her voice softened just a fraction, replaced by the practical, grounded calm of someone used to dealing with the aftermath of the world's cruelty. She stepped down a single stair, looking directly at Leia. "I'm Maria. This is Jackson."

Eli didn't soften. He took half a step forward, his voice tight and guarded, keeping his eyes on the guards on the porch rather than Maria. "We pay for our keep. We aren't here to waste your food."

Maria’s eyebrows rose slightly at his bluntness, but she didn't take offense. She looked back at Eli, then at Leia, her eyes scanning their matching grim expressions and the subtle similarities in the way they held themselves.

"We can talk about what you can do for the town later," Maria said smoothly, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Right now, the kitchen is still serving, and your…" She paused for a fraction of a second, her gaze lingering on the narrow space between them, running through possibilities before settling on, "…your girl looks like she's about to collapse into the slush."

"Sister," Eli corrected quietly, his voice tight but carrying a protective finality as he shifted slightly to shield her. "She's my sister."

Maria gave a short, understanding nod, adjusting her posture. "Right. Well, your sister looks like she needs to get out of the cold, and you look just as ready to drop, even if you're trying to hide it. The ice is melting on the roof, and the food is hot."

She gestured toward the heavy wooden door of the dining hall, from which a thick, comforting fog of warmth and the scent of seasoned broth was escaping.

"Go on inside. Get warm. I'll have someone set up a room for you two in the secondary block," Maria instructed, then looked at the gray-haired man. "We'll talk in a bit."

The man gave a single, slow nod, stepping back to let them pass.

Leia didn't look at Eli this time. Driven by the primal, aching need for warmth, she walked up the wooden steps, her boots leaving wet, dark prints on the clean timber. Eli hesitated for a second, his eyes tracking the gray-haired man one last time, before following closely behind her. As Leia pushed the heavy door open, a wave of genuine, suffocating heat hit her face, and for the first time in days, the frozen knot in her chest began to loosen.

The dining hall was loud, thick with the heavy hum of dozens of voices, the clatter of metal silverware, and the dense, humid warmth of cooking. Massive wooden tables stretched across the room, filled with people in worn flannel and heavy knit sweaters.

Leia froze for a second at the threshold, overwhelmed by the sheer sensory overload. After days of nothing but the whistling of the wind and the crunch of snow, the noise felt violent, almost physical.

"Keep moving," Eli muttered against her shoulder, his hand briefly touching her back to nudge her forward. His eyes were wide, darting from face to face, tracking every movement in the room like a cornered animal trying to count the exits.

They slipped into an empty spot at the far end of a long bench, away from the center of the room. Within minutes, a young woman with a kind, tired face set two deep tin bowls of thick potato and venison stew down in front of them, along with two heavy mugs of steaming water and a few thick slices of dense, dark bread. She didn't ask questions; she just gave them a small, welcoming smile and moved on to the next table.

Leia stared at the bowl. The steam rose in pale curls, carrying the rich, savory scent of real fat and herbs. Her stomach twisted painfully, a sharp reminder of how empty she truly was. She picked up the heavy spoon with trembling fingers, but her hand shook so badly that a few drops spilled back into the bowl.

Eli didn’t eat right away. He sat rigid, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the room. His eyes followed two men in the corner who were laughing over a map, then shifted to the kitchen doors, then back to the main entrance.

"Eat," Leia whispered, her voice still rough from the cold. She managed to guide the first spoonful to her lips. The warmth exploded in her chest, so intense it almost made her dizzy. "Eli. Eat."

"Someone's watching," he said, his voice barely a breath, completely drowned out by the chatter around them. He didn't turn his head, but his jaw tightened.

Leia slowly lowered her spoon and looked up.

Across the room, leaning against a sturdy timber pillar near the back exit, stood the gray-haired man. He had taken off his heavy jacket, revealing the faded plaid shirt underneath. He held a thick ceramic mug in both hands, the steam rising past his face, but his eyes—dark, weary, and impossibly deep—were fixed directly on their table. On Leia.

He wasn't staring with hostility, nor with curiosity. It was a heavy, lingering gaze, full of an unspoken, ancient grief that seemed to stretch far beyond the walls of this valley.

When Leia didn't look away, the man slowly raised his mug toward her in a silent, grim gesture of a toast, before turning his back and disappearing through the doorway into the cold spring air.

Spring in Wyoming brought no warmth. It tasted of melting snow, raw bark, and a lingering, stagnant dampness. The air was so sharp and cold that every breath sent a faint, stinging ache through the chest.

Leia rode slightly behind Eli, the reins loose in her hands. Her fingers, inside wool gloves worn thin with holes, had gone completely numb. Everything that had unfolded over the last few days-the settlement burned to ash by raiders, the flight into nowhere, the soot bleeding into the mud-felt like an extended, faded dream. She wasn't consumed by thoughts of survival every passing second; instead, her gaze would drift, lingering on the droplets of water sliding slowly down her horse's mane, or on the pale sun barely piercing the dense clouds. The world around her seemed to move in slow motion.

Eli looked like a living statue carved from dry wood and resentment. His shoulders were tense beneath his old jacket. He hadn't uttered a word in three hours, only turning back every now and then to make sure she was still there.

They didn't know where they were heading. They were simply moving away from the smoke.

The sound of approaching hooves came suddenly, muffled by the wet snow.

Eli reacted instantly. Snatching the reins of Leia's horse, he forced her to a halt near the decaying concrete support of an old bridge and reached for his rifle.

Three riders emerged from beyond the snow-covered ridge. Two young men kept slightly to the back, while the man riding in front instantly commanded attention. He sat heavy and steady in his saddle, like a man who had struck deep roots into this unforgiving earth. Beneath the shearling collar of his heavy jacket, the worn collar of an old, thick-plaid flannel shirt was visible. His beard was thickly shot with gray, and his face, etched with deep-set lines, looked as though it had been chiseled from stone. The rider calmly raised a broad, calloused hand, signaling his men to halt. His eyes, framed by a web of weary wrinkles, narrowed as he gauged the threat. On his right wrist, resting over his sleeve, was an old watch with a broken, shattered face.

A second of absolute silence followed. Only the wind stirred the hems of their coats.

"Drop the weapons," the man said, his voice low but carrying an undeniable weight. It was deep, laced with a heavy rasp. "You're trespassing."

Eli didn't even consider lowering his barrel. Instead, he spurred his horse forward, completely shielding Leia. A sharp, protective fury flared in his eyes. He read the stranger in a fraction of a second-before him stood a dangerous man, intimately familiar with violence, carrying the unmistakable aura of a smuggler or a killer.

"Step back," Eli spat, his sarcastic tone striking like a whip. "One more step from that horse of yours, and I'll put a fresh hole in that jacket. We don't give a damn about your territory, we're just passing through."

One of the young patrolmen made a sudden move toward his holster, but the gray-haired man smoothly stayed him with a gesture, his eyes never leaving Eli. And then, his gaze drifted slightly to the side.

Past Eli's shoulder, he caught sight of Leia. She sat there pale and still, her hair tangled by the wind. She didn't look frightened-rather, she seemed infinitely detached from the world around her, staring directly at him with a quiet defiance. Something about her fragile yet unyielding silhouette made the man falter inwardly. For a fleeting moment, the hardness in his eyes softened, as if an old, fiercely guarded memory had managed to pierce through his heavy armor.

"Easy, pal," he said, his voice dropping lower as he addressed Eli, though his eyes remained fixed on Leia. "We aren't looking for trouble. You two look like you haven't eaten in days."

"None of your business how we look," Eli snapped, tightening his grip on the rifle. "Turn your horses around and clear out."

The gray-haired man kept his eyes locked on Eli, his hand still raised to keep his patrolmen from making any sudden moves. He gave a slight tug to his horse's reins, guiding the animal half a step back to ease the tension.

"We got a settlement a couple miles out," he said calmly, without an edge of defiance, his raspy voice cutting cleanly through the freezing air. "There's hot food, clean water, and a roof. For both of you. You'll hand over your weapons at the gate, pick 'em up when you leave. Your call."

Eli let out a short, bitter bark of a laugh, but the barrel of his rifle didn't waver.

"Oh, is that so? Hot soup and a soft bed from a stranger holding a gun?" His voice practically dripped with venomous, cynical mockery. "You know what, old man? We'll manage on our own. Turn your boys around and get going before we all freeze to death waiting for you to clear out."

The man closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if fighting off a wave of exhaustion, then looked back at Eli-his gaze harder now, more direct.

"Blizzards in these parts kill faster than people do," he cut in, a cold certainty in his tone that belonged to someone who wasn't used to repeating himself. "A couple more days in the woods, and you're done for. I don't give a damn about your pride, son. I'm looking at the girl. She can barely stay in her saddle."

Leia shifted slightly, her weary but stubborn gaze locking with that of the gray-haired rider. Hearing his sister mentioned, Eli's temper finally flared into pure rage.

"Don't you dare look at her," Eli hissed through his teeth, pressing forward to block the stranger's view entirely. "And don't you open your mouth in her direction again. We're leaving. Now. You make so much as a move toward us, and I swear to God I'll put a bullet right between your miserable eyes."

"Eli, enough."

Leia's voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, yet in the frozen stillness it made both men freeze. She reached out, her touch gentle but firm as she tugged at her brother's elbow, forcing him to shift slightly. Beneath her, the horse shifted its weight tiredly, its hoof crunching dully against the frozen crust of snow.

Leia straightened in the saddle, fighting the weakness coursing through her body. Her face, chapped by the biting wind, remained pale, but her gray eyes held that dull, unyielding stubbornness Eli had spent years trying to fight against. Ignoring her brother's furious, warning glare, she looked straight at the gray-haired man.

"We don't have supplies. The horses will drop by nightfall," her voice grew steadier, even though her lips could barely move from the cold. "We'll accept your invitation."

She let her gaze drop to the old, shattered watch on the rider's wrist, then raised her eyes back to his face.

"We'll hand over our weapons at the gate. But if anything happens to us inside your walls..." Leia paused briefly, staring at him without a trace of fear, her expression carrying a mature, weathered exhaustion. "...my brother will burn that place to the ground. And I will help him do it."

The gray-haired man studied her in silence for a few seconds. The faintest ghost of a knowing, grim smile touched his weathered lips. He slowly lowered his hand and gave a slight nod.

"Fair enough," he replied, turning his horse back toward the hills. "Stay behind me. Don't fall back."

They rode in silence. The path wound between snow-covered slopes, the звенящая stillness broken only by the crunch of frost beneath the hooves. Eli kept close to Leia, repeatedly casting heavy, disapproving glances her way, but she kept her eyes fixed ahead, staring right between her horse's ears. The monotonous motion and the creeping warmth began to lull her to sleep; the sun had finally broken through the dense blanket of clouds, its pale rays making the snow glisten with an almost unbearable brightness.

The patrolmen never looked back. The gray-haired man led the way, confidently navigating the trail through debris and fallen trees. His broad back in the worn jacket seemed entirely still, monolithic.

About half an hour later, the hills gave way.

A valley opened up before them. In its center rose massive, roughly built wooden gates reinforced with metal sheets. Above them stretched a high guard wall topped with barbed wire, where lookouts with rifles paced back and forth. Thin wisps of smoke drifted from behind the wall, carrying the scent of a real, lived-in home-roasted meat and dry firewood. The smell sent an involuntary ache through Leia's empty stomach.

The rider on the lead horse raised his hand, signaling the guards on the watchtower, and the heavy gates groaned inward, revealing a view of clean streets cleared of snow.

The man brought his horse to a halt right at the entrance and dismounted without haste. His movements were heavy but precise. Turning to face the newcomers, he slid his hands into his jacket pockets. Beneath his unbuttoned collar, the face of the broken watch gleamed once more.

"We're here," he said quietly. "Just like we agreed. Leave your weapons here with the guard. You'll get tokens, and you can collect 'em after we check you out."

Eli didn't move. He sat in his saddle, his fingers gripping the stock of his rifle so tightly his knuckles turned white, his gaze darting from the guards on the walls to the gray-haired stranger. Every nerve in his body screamed that this was a trap.

"First, you show me where she's sleeping," Eli demanded gruffly, jerking his chin toward Leia. "And only then will I think about handing over my gun."

The man didn't even flare up. He merely let out a long, tired sigh and turned a calm, weary look on Leia, as if asking whether she was going to quiet her companion again, and remained standing where he was, waiting for their move.

Leia let out a heavy, ragged breath through her teeth. Eli's perpetual, consuming fear, which had saved their lives so many times before, was now doing nothing but tightening the noose around their necks.

Taking a sharp breath, she slung her rifle strap over her head in one swift motion and, without looking at the guard, thrust the weapon forward. The metal gave a dull clink as it changed hands.

"Leia, what the hell do you think you're doing?!" Eli jolted in his saddle, his face flushing red with a mix of fury and panic.

"Shut up, Eli. Please, just shut up," she cut him off. She didn't raise her voice, but her tone carried such a cold, hollow exhaustion that he paused for a fraction of a second.

Leia didn't give him a chance to recover. Leaning across her saddle, she stubbornly grabbed the cold barrel of his rifle. Eli clamped his fingers down on the stock, his eyes wild and protesting as he stared at her. For a few seconds, they simply wrestled for the weapon-a silent, fierce battle of wills right in the middle of a foreign checkpoint. Leia looked him dead in the eye, never blinking, using the sheer weight of that quiet obstinacy that always forced Eli to break.

Her fingers were numb, her palms slipping against the wood, but she pulled with everything she had until Eli's fingers, one by one, reluctantly let go with a dry snap.

She took the rifle and passed it to the guard. Eli was left empty-handed. He breathed heavily, hiding his trembling, frustrated hands in his pockets, and turned away, his furious gaze locking onto the watchtower.

The gray-haired man watched the scene unfold in silence. There was no malice in his eyes-only a heavy, quiet understanding. He waited until the guard handed Leia two metal tokens, then gave a brief nod toward the cleared street.

"Let's go," he said quietly, taking his horse by the reins. "I'll take your horses to the stables first, then show you where you can warm up."