stardust in your lungs, suns in your eyes

Carnations bloomed when you saw Joel.

He first came to Jackson in December with a girl by his side. They were gone by the next morning, but you saw him. He was coming out of the bar, tugging his coat back on when you spotted him through the crowd of carolling townspeople.

Even from a distance, you noticed the pain in him—a pain similar to yours. There was a wistfulness in his face, a longing for something he missed, and a fear so intense it seemed paralysing. He clutched at his chest, holding in the marigold that grew where his heart should have been.

You wanted to know him.

He came back that spring with the same girl, and this time, he stayed.

It was a while before you spoke with either of them. Everyone who arrived in Jackson had a tendency to be closed-off at first, and you couldn’t fault them for that. You didn’t know where they’d been or what they’d done, but you knew they’d gone through hell.

You met Ellie first. She came by the greenhouse one day, arms crossed and face vacant. Her reticence might have been mistaken for hostility if you didn’t relate so much.

You tore your soil-covered gloves off and wiped a hand over your cheek, probably just further smudging whatever dirt was caked on there.

“Hi there!” You did your best to sound cheerful, to come across as someone who was definitely okay with unexpected visitors. “What can I do for you?”

“Maria told me you might need some help around here.”

You didn’t think you needed help, and it seemed like the girl wanted to be anywhere but here. But as you pondered her, you started to recognise what she was actually getting at.

She didn’t know what to do, but she needed to do something.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

“Ellie.”

“Nice to meet you, Ellie.” You held out your hand, which she stared at for a good couple of seconds before shaking. “Call me Rosebud.”

“You’re a florist named Rosebud?” She was incredulous, and you didn’t even care that she was making fun of you—it was the first time you’d seen her smile during this entire interaction.

“It’s a nickname,” you told her, “and I'm more of a floriculturist. If you want to help me out, grab some gloves and a trowel.”

“What the fuck is a ‘trowel’?”

You spent the next few hours with her digging holes in the soil, un-potting flowers and planting them in the ground. As apprehensive as Ellie had been to begin with, it didn’t take her long to warm up to you.

The first thing you learned about her was that she asked a lot of questions.

“Why do we have to move these?”

“It’s spring. They’ll do better in the ground.”

“Why didn’t Maria show us this place when we first came here?”

“It was winter. Half the flowers had gone to shit, so there wasn’t much to see,” you replied, flattening the soil around a sunflower plant.

The greenhouse had been established before you got there. Nobody ran it, it was something for everyone to tend to, but nobody cared enough to do so. The gardeners of Jackson preferred to focus on crops that could actually feed them. But then you arrived, and you knew how to grow a thriving flower garden, and with all the bees it brought, it only helped the agriculture. It also meant that Jackson had honey.

“This one’s cool. What is it?” Ellie asked. You looked over at the plant she was settling into the ground—a grassy little shrub with white flowers blooming at the ends.

“Starwort. It means ‘Welcome to a stranger.’”

“Appropriate,” Ellie said. “I didn’t know flowers had meanings.”

“It’s called floriography,” you replied. “I have a book all about it.”

Ellie stayed until the sun began to set, leaving in much better spirits than she arrived. You were used to working alone, and you thought you preferred it that way, but she turned out to be good company. You sent her home with a starwort blossom and a jar of honey as a thank you, and told her to come back any time. You really hoped she would.

You met Joel the next morning. 

There was a knock at your door, which you expected to be Ellie back again. Instead, you opened the door to find her guardian standing on your front porch.

Your eyes flicked shamelessly over his form. He was broad, strong, with plaid sleeves hiked up to his elbows—you didn’t know it was possible to be attracted to someone’s forearms. His features were beautifully angular, especially his nose. But it was his eyes that really got you. They were dark like coffee, deep and intense. You could fall into them and never stop.

The garden you carried in your soul had never felt more alive. It was weird you hadn’t spoken yet, but you worried if you opened your mouth, the brightest, reddest chrysanthemums would come bursting out.

“Good mornin’. Sorry to bother you,” Joel finally said, with the rehearsed politeness typical of a Southern man. There was still an earnestness to him, like he didn’t quite remember how to do this but he was determined to try. “I think Ellie was here yesterday?”

“That’s right.” You internally cheered when your voice didn’t fail on you. “Is that okay? I know I didn’t get your permission. She just kind of showed up.”

“No, that’s okay. I just came by to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“She's been struggling to…adjust, I guess,” Joel explained, “but she was in a good mood when she came home yesterday. I think being here helped her, so thank you.”

You weren’t quite sure what to say. People silently appreciated what you did for the commune, but nobody had ever gone out of their way to thank you for anything. It was a little overwhelming.

“Well, she’s welcome here any time.” You didn’t think Ellie was particularly interested in gardening, but you could see that the girl just needed to feel busy, and maybe needed some company. You were just glad she could find that with you.

“Thank you,” Joel said again. “What was your name, darlin’?”

“Just call me Rosebud.”

You expected a laugh, a mocking jab of some sort, but instead he just tilted his head and looked at you with complete sincerity. “Pretty. It suits you.”

Your cheeks were embarrassingly warm.

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer,” Joel said. Your heart fell. “It was nice meetin’ you. And, uh, thanks again.”

He started to leave, but you weren’t ready for him to go. Before you could think it through, you called after him, “Wait.”

You might have imagined it, but for a split second after he turned back around, you could've sworn you spotted an eagerness in him, like he was hoping you’d say that.

“You can come inside,” you offered, “if you want.”

He did.

Five minutes later, Joel was standing in your kitchen, leaning against the counter. You could feel his gaze on you as you moved, getting the water ready and setting out two mugs.

“How do you like your coffee?” You were already sure of the answer.

“Black. No sugar.” Yep.

You poured the coffee into a mug, absent-mindedly blowing on it as you handed it to him. He didn’t wait for it to cool down before taking a sip, not even flinching at the heat.

You opted for tea with a generous amount of milk and honey.

“Thanks for the honey as well,” Joel said. “Ellie loves it. She’s never had anything so sweet.”

“That doesn’t surprise me if she grew up in a QZ,” you replied, turning to face him with your mug cradled in both hands. “I think I cried when I first got here and they actually had sugar.”

“When did you get here?”

“Around two years ago. My dad knew Seth—you know, from the bar—got in touch with him, and he told us how to get here,” you explained. You truly hated Seth, but he did save your ass and that left you obligated to be nice.

“Your dad’s not here, is he?” Joel spoke without any particular sentiment. It was an observation, plain and simple. You didn’t mind, you just shook your head. It felt normal to talk about your dad. You missed him, but his death wasn’t horrifically tragic to you—the man had a heart attack.

“What about you? I mean, how’d you end up here?” You were nervous about prying, or accidentally chasing him away before you really got to talk, but Joel had fascinated you since December. You needed to know more.

“I was in the Boston QZ for a while, left to look for my brother, found him.” He wasn’t going to get more detailed than that. Too much had happened that was difficult to talk about, and you could see that, because it was the same for you.

No matter how much you wanted to, you didn’t let yourself ask anything more. You didn’t ask why he’d been here in winter, why he left so soon, why he came back, why he didn’t come sooner if his brother was here, how Ellie fit into all of it. You didn’t ask, and you wouldn’t ask. All you could do was hope he’d open up in time.

It occurred to you just how different Joel looked now than he did in December, and not just because you were actually seeing him up-close. His whole spirit had shifted. Back then, he’d been like an open wound, barely being held together by exposed, bloody tendons that threatened to snap at any moment. He was different now—still wounded, but no longer in pieces.

There was something else in him too. Something dormant, but always on the verge of springing back to life. A quiet guilt.

“Flowers always been your thing?” Joel asked. You were grateful for the subject change.

“Pretty much. I used to know someone who loved them. Made me love them too.”

He nodded with an unexpected softness in his expression. It wasn’t pity, or even sympathy, but a warm kind of understanding.

“I know the flower stuff seems silly,” you said, looking down into the milky beige of your tea, “but it really is useful.”

“I know that,” Joel said. “I don’t think it’s silly.”

You could practically feel your chest split open that very second. Flowers sprouted from your heart, and they bloomed for Joel. They longed to reach out, wrap him up in their stems and vines and pull him into you.

Carnations. Chrysanthemums. Vervain.

You kept your composure until Joel left. You said your farewells, waved him off, shut the door, and immediately collapsed on your couch in a lovestruck heap. It was all so dramatic, the sofa may as well have been a bed of roses.

It wasn’t just that Joel was attractive—and fuck, he was attractive—it was the way he wholly and truly respected you. Respect was something you’d had to earn from everyone else around here, but Joel didn’t need any convincing. He saw your worth right away.

He was all you thought about for the rest of the day, the evening, until you went to bed that night. Even then, your mind wouldn’t stop racing.

These feelings were big, too big. Keeping them inside hurt, but you feared letting them out would be agony. They were safest with you, blossoming into flowers in your soul, where only you knew about them.

But still, you were wide awake, consumed by the urge to do something, say something.

So you got up, pulled your shoes on, went outside and picked a flower from your garden.

Jackson was desolate as you wandered down the street. The only residents awake at this hour were those on patrol. It might have been eerie if you weren’t so wound up. 

You scanned each house as you passed by, looking for Joel’s. Your heart pounded in your chest when you found it. You didn’t need to be so nervous, the lights were off, but you kept imagining someone walking out and catching you in the act. But you’d come this far, and his front door was just a few yards away.

You climbed the stone steps with a quiet urgency, twirling the flower between your fingers one last time before dropping it just outside his door.

A single gardenia.

You were going to leave it at just one flower—you didn’t want to be weird and scare Joel off before you really got to know him. But then Ellie came by the greenhouse again.

“Did you leave a flower on our front porch the other day?” she asked, watering a yarrow seedling.

“What? Why?” You felt so lame, and so stupid for forgetting that Ellie lived there too. Your gesture was bound to get intercepted.

“There was a white flower out there. I showed it to Joel, and we figured it was from you.” It was a very reasonable thing to figure considering it was from you.

“What did Joel say?” you asked, trying not to sound as desperate as you felt.

“He said it was for him.”

“So he took it?”

“Yeah,” Ellie said. “Don’t know what he did with it.”

Ellie wasn’t nearly as invested in this as you were, but it still sounded promising. Joel had accepted the flower, maybe even liked it. The thought made your stomach feel strange, like a bunch of petals were flurrying around in there.

“Well, it was for him…” you mumbled.

Ellie glared at you in feigned outrage. “I’m insulted.”

“What are you complaining about?” you laughed. “I gave you a flower.”

“It’s wilting.”

“Fine then”—you handed her a pair of pruning shears—“go cut yourself a new flower.”

She wandered around the greenhouse for about five minutes and came back spinning a flower between her thumb and index finger. It had pure white petals and a bright yellow pistil. “I chose this daisy.”

“That’s a cosmos,” you corrected. “It represents harmony and balance.”

Ellie assessed the flower in her hand, genuinely mulling over the meaning of it, and you realised how much you appreciated her. She saw value in something you cared about. 

“What did Joel’s mean?” she asked.

“I’m actually not sure about that one.” It was a total lie, but you sounded convincing enough that Ellie shrugged it off and carried on watering flowers.

You couldn’t help yourself after that. Knowing that Joel accepted your gift made you want to do it again. And again.

So you did. Every few days, when you were sure he and Ellie were asleep, you sauntered down to their house and dropped a flower outside the door. An aster, agapanthus, camellia…

Joel never mentioned it, and you never really expected him to, but the nods and soft smiles he gave you when he saw you around were enough to let you know he appreciated you.

But Joel would never know the true meaning of your flowers. It was better that way.

Maria and Tommy’s son was born later in the spring, and your garden had never seen so many visitors. The new parents were practically drowning in congratulatory flower arrangements, and eventually Tommy had to tell you to start turning people away.

One of these visitors happened to be Joel, and he was the one person you couldn’t turn away.

Unlike everyone else, Joel came to your door first. The slight nerves he’d had the first time he came over were gone, but so was the facade of sociability. Maybe this uncouth version of Joel should have irked you, but seeing him comfortable enough to drop the pretence just made you like him more.

“I need help with something,” he said, not even bothering with a hello.

“What is it?”

“A gift for the happy family,” he spoke bitterly, like he was actively trying not to grimace as the words came out.

“Flowers?”

“Flowers seem appropriate.”

Joel was strangely upset for someone who was welcoming their nephew into the world. You didn’t know the story between Tommy and Joel, just that they hadn’t seen each other for years before Joel and Ellie arrived in Jackson, and that Maria really disliked him.

But despite his sour attitude, it was clear Joel was trying. Whatever was weighing on him, he was pushing it down and choosing to be thoughtful for the sake of his family. Tommy could deal with one more bouquet.

You walked down to the greenhouse with Joel trailing behind you, his hands shoved into his pockets the entire time. On a better day, you would have tried to make conversation with him, but he obviously didn’t need that pressure right now.

He finally spoke up when you arrived at the greenhouse. “This place has seen better days.”

It wasn’t the flowers he was talking about, it was the structure itself. The contractor in him must have noticed the rusted metal pipes holding everything together, the holes and tears in the plastic sheets, and the fact that there was almost no room to walk.

“I know it’s bad,” you said with a nervous laugh. “It was built before I got here. I don’t think they used their finest materials.”

It was always cramped in here, but Joel being so broad and having such a presence made it even worse. He was closer to you now than he’d ever been. He smelled warm, like fresh coffee and leather and musk. It made your head spin.

“So, what kind of flowers are you thinking?” You needed to change the subject before you threw yourself at this man.

“Uh...pink?”

You laughed—you couldn’t help it. He couldn’t have been more vague if he tried.

“Why’s that funny?” He wasn’t mad, but he did seem impatient.

“Sorry,” you said, fighting back a smile. “Maybe you could elaborate on that?”

“I don’t know,” he groaned, running a hand over his prickly beard. “This is why I need help.”

You felt bad for laughing when he was so stressed out. He was overthinking something that should have been simple, and it made your heart ache for him. He was looking for guidance.

“We’ll do peonies for good fortune,” you told him, “and daffodils for new beginnings.”

His shoulders relaxed as some of the tension left him. Whatever was weighing on him was still there, but this was one thing that made it bearable. 

You walked back to your house after cutting the flowers, where there was actually space to work. You expected Joel to leave then, go home and wait until the flowers were ready like everyone else did, maybe even have you deliver them on his behalf, but he stayed by your side.

“How do you know all this stuff?” Joel asked, sitting across the table from you as you worked. “About flowers, I mean.”

You never got into this with anyone, but your inexplicable attachment to Joel compelled you to open up. Whatever pain resided in him reminded you of your own. He understood you.

“My mom had this book. She wrote down the meaning of every flower she knew of, and I guess I’ve memorised it all over the years,” you explained.

Talking about her didn’t hurt like you thought it would. It was actually a relief.

“When did it happen?” You knew what he was asking.

“First day,” you replied.

He nodded solemnly. “Me too.”

This wasn’t the first time you had seen through the gaps in Joel’s armour, but it was the first time he’d made the choice to let you. You didn’t know his limits, if those two words were as deep as he could get, but you wanted to see what would happen if you just asked.

“Joel?”

“Hm?”

“You don’t seem happy about this,” you said, straightforward but still cautious.

“I guess I’m not,” he admitted, looking down pensively.

“Why is that?”

“Just don’t understand bringing a kid into all this.”

You agreed with him. The people of Jackson were as safe as they could be, but outside the walls were infected, raiders, FEDRA, and a multitude of horrors too awful to speak of. It would only take one mistake for Jackson to be completely wiped out. You wouldn’t want to bring a child into a world like that either.

But you also knew that most people who had kids post-outbreak hadn’t done it by choice.

“It’s not as if people have access to birth control,” you pointed out, stacking peonies onto a piece of tissue paper. “But I don’t disagree.”

“It’s just a lot for me to wrap my head around,” Joel continued—or maybe he was starting on a completely different train of thought. “Tommy’s the uncle. He’s always been the uncle. I’m…“

He couldn’t say it. He didn’t have to.

“You still are,” you told him. “Tommy’s still an uncle.”

Joel was silent, letting your words sink in. It was cold comfort, and maybe you shouldn’t have said it, but it was what you believed.

“Why do people call you Rosebud?” The question took you aback. It was completely unrelated, yet felt so important. He was the first person in twenty years to ask you that question.

“My mom came up with it when I was little. It’s what everyone’s called me since.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Joel asked. “Seems like a constant reminder of what you lost.”

It was hard having to live without her, but you never wanted to forget what you lost. “I guess I like the reminders.”

His hand absent-mindedly fell to the broken watch on his wrist, and for a fleeting moment, you were seeing the man you first saw in December. An open wound. Marigold.

“She didn’t stop being my mom,” you said quietly. “I didn’t stop being her daughter.”

And as quickly as the wound opened, it was once again sewn shut. He even managed a smile. “You’re wise, kid. You know that?”

Kid.

Ouch.

It felt like a kick to the stomach. In an instant, the carnations that bloomed when you first saw Joel all those months ago, that had been so red and vibrant, faded into yellow.

You held yourself together until he left. You finished arranging the flowers, wrapped them up, handed them over to him, said goodbye and wished him luck, then trudged over to the couch and flopped down onto it—this time in a dejected heap.

It wasn’t as if you thought you had much of a chance with Joel, but this just felt so awfully final. It didn’t matter that you were basically thirty years old—in his mind, you were a kid.

It was embarrassing. You thought about the flowers you left—a quiet admission of feelings—and prayed the couch would swallow you whole and suffocate you. 

You’d gotten it all wrong. Joel never appreciated it. He probably thought it was weird and pathetic but didn’t have the heart to tell you. You wondered why he even accepted the initial flower, and if you weren’t feeling so spurned and humiliated, it might have dawned on you that you were overreacting.

You still left a flower that night, if only to get some closure. It would be the last one you ever left him.

A red tulip.

Joel came to your door one day in July.

You’d come to expect Ellie on your front porch at least once a week, but Joel wasn’t a surprise either. You were friends now, even after such an embarrassing rejection.

Joel still never mentioned the flowers. He was probably relieved when you stopped leaving them and wanted to pretend it never happened, and that was fine by you.

Being friends didn’t help matters though. He was always rough and grumpy in his Joel way, but he was sweet too. So sweet. It felt impossible to move on.

“Hey, Joel,” you said. “Need help with something?”

“I wanted to help you, actually.”

“Me?”

“I can’t keep lookin’ at that greenhouse,” Joel said. “It’s a piece of shit.”

You had to laugh at his honesty. “You want to patch it up?”

“Was thinking of taking the whole thing apart and rebuildin’ it.”

The offer stunned you. It was so generous and so out of nowhere. Your first instinct was to say no, that it wasn’t worth the trouble, but something stopped you. It was Joel coming to you in earnest and saying he wanted to help. It felt like an insult to deny him.

You smiled warmly and nodded. “Okay.”

“When can I get started?” he asked.

Shit. You had dozens of flower pots you didn’t know what to do with. “Uh, I’ll have to empty the greenhouse first. I guess I'll bring the flowers here in the meantime.”

“Ellie and I can help with that,” Joel said. “I’ll go get her.”

You blinked at him. “Now?”

“You got other plans?”

You absolutely did not. “Ah, no. Now is good.”

“Great.”

That was how you spent your day, lugging flower pots from the greenhouse and unloading them in your front yard with Joel and Ellie in tow. It was so lovely it bordered on being painful—pink roses unshed of their thorns pierced your heart.

You let yourself imagine for a moment that this was reality. That you, Joel and Ellie were a weird, happy family. The carnations in your soul had never been more yellow, and you instantly regretted indulging in that particular fantasy.

Joel was already at the greenhouse when you went there the next morning. He was up on a ladder, and half of the structure was already torn down. Rusted metal pipes and discoloured, ripped up plastic sheets were piling up a few feet away.

“Need any help?” you called out.

He looked down at you and smiled—a real, wide smile you hadn’t seen on him before. “You know what you’re doin'?”

“Not really.”

“Then, no,” he replied. “Don’t want you droppin’ anything on that pretty little head.”

Huh?

You flushed all over, wishing your couch was here so you could collapse onto it. Less than two months ago he was calling you a kid, and now he thought your head was pretty. The thought crept in that maybe he was purposely messing with you, but you liked Joel too much to entertain the idea.

“Well, I probably can’t help with the physical labour,” you said, cursing how nervous your voice sounded. “But if there’s anything else…”

“You’re a sweet one, Rosebud,” Joel said. He had to be doing this on purpose. “You just let me do my thing, and we’ll leave it a surprise.”

You laughed. “In other words, you’re telling me to get lost?”

He grinned at you fondly. “Just trust me.”

It only took one exchange for that hope to come back to life. You tried to stop it, tell yourself he was just teasing, that he didn’t mean it that way, but it was too late. Those carnations were already morphing back into a searing red.

You wanted to come by everyday and watch him work, but you stayed away and waited for him to come to you. It only took a few days for him to show up at your door, looking infuriatingly hot covered in blotches of sage green paint.

“Is it ready?” you asked.

“It’s ready.”

You followed along behind him, keeping your eyes down so you didn’t accidentally spot the new greenhouse before he was ready for you to look. You ended up just ogling his ass, which was a decidedly better and much more pinch-able sight than the ground.

“Look now.”

You lifted your gaze, and your hands flew up to your mouth as you let out a dramatic gasp.

It wasn’t just good, it wasn’t just an improvement, it was beautiful—masterfully pieced together with timber and painted the same sage green that Joel was sporting on his clothes. And it was bigger. There would actually be space for you to walk around inside.

Joel started to panic from beside you, and you realised you were crying. “Is it the green? I can repaint it if you hate it.”

You seemed to have lost the power of speech to reassure him, so instead, you threw your arms around him and held tight. The suddenness of it shocked him, and his hands found your waist. You weren’t sure if he was about to push you away or pull you in.

“So, you like it?” he asked.

“I love it,” you snivelled into his shoulder. “Thank you, Joel.”

He hugged you back then, caging you in with his big arms and making you feel so safe. You felt a prickly sensation on your temple as he brushed his lips against it. 

Red tulips were threatening to burst out of you in droves. You didn’t want to let go, but you were seconds away from making a confession you couldn’t take back if you spent too much longer in his embrace.

You pulled yourself away, and even with the sun beating down on you, you missed his warmth.

He walked you back home, came inside when you offered him iced tea (you were out of coffee), drank it all even if it was too sweet for him, and all you could do was thank him repeatedly for what he’d done.

“Don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I wanted to do this for you.”

What did that mean?

“I’m sorry I never said anything,” Joel continued, a pink flush apparent on his cheeks.

“About what?” You knew exactly what.

“The flowers. I wanted to thank you, but I didn’t know how. I’m not used to it.”

“Used to what?”

“Kindness.” He almost winced, like it hurt to say.

“It was weird. I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t weird,” Joel assured you. “It was…nice. Bummed me out when you stopped.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. I get it.”

You didn’t know what to say at this point. You didn’t want to be talking about any of it, and you were about to tell him that, ask him to move on from this, until he decided to put you on the absolute spot.

“What did they mean?”

Fuck. “Hm?”

“The flowers,” he said. “You said flowers have meaning. What did they mean?”

“I actually don’t know those ones.” That harmless little lie worked on Ellie, but Joel saw right through it.

“Why are you lying to me?” He didn’t even sound angry or annoyed, just genuinely curious, and a little sympathetic.

You considered doubling-down, insisting you didn't know, but you couldn’t do that him. It was a vulnerable conversation for not only you, but Joel as well. You understood how hard this was for him, and you cared for him too much to shut him down.

But you couldn’t say it, not verbally. Instead, you grabbed the notebook that was laying on your coffee table and held it out to him. There was a split second as he was reaching for it where you imagined yourself tugging it back out of his reach, forgetting about this entire thing, but then it was in his hands and it was too late. Nothing would ever be the same.

You held your breath as he flipped through it, his eyes flicking over the words. His face gave nothing away, but his finger was tracing over something.

Red tulip - declaration of love. 

He gently shut the book and set it down, and your eyes stayed firmly on the floor, hoping if you stared at it long enough it would split open and consume you.

“Are you surprised?” You couldn’t project your voice above a whisper.

“I guess not,” Joel said. It was the honest answer, and the one you most expected. “I thought you were just bein’ nice, then Ellie kept insisting you were interested.”

That girl was smarter than you gave her credit for—and you already thought she was very smart.

“I thought there was no way,” Joel continued. “You’re sweet and young and so pretty. I’m just an old man.”

“I don’t care how old you are,” you replied.

“I’ve done a lot of bad things...”

“I don’t care what you’ve done. I care who you are now.”

You were looking at him now. He looked moved, rapt, and not at all like someone about to deliver a devastating rejection.

“And you want me?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause where neither of you said anything, but the air was thick with an unspoken question: Where do we go from here?

“Can I kiss you, Rosebud?”

You nodded, and he did. It felt like dozens of chrysanthemums, camellias and carnations all springing to life under your skin.

He was gentle in a way you never could have imagined, cupping your cheek with his palm and holding your waist with the other. It was reminiscent of the hug you’d shared earlier, and you wondered if he’d wanted to kiss you then.

His lips were rough, a little chapped, but soft in the way he moved them. This wouldn’t be how he always kissed, you were sure of that. Someday it would be messy, frantic, all-consuming. But this careful, slow movement of his lips against yours was all you needed right now. 

He wanted to be gentle with you, because he cherished you like a rosebud.

flower translations:

rose (pink) - perfect happiness

rose (dark crimson) - mourning

carnation (red) - admiration

marigold - grief, despair

starwort - welcome to a stranger

chrysanthemum (red) - i love you

vervain - enchantment

gardenia - you’re lovely

yarrow - healing

aster - symbol of love

agapanthus - secret love

camellia (pink) - longing for you

peony - prosperity

daffodil (bunch) - new beginnings, hope, good luck

carnation (yellow) - rejection, disappointment

tulip (red) - declaration of love

It’s hard to keep track of time in the QZ. Everything just bleeds. The day bleeds to night and the night bleeds to day and the sky stays stunningly grey. You never see the sun rise and you never see the moon.

So if someone were to ask you how long, exactly, you’ve been sleeping with Joel Miller — you wouldn’t have a solid answer.

Three weeks, maybe. A month.

You don’t know how it started. It just…did. You’d been low on ration cards — low enough to panic — with one dingy, expired bottle of Tylenol to your name.

So you’d asked where you could trade. And everyone told you one name — the same name. Joel Miller. Down by the docks.

But only if you’ve got a death wish, they told you. That man is fucking crazy.

Dangerous. Murderer. Fuckin’ savage. Did you hear what happened to his daughter? Do you know how he got that scar on his head?

You’d heard every name in the book for Joel Miller. And you’d gone to find him anyway.

And — yeah. He’d been brooding, and silent, and the gun across his back had spelled a certain kind of violence. But he’d given you the cards, once you’d forked over the pills. So he was honest, at least.

And that was all it really took, that first time.

Maybe it was just that he was so much older than you, and so much taller, and staring down at you with a look that made you shiver. Maybe it was the way his fingers had grazed yours — rough and thick and bruised — when he’d handed you the cards. Maybe it was something else. The pain in his eyes or the hurt in his drawl.

Whatever it was — you’d taken the cards and then you’d taken his sleeve. Dragged him down the docks; to a little lean-to office on the corner of the wharf — and he’d taken it from there. He’d really only said one thing, the whole time, and it had been when you’d reached for his belt. Been awhile. A little apologetic, almost. But then he’d made you cum twice before his belt was even off, once with his fingers and once with his tongue, and you got the sense that maybe he used to be kind. And then he’d fucked you, with his gun still slung across his back. So hard and so good you’re pretty sure you’d seen stars.

He’d given you your pills back, too. When you were still too fucked-out to get up and stop him. Just…stuffed them back in your ratty fucking backpack — no words, no explanation. A gesture of good faith.

That was a month ago. Three weeks, maybe.

Now you wake up next to him, on a shitty mattress in his shitty grey apartment, and you watch sunlit smoke filter through his window. The smell of burning…something follows fast on its heels.

You roll over. Press your face into his flannel and breathe, deep, trying to mask the smell of death with his scent. And it works, sort of. If you close your eyes and pretend.

Joel doesn’t really let you touch him. He hasn’t said as much — he doesn’t really say much of anything, actually — but it’s become an unspoken rule these past few weeks. He gives you what you need when you ask. He takes what he needs when you let him. But he never lets you give him anything. You’ve never kissed him. You’ve never even held his hand.

So when you wake up, now — and he’s still sound asleep — you seize the opportunity. You touch his jaw with your fingers, and graze his chin with your thumb. You trace the hollow of his cheek and the slope of his nose and you almost, almost kiss him.

But then you have a better idea.

He never lets you give him anything. He’s too wound up. All coiled springs and broken pieces, like that old shattered watch that lives wrapped up on his wrist. He won’t tell you why he wears it. You think it has something to do with the silence he carries. With the way his heart beats too slow, every night, when you curl into him and let his chest cling to your back.

You don’t know if you can make him better. But you want to try.

You shift your weight down the mattress. Slowly — slowly — so you don’t wake him. You’re not sure what you’re worried about. He sleeps like the dead. Until a nightmare comes, or a gunshot cracks across the street.

You shuffle in between his legs and snake a soft hand up his jeans. He’d fallen asleep in his clothes, last night. He does that, on the rare nights where he doesn’t fuck you senseless. On those nights he falls asleep naked, next to you. On those nights he keeps you warm.

But last night you’d been asleep already when he’d stumbled back in. He’d wrestled the gun off his shoulder, and washed the blood off his knife, and sunk into bed beside you with an arm around your waist.

Now you can see he’d managed to take his boots off, at least. Nothing else. They’re scattered by the mattress, splattered with blood and ash and mud. So is the rest of him. But you can deal with that later.

You work your hand over denim. Featherlight. You brace one hand on the mattress and do his fly with the other, working his button free and his zipper down.

Then you pause, to see if he’ll wake up. He doesn’t. His cock twitches, though, jumping at your hand when you brush over his jeans.

You smile. You tug his jeans past his hips and bring his boxers down, too — just far enough to free him. Then you settle back against the mattress, shimmying between his thighs. Your head hovers over his aching cock.

He’s fully hard, now. Like he can sense your mouth hanging inches over him. The tip twitches, red and swollen, and he gives a shallow moan in his sleep. His fingers flex on the mattress.

You kick the urge to reach out and grab them. You don’t want to wake him — not yet — and you want your mouth to be the only thing he feels. You want to give this to him, because he never takes it for himself. He never asks. You think maybe he thinks he doesn’t deserve it.

You think he does.

You press a kiss to the head of his cock and he groans. Deep, guttural — but his breathing doesn’t shift. Still deep. Still asleep. You hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, swirling your tongue across his velvet tip — and his hips jerk. His cock swells in your mouth.

You’d swear, if you weren’t trying so hard not to wake him. You’ve never seen him this…pliable. This soft. The noises he’s making now, in his sleep, with his cock in your mouth — are the ones he always swallows back, every time he’s fucking you.

You rub your thighs together. Clamp down against the wetness there. And then you take him deeper, fluttering your tongue along his length as you go. You choke a little on those last few inches. He prods at the back of your throat and you have to ball your fist into the mattress. But you don’t let up. You can take him. He’s fucking — huge — and impossibly hard, in the wet heat of your mouth — but you can take him.

Your mouth wraps tight around the base of his cock. He mumbles softly and it trails to a moan. His cock pulses somewhere deep in your throat.

You ease up. No hands, still. Just your mouth — tight and hot and soaked. You pull back, leaving a slick, glistening trail where your lips pull up his cock — and release him with a quiet pop.

You pause again. Still asleep. But his cock is straining, wide-awake, leaking pearly beads of precum.

You put your mouth back to the tip. Lick softly, gently, until his hips buck into your mouth. You find a spot that makes him moan, at the underside of his head, and stay there with the flat of your tongue until you feel his balls pull tight underneath you.

And then you say fuck it, and drag your mouth all the way back down his cock. Over and over and over, straddling his thighs, gagging a little when his cock hits your throat again and again.

You hear his breathing change. The short, shallow stutter when he opens his eyes, and lifts his head off the pillow, and sees you worshipping him on your knees.

“F-fuck,” he breathes. His eyes are glassy. “D-darlin’. W—“

He doesn’t get anything else out. Your pace is relentless, dragging him over the edge, and he’s cumming down your throat before he’s even registered he’s awake. The result is a quiet, breathy moan, still half-asleep and drunk on you. His hands move instinctively to grip your hair, pressing you to his cock while he spills inside your mouth.

“You — fuck, baby.” His voice is rough. “Wha — god — ah. Goddamn.”

You swallow every drop. He tastes like smoke and steel and something distinctly Joel. His hands go slack and you pull yourself off his cock. You lay your head on his broad thigh and he strokes at your hair.

It’s gentle. Easy. You’re pretty sure his fingers tremble.

He finally speaks, when you’ve almost drifted back to sleep. It surprises you. He speaks so rarely that you’re still not used to the sound of his drawl.

“You…” his fingers still in your hair. You think maybe he’s just now realized how intimate this is. How close. But he doesn’t take them away.

He clears his throat. You hear the snag in his breath.

“You ain’t gotta do that,” he breathes. “Don’t — have to.”

You tilt your chin so it’s resting on his thigh. Look up at him.

“I wanted to,” you say.

He shakes his head, slightly. He doesn’t ask it, but you can read the question. Why?

You lean in, a little hesitant. Drape your body over his. He doesn’t push you away; doesn’t flip you back over. He drags his hands up your sides and tugs you closer to him. Your lips brush his and he tips his chin to meet you.

“You deserve it,” you say, softly.

He shakes his head again. Or tries to. It’s hard, with your mouth hanging so close over his.

“Don’t deserve any ‘a this,” he murmurs. His hands rake your sides. “Don’t deserve you.”

You’re quiet. Your heart breaks a little for him. For how sincere he sounds, in that serrated Southern drawl.

“Done — bad things,” he mumbles. “I ain’t — I ain’t a good man.”

It’s silent, for a few moments. That sunlit smoke creeps closer to the mattress. Wraps in tiny, twisting wisps around your ankles.

“Yes you are,” you breathe, and your thumb rakes his jaw. “You’re good to me.”

So, it was no shock to Joel to see the surprised look on his younger brothers face when he begrudgingly decided to accept his invitation to Thursday night live music at the Tipsy Bison.

“You’re going to love it,” Tommy had promised. Somehow, even the wide smile across his face and the pleased sparkle in his brothers eye could not convince Joel so. Nevertheless, he obliged, and found himself that next Thursday evening awaiting Tommy’s arrival nervously near the front door. He wore his usual worn blue jeans and a green flannel atop a black t-shirt, figuring some music at a bar was not the occasion to dress up for. Not that he would have cared to, anyway. Settling for comfort over style any day. He fiddled with the laces of his brown boots before tying them, a dissatisfied groan escaping his lips as he steadied himself upright.

“You gonna make it through the night, old man?” a voice called from the living room. Splayed out stomach down on the rug, Ellie peered up at him humorously from whatever book she was reading.

He gave her an unamused look. “M’fine,” he grumbled, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the doorframe. “You sure you gon’ be okay all alone? I can tell Tommy I—”

“Oh, no, no you don’t!” Ellie perked up, popping up to a sitting position. She placed the book face down in her lap, offering him a stern look. One that mimicked the one she had seen him give time and time again. “No excuses. You’re going.”

This was the first time since their arrival in Jackson Joel would be leaving her alone. He knew there were no real dangers; their shared home sat at a quiet corner of the street, the neighbors had introduced themselves, and those who didn’t — likely due to whatever rumors and gossip they had heard spread about the older Miller brother — kept their distance enough to pose no threat. To say he was feeling some anxiety in the pit of his stomach was an understatement. Whether that was due to leaving Ellie alone or having to socialize, he chose not to pinpoint. Nonetheless, his attempt to use her as an excuse failed miserably.

As if on cue, three knuckle wraps met with the door then. Joel offered the girl one last roll of his eyes before opening it to reveal Tommy, smiley as ever, in his jean jacket and a black cowboy hat. It took everything inside of Joel to hide the sneer that crept onto his lips. Well, he sure looks the part of ole’ Texan commune patrolman.

“Ready?” Tommy inquired.

“Oh, he’s ready!” Ellie chirped before Joel even had a chance to speak.

He snapped his head back towards her with a scowl, unsurprised to see her grinning ear to ear. “Don’t stay up late,” he grumbled after her as he pushed passed Tommy and out the door. He could hear her mock something after him and bid the younger brother a farewell before they both fell into a leisurely stride on the street towards the center of town.

Strung up lights lit their pathway and a comfortable silence fell. Joel knew his brother didn’t mind. In fact, their moments of alone time were some of the few Joel had experienced a semblance of comfort in since their arrival. It was taking him a much longer time to adjust, and while he was grateful to see Ellie so eager to assimilate, he could not shake the nagging buzz of panic that coursed through his veins, day and night. This was not the world he had known for the better second half of his life, and it sure as hell wasn’t one he could ease into so quickly.

“Couple’uh the guys said they’d meet us inside.” Tommy’s words sliced through the pestering thoughts as they approached the building, sounds of jovial chattering beginning to fill the air. Joel gave him a nod and grunt of approval, despite not quite being "one of the guys" in Jackson just yet. Not that it was a goal, anyway.

As soon as they entered the confines of the bar, Joel felt his shoulders tense. The Tipsy Bison was small enough as it was, a dozen tables or so fit for two, now crowded around by three or four. The air smelled of liquor, smoke, and sweat, nearly suffocating the man as he attempted to keep on Tommy's heels, weaving through the vaguely familiar faces that all seemed to watch him with an unwarranted fascination. At the front center of the room, a makeshift stage had been set up with wooden platforms. More strings of lights made up a back drop, an array of instruments including a keyboard, drum set, and various guitars took their respective places on stage. Some of them had certainly seen better days.

An eruption of voices upon their arrival towards the back of the room startled him slightly, glancing up to see the two other men who greeted Tommy with the warm welcome waving the Miller brothers over. By the looks of it, they were plenty of drinks deep, and Joel found himself unable to conjure up the names. One of them completely unfamiliar to him, though it was very possible Tommy had introduced him, and he just forgot. The other a Barry...Larry, Jerry? He couldn't recall, planning to skate by the night with minimal interaction.

"Saved you some drinks," one of them announced, sliding over two glasses of whiskey towards the brothers. Now this Joel would accept with open arms, and he did, leaning an elbow against the table and wrapping his fingers around the glass without a moment to spare. "Glad to have you join us, Joel."

"Mhm," he grunted in response, taking a generous swig of whiskey. "Yeah. Thanks."

Tommy was quick to swoop in for conversation, sensing the discomfort in his brother. Though it did not take much deliberation to see it, as he resembled that of statue in the rigid and unnatural way he stood. Joel wasn't claustrophobic, but he sure has hell didn't like being around this many people. Not when he could see them looking at him. Hear the occasional drop to a whisper as people would pass by. The rational part of him couldn't blame them; he was still relatively new, and they had every right to have their questions and curiosities. But the other side of him, one more frequently ruled by anger an instinct, felt like he could snap at any moment.

"Ladies and gentlemen--" the voice came as an echo from the microphone on stage, and when Joel turned over his shoulder, he could see the band migrating themselves onto the platform. A younger man who had slung the bass over his shoulder spoke into the mic. "We are gonna get started here for y'all in just a moment, but I wanted to take this time to introduce you to our beloved talent this evening." A few rounds of applause began to erupt from the crowd, excitement glittering the air. Joel could tell this was an awaited event, and as quickly as he began to question why, his thoughts were answered.

The moment he saw you, he couldn't look away.

The young man with the bass had stepped aside from center stage, an outreached hand gesturing towards the opposite side of the room where bodies parted to make way for you. You mounted the stage with a dazzling smile, mouthing thank you's towards the numerous folks who already cheered in anticipation, unaware of the new pair of eyes that followed your ascent with precision.

Even in his short month in Jackson, Joel had encountered plenty of women. Young, old, kind, distant, and those that were a bit too eager for his attention. But in that time, he had never laid his eyes on you. And by God, he thought the wind might have been knocked out of his lungs. Your eyes seemed to sparkle underneath the lights, the smoothest skin he had ever seen, silken hair tied up halfway and curled around your face. You wore a white dress that dipped into a delicate V below your collarbones, puffy sleeves that hanged off your tanned shoulders, and a skirt that ruffled just passed your knees. At your feet, a pair of worn leather cowboy boots.

Joel was oblivious to his gawking until he felt a nudge from Tommy beside him. His brother was giving him a knowing look to which Joel feigned annoyed confusion for. Not wishing to embarrass his brother, Tommy simply leaned over and offered Joel your name. "She's been singin' here for a few months now, every week. Got together the whole band for events at first, but the community loved it so much, they were willin' to make it a weekly thing." And by the community, Joel could tell he mostly meant the men. It was only then that he took a good scan across the bar, a notably uneven presence of testosterone. Not that he was better than any of them. The first thought once he got passed the initial shock of your beauty being a wondering of just how soft that smooth skin would have felt below his touch.

This was unlike him. Perhaps it was the environment or the alcohol, but he could not deter himself from the way your aura enamored him, and seemingly captured the entire room, too. He had no time to question Tommy about you when your voice picked up again.

"It's so good to see all your lovely faces again," you hummed into the microphone as you began to adjust the stand shortening it to your preferred height ever so slightly. Any worries from the days events rolled off your shoulders, instantly feeling at ease when you had stepped upon that stage. Up here, you didn't have to be anything but you. The inspiration flowing through your veins and out into the atmosphere. The moment your fingers wrapped around the mic, a sort of electricity filling you. It was difficult in a world as broken as this one to find ones livelihood, and here you were, basking in the the one thing that filled your soul with peace.

The pianist began to pluck a few warm-up notes on the keyboard. "As always, thank you for being here. And don't be shy if you have any requests." You tipped the toe of your boot towards the clear bowl at the foot of the stage, tiny pieces of ripped paper and a few pencils at the disposal of the audience.

With a nod of your head towards the fellow players, a slow and steady jazz tune picked up. You took a deep breath. No matter how often you had sung in front of a crowd, there were still the inevitable jitters. Closing your eyes, you soaked in the moment before your lips parted in melody.

Crazy, I'm crazy for feeling so lonely.

I'm crazy. Crazy for feeling so blue.

I knew you'd love me as long as you wanted,

And then someday you'd leave me for somebody new

Hums of approval, of reminisce, came from the audience, now silent at your will and the timeless words of Patsy Cline. Joel stood in the same spot, elbows leaned back against the table behind him, and neck slightly craned forward in surprise as the word flowed from you. He was not sure what he expected, but the angelic timbre of your voice certainly had exceeded his ideas. He was transfixed by you, noting the way you would lean in to each and every word, your expressive brows cultivating the pain and passion of the lyrics.

Worry, why do I let myself worry?

Wondering what in the world did I do?

He understood the appeal. How could he not? The way you swayed your hips ever so slightly and sultry to the rhythm, hands running down the body of the microphone. Your voice reached into him like an aiding hand, tugging him from the hole he dwelled in. Time could not exist in that room, not when you were there to bring it to a slow, captivating people and reminding them of a different time. An easier time.

Crazy for thinking that my love could hold you.

I'm crazy for trying and crazy for crying.

As he watched you, Joel could not help but wonder if there was some truth to the words you sung. The way you bore your heart into their agony told a story he and many others could understand. Love, loss, regret. Things he would not normally bring himself to face but could bare to think about momentarily through your melodious storytelling.

He felt his throat constrict, and he swallowed hard.

No. Joel Miller was not about to get emotional over some silly song.

When it did come to an end, silence hung in the air for a mere beat before a roar of applause overtook the bar. Joel joined in willingly, setting his glass atop the table to offer his own appreciation in delicate claps. He watched you as your eyes properly scanned the audience now, taking in the appreciation with flushed cheeks and a pearly smile. You nodded your head towards a few people in the front row, brows pulled together in bashful gratitude. The work you were doing within those walls was simple, but you knew the gravity of its impact, and it filled you to the brim of an adoration the world outside Jackson could never supply.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

The band went on to play for another hour and a half, ranging from old folk tunes that you teasingly remarked may have been much before your time, but would be plenty familiar to some of the patrons, to some softer rock hits from the late nineties.

Joel soaked in every moment of it.

And when you announced to the audience that they would be taking a thirty minute intermission prior to the next set, he could not help but feel a wave of disappointment. Tommy was right.

He did love this.

While the rest of the crowd seemed to disperse back into their respective conversations, Joel's eyes still lingered on the stage where you had stepped down to the foot of now, greeting the few residents who came up to shake your hand or compliment you on your performance. He noticed how that bewitching grin never seemed to leave your cheeks, a sort of delicate ease and confidence to the way you moved so brightly. Like a goddamn ray of sunshine, he thought.

He had half a mind to march over there and talk to you, only to realize he had no idea what the fuck he would even say. He was back to scolding himself then. Plenty of the old men around here already made no haste in ogling you up, you certainly didn't need one more.

"Terry's been workin' on fermentin' some of his own beer-" Terry. Fuckin' Terry is his name. Way off, Miller. It was Tommy speaking to him again. "We're gonna head over, give a couple batches a try. You oughta come with."

Joel blinked at him blankly, seemingly the only one still reeling from the performance he had just witnessed. Or maybe it was because this was his first time, and by the gradual smirk that came to rest on Tommy's face, he figured that was so.

"Stop lookin' at me like that." Joel grumbled.

"I fuckin' told you."

"Yeah, okay," he muttered, eyes falling to his boots that kicked at the dusted floor. "I did. I really did like it." Not just the music, he wanted to add, but didn't. He stopped himself from asking why they couldn't stay for the second set, but didn't either. The last thing he needed was more of Tommy's pestering. And besides, there was always next Thursday.

Joel lingered towards the back of the group as they eventually migrated their way out of the bar. The summer air fell cooler now with the sun below the horizon, and a few groups of people had migrated outside to chat or smoke a cigarette. Departing the premise appeared it would not be an easy task, as almost every person they passed stopped Tommy to say hello, ask a question, and occasionally offer an introduction to Joel. He didn't mind, though. Tommy could talk an ear off while he remained invisible by his side, for all he could care. The sooner they could leave the swarms, the better. Without the music to distract him or anyone else around him, Joel became vividly aware of himself around numerous bodies of strangers. The anxiety returned back to his stomach.

And just as it seemed they were finally about to escape, a call from the open bar doors hurdled their direction.

"Tommy Miller!" The group of men came to a halt, all turning around to face the voice. Joel stopped in his tracks as he saw you standing in the door frame, a jean jacket over your shoulders now, and hands rather dramatically on your hips. "I know you aren't leaving without saying hello, now, are you?" You tilted your head teasingly, that same smile creeping onto your cheeks as you skipped down the steps and towards them.

Tommy knows you. Well, of course he fucking knows you, but Joel didn't expect like this. Returning the smiles, arms open wide when you reach him, offering you a hug and congratulations on another fantastic performance. Joel suddenly felt paralyzed. Sure, he had contemplated speaking to you just moments ago, but that was a fleeting fantasy. Sharing in your presence with the entire room was a much different experience than having you so close. Up close, he could see the little details of your eyes, your skin that really did look so soft, the youthful and joyful aura that radiated off of you. He felt his hands clam up.

"Sorry, honey," Tommy continued, giving your shoulder a squeeze. "You're just so goddamn popular, we didn't wanna bother'ya."

You rolled your eyes, still beaming up at him. "Oh, please. Never. Never a bother." You had sung for he and Maria's wedding reception. It was a small gathering, and you were honored when they had asked you to be apart of it. They had always been good to you, and asking you to be a staple in their special day solidified a shared respect and trust.

Your eyes shifted then, acknowledging the tall man beside Tommy. A glint of curiosity flickered over them, and you wondered if this could be--

"Oh, hey. This is my brother," Tommy began, now giving his hand to Joel's shoulder which instantly stiffened upon the attention.

The things you had heard about Tommy's older brother did not quite prepare you for the man himself. Then again, you had never been one to gossip, though the subconscious effect this towns rumors had on your perception was impossible to avoid. The tousled peppered hair and hard lines of his face were the first traits that drew you in. Then, it was the broadness of his arms, shoulders, his whole being seeming to take up more space than he would have cared for. And finally, the chocolate brown eyes which bore into you in a way that made your chest tighten. Eyes that carried a story, history. The kind you could get lost into for hours.

"Oh, Joel, right?" He felt his lungs stop working. Now, it was him you were smiling at.

"Uh, yes ma'am," he spoke, voice hoarse from how dry his throat felt.

He saw your nose crinkle in feigned disgust, giggling. He could listen to the sound for hours. "Please, not the ma'am. You countrymen are too polite," you assured him, extending a hand and offering him your name. "Good to finally meet you. Tommy has spoken so much about you." And everyone else, for that matter. Did you know he use to raid innocent people? Smuggler in the QZ's. Not sure why they even let him in here. Killed people with his bare fucking hands-

It was all noise, as far as you were concerned. You may have been young when the whole world went to shit, but you were no strangers to the lengths anyone would go through to survive. Especially if it meant protecting the people they loved. And you had a feeling Joel Miller had gone through more than most.

When Joel did finally take your hand to shake, he was pleased to discover it was as soft as he expected, and much smaller, nestled securely in his grasp. He savored the moment that ended far too quickly, and when you let go, he balled his hand into a fist at his side.

"You, uh, you were great up there," he willed himself to say, the sincerity plain even behind the rough exterior.

You felt a blush creep up your neck. No matter how many compliments people payed you, you could never quite get use to them. Especially when they came from handsome, rugged men whose deep drawl made you want to listen to him compliment you for hours. That was another thing you had not expected about Joel Miller.

He was dashingly handsome.

"Thank you," you offered rather sheepishly, folding your hands behind your back and fiddling with your fingers. A nervous habit. "I love every moment of it."

You didn't have to tell him that for him to notice. It was clear in the way you owned the stage, but hearing your adoration for it out loud cracked a grin on his lips. You noticed, holding his eyes for a moment longer. You couldn't tell what was behind those eyes now, but it made your tummy flip, the unreadable elegance of them captivating you.

"And so did we!" Tommy interrupted the unspoken shared moment. Joel cleared his throat, his eyes falling back to his boots. "We'll let you get back to all the fun, but hopefully we can come by for next Thursday's show."

You nodded eagerly. "I would love that."

Tommy offered you another embrace before heading off with Terry and Glenn who both wished you a goodnight. You noted the way the older Miller brother seemed to linger a bit behind, using it as an opportunity to call to him.

"It was nice to meet you, Joel!"

Once more, he was stopped in his tracks, cocking his head over his shoulder to see that same giddy smile on your face, rocking from heel to toe adorably. Goddamn Terry and his stupid goddamn beer. He offered you another quaint grin that electrified your chest again.

"You too, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

The rest of your second set, you couldn't help but be a bit distracted. Wondering what it would have been like to look into the audience and spot his eyes on you. Patience was a virtue you both seemed to lack, for when Joel's head hit the pillow later that night, he couldn't help himself from praying next Thursday would come a little faster this time around.

chapter song:

Exile Full Story (13k): This is the one-shot version of the whole thing. Feel free to read this or read it chapter by chapter below! Enjoy ♡

Prologue(September,2013)

Episode One: Eight Months Later (May,2014)

Episode Two: Two Months Later (July, 2014)

Episode Three: One Week Later (July, 2014)**

Episode Four: Three Months Later (October, 2014)

Episode Five: Two Weeks Later (October, 2014)

Episode Six: Two Months Later (December, 2014)**

Episode Seven: Next Morning (December, 2014)**

It was several hours later now and nightfall was approaching—and it was approaching a hell of a lot fucking faster than you could have even anticipated. The darkness was quickly closing in, falling around you like a velvet black curtain. However, stumbling around blindly in the dark was currently the very least of your worries. 

Your feet were raw, both completely blistered and bleeding through your socks inside of your worn out, muddied white canvas sneakers. Your sore, aching legs screamed out for mercy and your knees trembled violently, threatening to buckle out from underneath the weight of your body at any given moment. 

In the week and a half leading up to your escape from captivity, you’d been deprived of both food and water—it had been your punishment for closing your eyes and turning your head away after you’d been instructed by the slavers to watch their brutal assault of the young teenaged girl that you had been sharing a cage with. She’d been unable to keep up with her work duties, and they had decided to make an example out of her.

Despite still having been forced to witness the horrendous, unspeakable things they’d done to that poor girl, your initial resistance resulted in you being beaten and then starved for several days. Occasionally, one of the late night guards would try and bribe you, offering a small piece of jerky or a couple of stale crackers in exchange for a blowjob. At first, you told him you’d rather cut your own tongue out with a rusty blade than suck his dick, but when he proposed the disgusting, vile trade again just a couple of nights later, you’d accepted it—because him pulling you out of that fucking cage after hours and removing the tight shackles from your wrists when no one else was around would give you the chance to finally make a run for it.

You swung yourself around the nearest redwood tree, slumping back against its thick, wide trunk. You covered your mouth with your two hands in an attempt to silence the sound of your heavy panting. 

Besides being in pain, malnourished and severely dehydrated, the exhaustion was starting to set in too. The adrenaline pumping through your veins had brought you this far, but exactly how much farther could it take you? How much longer could it possibly keep you going before your tired body decided to give up and give out?

Somewhere behind you, you could hear the men calling out cheerfully.

One sang out, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“Come out and plaaaaay,” a second taunted.

The third shouted, “We’re gonna get you!”

Their giddiness made you want to vomit. If your stomach hadn’t been empty, you would have.

Those sick, twisted fucks weren’t letting up. 

They’d been on your heels for hours.

The large group of slavers in California were over two hundred strong and had dozens of prisoners chained up in their human cages—they had more than enough people to force into labor. There was no need for them to waste their time and efforts going after you, but after spending the last eight months witnessing firsthand how these sadistic bastards operated, it occurred to you that their desire to recapture you wasn’t out of a need for labor. It was for their entertainment. 

They were hunting you down for sport.

This was their idea of fun.

“Fuck,” You whispered underneath your breath, your hands falling down to your sides.

Something had to give.

Your legs, your body, your will to live.

Perhaps all of the above.

You couldn’t keep on running for much longer.

And even if you could, where the hell were you supposed to go? How were you supposed to get there?

You had no food, no water, and no weapon.

Just the torn, tattered clothes on your back.

You were defenseless against whatever else was out there and you couldn’t see yourself surviving longer than a couple of days at most.

There was a part of you that wanted to give up and surrender. If you could be absolutely certain that they would shoot you dead on the spot, you would actually consider it and step out from behind the tree—hell, you would happily let them put a bullet between your eyes and put you out of your misery once and for all. But they wouldn’t be so generous. You knew they would have their way with you here in the middle of this forest and only after they were done would they take you back to their settlement where they’d put you right back in shackles so the real torture could begin. Just like that teenaged girl, the slavers would make an example out of you so that nobody else in their right mind would even think about running away. 

They would be sure to make your death as slow and as agonizing as possible.  

No. If you were going to die, then you were going to die. But fucking not like that.

Hearing them draw closer towards where you’d been hiding, you pushed yourself away from the redwood and willed yourself to keep on going.

Wyoming l Fall 2024

Your eyes softly fluttered open.

Bright, early morning sunlight filtered in through the ripped, white lace curtains that were hanging over the small, square shaped window right above your head. 

Blinking the sleep away, you propped yourself up slightly on your elbows and took a glance around at your surroundings. The old, abandoned cabin that you’d stumbled across just a couple of days ago was tiny, cramped, and crumbling. It also reeked—it smelled damp, musty, and earthy, like rotting wood. But beggars can’t be choosers and you were certainly in no position to be a chooser. It’s not what you considered to be ideal, but it’s four walls and a roof. It’s sparsely furnished with a table and two chairs, an old wood burning stove you were too afraid to light because you didn’t want to risk setting the place on fire, and there’s even a small, twin sized bed for you to sleep on. Well, perhaps calling it a bed was a tad bit too generous. It’s really just a mattress sitting on four large concrete blocks; it’s rough, dirty, and torn with rusted springs and bits of fluff sticking out from every corner. Still, it sure as fuck beat the hell out of sleeping outside in the dirt.

Besides the luxury of having something close to a proper roof to sleep under, there was also a lake just two and a half miles north of the cabin where you had been able to fill your canteen with fresh water. Not to mention, you’d also been able to bathe and wash your clothes for the first time in a couple of weeks. You had been on your own for about a year now, and this was the luckiest you’ve gotten in terms of finding a decent play to stay.

Whether or not it’s safe, it was still too early to tell. 

Sure, you were out somewhere in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and hadn’t seen a single soul, living or dead, in a couple of months now. But that still didn’t mean that running into the infected or other people wasn’t a possibility. 

You swung your legs over the side of the mattress and sat up, slipping on your pair of warm, woolen socks before tugging on your boots—you’d found them over the summer and even though they had been about one size too small, you’d managed to break them in since then and the supple brown leather now molded to your feet almost perfectly. You stood up and lifted your arms up above your head while simultaneously twisting your stiffened back in a painful, but much needed stretch. You were only just a couple of months shy of turning thirty years old, but your bones snapped, crackled and popped with your movement, making you feel twice your actual age. 

The thought of it made you snort. You should be so lucky to stay alive long enough to see the age of sixty. Hell, you were unable to fathom how you’d even made it this close to seeing thirty.

Dropping your arms back down to your sides, you made your way over to your khaki colored pack and pulled out your aluminum canteen from one of the pockets. You twisted off the cap and gulped back a long, cool drink of water, hoping to get rid of the dryness in your mouth and the cracks in your chapped lips. As soon as the liquid made it all the way down to the pit of your stomach, the hollow, muscular organ grumbled out loudly, demanding food. You’d had some decent luck while out hunting the previous morning, capturing two wild rabbits—you had eagerly skinned, cleaned and cooked them both, devouring one right after the other so fast that it had nearly made you sick. It had been a pretty decent meal, but not nearly enough to completely satisfy your ravenous hunger. Prior to finding the cabin and settling in, you had been living off of a couple handfuls of berries for three days while on the move. You were still fucking starving and all you could do was pray that you’d find more rabbits today. 

Maybe you’d get luckier and spot a pheasant.

You drank some more water and set your canteen aside. You’d planned to return to the lake later in the afternoon to refill it as well as to have another bath. You pulled on your faded, black denim jacket over your hoodie and picked up the wooden bow and brown leather quiver of arrows sitting beside your pack. You’d found the weapon in some hunting shop back in Utah that had already been picked over clean to the bone over the last couple of decades. However, no one had even bothered with taking the bow. It hadn’t really surprised you, though. In the post outbreak world, a bow and arrow would do absolutely nothing to protect against the infected runners and stalkers—and it would do much less to protect against clickers. 

Still, a bow was useful in its own right. 

It was perfect for hunting game. It was silent, keeping you and your location concealed from potential passersby at all times. Most importantly, you could reuse your arrows so long as you were careful and didn’t break them while removing them from your kills—and in the event that you did happen to snap an arrow, all you had to do was salvage what you could from the damaged projectile and make a new one, simple as that. 

Your father had taught you how before he’d died.

“Why bother with a bow? What about a gun?” You had asked him.

“Might not always be able to get your hands on a gun,” he’d replied as he sharpened an edge of the small, thumb sized rock in his hand. “Or bullets. It doesn’t hurt to have alternatives in the event that you can’t get your hands on either of those things, kiddo.” Despite being in your mid twenties at the time, he’d still always call you kiddo. “Always have a backup weapon, alright?”

He’d been wise to give you that advice.

You did have a firearm, a colt pistol that you hardly had ammunition for. There was ten rounds left in the clip and with no luck in finding any more in the last couple of months, you’d decided to preserve them, saving what little bullets you had left for a real emergency. You kept the gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans at all times, along with the sharp switchblade that you used to gut and skin game. As far as weapons go, you sure as hell could’ve been a lot worse off. But if you happened to stumble upon more ammunition for your gun, you certainly wouldn’t complain about it. 

Slinging your bow and the quiver of arrows over your shoulder, you grabbed the dark gray foraging bag that you used to collect and carry your kills in and left the cabin, feeling somewhat confident enough to leave the remainder of your belongings behind instead of hauling them all along with you like you had the morning before. It wasn’t that you feared someone would come along and steal them. Rather, you’d gotten so damn used to the instability and the constant moving around—you never stayed in one place for too long and were always prepared to run. But today, you decided to leave your things in the cabin, feeling certain that you would return in just a couple of hours. 

You stepped out onto the creaking, three step porch and a gentle breeze whisked its fingers through your hair. It’s the middle of autumn in Wyoming and the air outside was fresh, cool and crisp. Winter was looming right around the corner like a dark shadow, and although you’d somehow managed to make it through the previous year’s brutal snow season, that didn’t do much to stop you from being nervous about the one that was to come. If all went according to your plan, you’d be holing yourself up in that shoddy little cabin until the worst of winter was over and then you would move along.

To where?

You didn’t have the slightest fucking clue. 

You made a short trek about two miles south, going in the opposite direction of the lake and finding yourself closer to the thick forest trees that surrounded the base of the mountain range out in the distance instead. There was a dried, grassy clearing just feet from the entrance of the forest—finding a single, decently sized boulder in the middle of the wide, open space, you decided that behind it was the perfect spot for you to set up and hope for the best. Carefully setting your things down on the ground, you pulled out a pair of old, cracked binoculars from your bag. You leaned your body over the smooth, round top of the rock and lifted them up to your face, peeking through the lenses. You hoped to spot something right away because it sure would be fucking nice to eat something sooner rather than later.

Diligently, you scanned your surroundings for any and all signs of wildlife. 

That’s when you saw it, standing near the edge of the woods.

You gasped as your sights fell upon the deer.

Pulling your face away from your binoculars, you blinked furiously before taking another look just to be sure that your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you. It wasn’t a hallucination. It’s a white tailed deer—a female, and from the look of her, she had to be at least about a hundred pounds.

You tried to not get too far ahead of yourself, but it was too late. The thought of finding some herbs and making a hot, venison stew for supper made your mouth salivate. The rest could be dried out and made into a batch of jerky that could feed you for months. Months.

Then, you suddenly remembered you’ve never even attempted to bring down an animal of that size before and you’re slapped back into reality.

You thought about your father, who would bring home a deer every weekend after going on his hunting trips with his old college buddies. “You want to aim for the heart or the lungs,” he’d say as you and your siblings would watch him dress the carcass, much to your mother’s chagrin. “Look between the shoulder blade and the last rib,” he would tell you and your brothers. You’d also had an older sister, but she had always been incredibly squeamish and had a soul that was much too sweet and caring for hunting. She would always want to bring home every animal your father shot and nurse it back to health. “Somewhere between those two lies everything you need to hit in order to do the job and do it well. And for the love of god, don’t you ever aim directly for the shoulder. Behind it, kiddos, always aim behind it. You got it?”

“Yes Papa,” you’d all chime out together.

Setting down the binoculars in your hands, you reached for your bow and plucked an arrow from your quiver before stepping out from behind the boulder. You were careful to be as silent as possible as you took a few steps closer towards the grazing animal. You positioned yourself and stood perpendicular to the deer, placing your feet shoulder width apart—you were a little farther from your target than you would have preferred, but you didn’t want to risk going any closer and scaring her off so it would have to do. Once you were comfortable enough with your stance, you nocked the arrow and set it on the string. You then held the string and steadied your grip on the bow, relaxing your shoulders before drawing it and pulling your arm back until you reached your anchor point, which was always the corner of your mouth. 

Breathe, you reminded yourself calmly as you aimed at the delicate spot behind her shoulder blade. Nice and slow. Breathe...

Just as you were about to release the arrow and take your shot, the deer whipped her head back towards the trees and her ears pricked forward—a split second later, she darted, zooming off across the field in the opposite direction of where you’d been standing. 

Your mouth fell open.

“Are you fucking shitting me?” You muttered.

Frustrated, you lowered your weapon and just as you started to contemplate whether or not it was even worth it to try and hunt her down on foot, you suddenly heard something—it wasn’t until the noise drew closer to where you stood that you realized it was the sound of a galloping horse.

Perplexed, you squinted over in the direction of where you thought it was coming from, right near the edge of the trees. Then, just a moment later, a brown stallion emerged from the woods with a dark haired man riding in his saddle holding a rifle in one hand and the reigns clutched tightly in the other. 

Gasping, you whirled around on the heel of your boot and immediately made a beeline back to the boulder. You swung around the rock and crouched down, ducking out of his sight. You weren’t sure if he’d seen you or not, but it didn’t matter—a wave of sheer panic washed over you and you could physically feel your own body preparing itself to go into fight or flight mode. Despite having your gun tucked into the waistband of your jeans, you still hadn’t reached for it and continued to clutch your bow and arrow in your hands instead.

Swallowing dryly, you turned and carefully lifted yourself up just enough so that you could glimpse over the top of the boulder. That’s when you saw a second man emerge from the woods. This one is blond and he was on foot instead of a horse. He was also armed, carrying a shotgun. 

“You’re mine you son of a bitch!” he shouted. He lifted his weapon, aimed, and then squeezed the trigger, shooting the horse in his side and bringing him down instantly. His rider went flying off and he hit the ground several feet away from the dead animal, landing so painfully hard that even from a distance you’d manage to hear the loud, cracking sound his body made upon impact.

You momentarily freeze.

Your heart anxiously jumped up into your throat as you watched the shooter begin to approach him. The attacker moved slow and with no haste seeing as his victim was lying there motionless on the ground with his eyes closed and no idea that he’s about to die. The blond man came to a halt just a few feet away from him, grinning as he lifted his shotgun once again and pointed the barrel of it at the other man’s head. His index finger hovered over the trigger. 

Before your mind and body could even make the connection, you rose to your feet and aimed your bow, swiftly sending an arrow straight through the blond man’s neck. He crumpled, falling to the ground writhing and squirming as he bled out in less than sixty seconds.

You waited it out for another minute, refusing to move another muscle until his body went limp and you were certain he was dead. Taking a look around, you made sure the coast was clear and grabbed your belongings, slinging them over your shoulder before you made your way over to the scene. Unsure of whether or not there could be others heading in this direction, your plan was to pick off their guns and any other useful supplies before making a run for it back to the cabin. You crouched down beside the man you’d shot and killed, carefully pulling your arrow out of his neck. It made a loud, horrid squelching sound as you removed it and blood from his jugular splattered your blue jeans. You then picked up his shotgun and checked the chamber for ammunition.

Just like the pistol tucked away in your waistband, there was hardly any rounds left, making it all but useless. Rolling your eyes, you dropped the gun on top of his chest and moved on in search of the rifle. You spotted it right beside the dark haired man.

Apprehensive, you cautiously made your way over towards him. With how still he had been lying, you could have sworn he was gone—perhaps the fall off of his horse alone had killed him. But just to be sure, you decided to give his side a harsh nudge with the toe of your boot. 

He groaned and his head rolled to the side.

He was still alive.

You effortlessly strung the bloodied arrow in your hand and aimed it right at his chest.

Move again and you’re dead, motherfucker.

“Ellie,” the man mumbled, his eyes still closed.

Ellie?

You slowly lowered your bow.

Without realizing, a little bit of your guard lowered along with it. 

Carefully, you sank down onto one knee next to the man and got a better look at him. He was much older than yourself, somewhere in his fifties if you had to guess. He had harsh forehead lines, deep creases in between his eyebrows, a patchy beard that was speckled with many grays and wild waves of thick hair that looked soft to the touch. Though some of his features were a little worse for wear due to his age, he was still quite a handsome man from what you could see. He also appeared to be in decent shape, clean and well fed and you could detect the light scent of laundry soap on his clothes. Surely, he had to have been part of some kind of group, and judging by the leather trimmed saddle on his horse, this group was one that was very well off in this post outbreak world.

You hesitated, but then lifted a slightly trembling hand and took the side of his face, cupping it in your palm as you turned his head towards you. 

There was some blood on his right temple and your fingers reached up to touch what you had assumed was the source of the bleeding—but then you realized it was a scar, maybe an inch or two in length at most and completely healed. Your fingers trailed up even further and ventured into his hair which, as it turned out, was in fact just as soft as one would imagine. You found a small gash on his scalp and your fingers became coated in the man’s blood. 

Must’ve hit himself on a rock or something.

Your hand left his hair and you placed it on his broad chest as you begun to check him over for any other potential injuries or wounds. Slipping your opposite hand inside of his brown jacket, you lifted the hem of the dark green thermal henley he wore and you discovered the scar on his temple wasn’t the only one he possessed—he had several more, way too many for you to count on one hand alone. You were so preoccupied with checking over the remainder of his abdomen that you didn’t see one of his hands slowly reaching for yours, the hand that’s still resting on his chest, right over his heartbeat.

Semiconscious, the man took your hand in his so damn gently that it startled you and took you by surprise, but it hadn’t frightened you. Weakly, he laced his fingers together with your own and he spoke again, uttering softly, “Babygirl.”

Puzzled, your eyebrows knitted together.

It almost sounded like he was pleading.

For what—for who? For Ellie?

Is she the babygirl he’s talking about?

Your other hand moved up to his shoulder and you gave it a violent shake. 

Hey, you’ve got to get up now.

“H—” You tried to speak the words, but couldn’t. They were formed in your mind and it felt like they were right there on the very tip of your tongue, but when you opened your mouth, they refused to come out. You frowned.

It’s happened before.

In the spring, you’d stumbled across a small group of people while out hunting in Idaho—it was the first time you had seen other human beings since leaving California in the fall. There had been both men and women and they even had children with them, but that did nothing to stop you from panicking when they’d approached you. One of the women cornered you, trying to tell you that they were traveling across the country to the east coast. “It’s okay,” she’d tried to tell you, holding up her hands. “We’re not bad people, I promise. We’re just trying to get to the quarantine zone in Boston. I think you should come with us, honey.”

You’d been so terrified that when you’d tried to tell her that you didn’t want to join them, you couldn’t push the words out. It had felt like your voice was stuck. That’s how afraid you’d been.

Technically, you could speak.

You’d talk to yourself often. You’d read your books out loud. Hell, you even loved to sing.

But whenever you became stressed, anxious or scared, it would happen. You’d lose your ability to speak and to communicate—not that you had anyone to communicate with except for yourself, but that’s besides the point. No matter how hard you tried to force your vocal cords, all you could get out were quiet, strangled noises. It was as if your own fears chased your voice away and during periods when you were under extreme distress, it would take several days for you to find it again. 

A gunshot sounded off in the distance, snapping you out of your train of thought.

You shook the man again, harder this time.

Come on, get up! They could be coming this way!

It was useless. He was losing all consciousness. 

You heard another gunshot and this one sounded like it came from the base of the mountain range on the other side of the trees, not all too far from where you are. For all you knew, it could very well be members of his own group who are firing those weapons out there. But whether it was his group or the other man’s group, it didn’t really fucking matter. You didn’t want to run into either one of them regardless of who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. In your eyes, everyone was a fucking bad guy.

Yanking your hand out of his, you got to your feet and prepared to make a run for it. But just as you were about to take off, the man mumbled one last time. It was incoherent and barely audible, but you managed to catch that name again. Ellie. 

For some reason you couldn’t quite explain, that sweet little name bounced around in the inside of your skull.

You chewed the inside of your cheek anxiously. 

If it’s his group out there, they’ll save him.

If it’s the other man’s group, they’ll kill him.

Normally, you’d have no problem with the idea of leaving another person to die.

After everything that happened back in California, you had lost your sense of humanity. Your ability to empathize and actually give a shit about other people had been long gone—or so you’d thought. But you had just saved this man’s life and now you found yourself unwilling to run the risk of leaving him for dead. And you didn’t have the slightest fucking clue as to why.

You exhaled a sigh of defeat.

Okay, how the fuck do I do this?

Without much time left to waste, you gathered up your belongs over your shoulder and picked up his rifle, slinging the brown leather strap across your chest so the gun rested comfortably against your backside. You walked around him, leaned over, and hooked your arms securely underneath his. Using every ounce of physical strength you had inside of you, you started dragging him back to the cabin as fast as you possibly could.

The pretty melody filled his ears as he came to.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high

there’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby…”

Joel Miller wasn’t all too sure if heaven was a real place that actually existed, but the very minute he heard the feminine voice singing, he couldn’t help but think he’s died and that’s exactly where he’d gone—because only an angel could possibly have a voice like that.

So rich, so smooth, and oh so sickeningly sweet.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue...”

The ballad being sung was all too familiar to him.

The Wizard of Oz had been Sarah’s favorite movie back when she had been a little girl, when she was seven years old and she still believed in princesses and fairytales and faraway lands with yellow brick roads. Even when she grew older, his daughter continued to hold a soft spot for the film and Joel would watch it with her every Thanksgiving at his parents’ house right after dinner—it would air on TBS and Sarah would beg him to let her have her slice of pecan pie while sitting cross legged on the floor in front of his old man’s television set.

“So long as you don’t make a mess on Nana and PopPop’s carpet,” he’d warn her. “Deall?”

Sarah would beam at him. “Deal!”

He’d grab his own slice of pie, park it right on the couch behind her, and together they would get lost in the world of Oz, although admittedly he’d usually fall into his food coma before Dorothy had the chance to make it back home to Kansas.  

“Where troubles melt like lemon drops

away above the chimney tops 

that’s where you’ll find me...”

The words faded and the rest of the song was now being hummed.

Goddamn, he thought.

Even the humming was too fucking beautiful.

Joel felt a cold, damp cloth dabbing at his sore right temple.

Come to think of it, everything was sore. 

Once, when Joel had been in his mid twenties, he had been doing some under the table roofing job with his younger brother, Tommy. It had been the hottest day of the summer in Texas, and the two of them thought having a couple cold beers with their lunch would be a good idea. The pair of them went back to work and started fucking around, goofing off like the drunk idiots they were. While horsing around, Joel accidentally stumbled right over the edge of the roof and he had fallen about fifteen feet to the ground, landing on his back on the front lawn. Luckily, he’d been okay after the fall and hadn’t sustained any serious injuries or broken any bones, but he had spent the following three to four weeks feeling like he’d been hit by a fucking Greyhound.

That was how he felt now.

Like he’d been hit by a fucking bus. Twice. There wasn’t a single part of him that wasn’t pulsating with pain—his back, his shoulders, and his head. Oh god, his head was fucking killing him. 

Joel’s eyelids twitched and he cracked them open ever so slightly, just enough that he could see the silhouette of another person hovering over him. A woman, he’d assumed, taking note of the longer hair. He felt a hand at the crown of his head as the other continued to dab at his temple with the cool cloth. It felt incredible against his warm skin.

He let out a small groan and the humming stopped.

Finally, he managed to force his eyes open.

Joel heard a gasp and the bed he’d been lying on squeaked and then shifted. He then heard a loud thumping sound as if something, or someone had fallen to the floor. 

Although he was still disoriented and his entire body ached with even the slightest movement, Joel managed to push himself up into a sitting position. Blinking rapidly, his blurred vision steadied itself after a minute and he glanced around. He was in a small, single room wooden cabin that had seen better days in its lifetime. Looking down, he saw he’d been lying on a bare, worn out mattress with his own jacket draped over him like a blanket. He wracked his mildly concussed brain, trying to recollect what had happened—it took him a moment, but one by one, the memories started flooding back to him. Joel had been leading morning patrol with Tommy when they had been ambushed by a large group of hostile raiders. He remembered shouting at his brother, telling him that he’d try and lead some of them off and far away from the direction of their commune. He’d succeeded and managed to pick off a few of the bastards that had been tailing him with his rifle, all except for one. The very last thing that he remembered was the sound of a gunshot behind him before his horse went down and he’d been thrown off and knocked out.

Everything after that was a blur.

Joel took another look around the cabin and that’s when he saw you.

You were on the floor, backed up against the wall near the foot of the mattress. Your eyes were wide and round, like a deer caught up in the headlights. Your chest was heaving, rising and falling rapidly—you reminded him of a frightened little animal that had been corned by a vicious predator. You were clutching the handle of a switchblade up against your chest with the blade pointing downwards, holding it so tightly in your hand that Joel could see the skin stretching tightly over your knuckles. 

“Who the hell are you?” He grimaced slightly, his own voice causing his head to throb. 

You didn’t reply.

Joel moved onto his next question. “Where am I?”

Again, no response.

He tried again. “Are you alone?”

Silence. 

Joel took a better look at you.

You were young. You couldn’t have been older than your late twenties, perhaps even your early thirties although that might have been a bit of a stretch. You had that look about you, one that had become all but too familiar to him in the last two decades—the exhausted appearance of someone trying to survive in the post outbreak world. Your face is tired and worn, but somehow still soft and youthful at the same time. You might have looked a little rough around the edges, but you were still the prettiest damn thing he’d seen in a long, long time. 

Joel spoke again. “Who are you? Where the hell are we?” When he was met with complete silence for the fourth time, he raised an eyebrow, feeling annoyed. “You gonna say somethin’ or what?”

You could only stare at him, your fingers wrapped around your knife in a vice-like grip.

Joel frowned.

Were you really that fucking terrified of him?

Or perhaps you couldn’t hear?

Only one way to find out, he thought to himself.

He raised his voice, asking once again, “Who are you? Where are we?”

You winced, your features twisting in discomfort.

Oh, you could hear him, alright. 

Joel swung his legs over the side of the mattress, his movement causing you to shrink back further against the wall, almost as if you were trying to become a part of the old, rotted wood. He held up his two hands, demonstrating that he had no plans to move another muscle towards you. “How long have I been out?”

He decided to show some patience and gave you a minute to respond, but when you said nothing, he couldn’t help but sigh out in frustration. Just when he’s about to force himself to come to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t be getting any kind of answers out of you, you lifted your free hand and held up three trembling fingers. 

His stomach sank. “Three days?”

You gave him a nod so tiny and so subtle that he would’ve missed it had he blinked.

“Fuck,” Joel cursed, hanging his head. He couldn’t help but begin to spiral.

What happened to Tommy? And the others? Had they been able to make it out alive?

And then Ellie’s face flashed in his mind, causing the blood in his veins to run ice cold. 

What could she possibly be thinking right now after he’d been missing for three whole days? Who was taking care of her, looking after her while he wasn’t there?

He needed to get back to Jackson—to Ellie.

And he wasn’t sure how he’d be able to do that if you didn’t start talking soon and answering his goddamn questions.

Lifting his head, Joel looked over at you again. 

“Are you all by yourself?”

You hesitated, but then nodded in reply. Yes.

Joel sighed, relaxing his tense shoulders. “Listen, I’m gonna need a little help here, alright? I don’t remember much about what happened. I’m part of a community. I was out on patrol with my group when we were attacked by raiders. There was too many of them and I tried to lead some of them away,” he explained. He might not have known what had happened after he’d been thrown off of his horse, but the fact that he was in your cabin and he was alive helped him piece at least one part of the puzzle together. “Wait a minute. Did you—did you save me out there?”

Sucking in your bottom lip, you nodded again.

Stunned, Joel’s eyebrows raised up towards his hairline. “You fuckin’ serious?” he couldn’t help but question in complete and utter disbelief. “But how? What happened out there? How did you get me here all by yourself?” His queries spilled from his lips one after the other despite knowing most of them, if not all, would go unanswered.

You looked overwhelmed by them—by him.

Figuring it was best to take it one step at a time, Joel stood up and he slowly walked over towards you. He held out his hand. “It’s alright,” he assured you in the most gentle voice he could muster. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

You refused to loosen your grip on your knife, but you accepted his hand and allowed him to help you up to your feet. Given that you didn’t lodge the blade straight through his chest, Joel would say some progress had been made. 

He released your hand and took a step backwards to give you your space. He wasn’t too sure if you couldn’t talk or simply didn’t want to talk—still thinking you’d been the woman he’d heard singing when he had drifted back into consciousness, he guessed it was the latter. 

Joel tried to think of questions he knew you’d be able to answer without having to speak.

“How long have you been by yourself?”

Shifting anxiously from one foot to the other, you held up one finger. 

“Sorry darlin’ but that don’t really help me much,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Are we talkin’ one week? One month?”

You made a gesture with your hand. Keep going.

“One year?” He didn’t bother hiding his blatant skepticism. “You’ve been completely alone for one whole year?”

You pointed at him. That’s right. 

Joel was beside himself.

It might’ve been wrong, but he was almost in awe of the fact that you’d survived on your own for so damn long.

“You got any other weapons besides that knife?”

You nod over towards a bow and sheath of arrows next to your backpack.

“You’re kiddin’ me. That’s all you’ve got?”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

Hey, it’s a good weapon and it saved your fucking life, thank you very much.

“Sorry. But I just can’t imagine that thing would do much against a clicker,” Joel mused when he noticed the offended expression your face. “You don’t have a gun at all?”

You reached behind yourself and pulled out a colt pistol from the waistband of your jeans. You finally set down your knife and then showed him that you’re low on ammunition and didn’t have more. Tucking the gun back into your jeans, you stepped around him and walked over to a corner where his rifle was propped up against the wall. You picked it up, made your way back over to him and handed it over. 

I believe this belongs to you.

“Thank you,” he uttered quietly, taking it from you. “And I ain’t talkin’ about the gun, either. I honestly don’t think I’d be standin’ here alive if you hadn’t done whatever it was you did out there.” His eyes tried meeting yours. “I’m serious, darlin’. I owe you one. I really do.”

You shrugged, too timid to meet his gaze.

“I’m Joel,” he said after a minute, setting his rifle down. “What’s your name?”

You simply stared at him.

“Oh that’s right,” Joel mumbled sheepishly. “You can’t—” He stopped himself, but he was sure you knew what he’d meant to say.

You can’t talk.

“You got a pencil or somethin’ to write with?”

You snorted and rolled your eyes at him. No, sorry. Silly me totally forgot to pick up a pack of pencils while I was out scavenging for supplies the other day.

Joel chuckled and held up his hands in defense. “Figured it was at least worth askin’,” he said. “It’d be kinda nice to know the name of the person who saved my ass, you know.” He clocked the way the corners of your mouth threatened to turn upwards into a tiny smile at his remark. “How about a map? You got one of those so you can show me where we are?”

You held up a finger, as if telling him to give you a minute. Digging into one of the front pockets of your pack, you pulled out a large, severely creased map of the state of Wyoming and unfolded it. You handed it over to him and as he held it out for you, you pointed to your current location. 

“Jackson’s about fifteen miles south from here,” Joel murmured as he scanned the map. Suddenly his dark brown eyes flickered over to your wrist—the long sleeve of your thin gray shirt had hiked up, exposing severe discoloration and scarring that went all the way around it.

Noticing where his gaze had wandered off to, you quickly retracted your hand away from the map and pulled your sleeve down. But it’d been much too late. He had seen the marks, clear as fucking day. 

Joel awkwardly cleared his throat and for the sake of not causing you discomfort, he pretended he hadn’t seen a damn thing. He turned his attention back to the map. “Remember how I told you I’m a part of a community? It’s in Jackson and it ain’t all too far from here,” he stated, peering up at you from over the top of the map. “The town is gated and it’s secure. You’ll be safe there. If we head out now we can make it there by nightfall—”

You backed away from him, shaking your head.

I’m not going with you.

He cocked an eyebrow at you. “Look, I don’t mean to offend darlin’ but you ain’t gonna last a whole lot longer out here on your own, especially not in a place like this with winter right around the corner.”

You glared at him and lifted your chin.

I’ve been doing just fine on my own, thanks.

Having read your mind, Joel sighed. “Alright, fair enough. You’ve gotten this far by yourself, but that don’t mean you gotta turn down an offer for some help. Just come with me to Jackson—”

You shook your head even harder.

The last time that you had agreed to go back with a stranger to their camp, you’d been imprisoned.

Joel observed you, and it didn’t take him very long to connect the dots between the scars around your wrists and your refusal to leave with him. His hard, stony face softened. “Listen sweetness, I ain’t all too sure about what’s happened to you,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “But I can assure you that you ain’t gotta worry about a thing this time around. Just come with me and I’ll prove it to you.”

You tossed him a skeptical look.

“Jackson is a safe place,” he swore. “My brother runs it along with his wife. There’s families, lots of children—hell I’ve got a kid myself. Teenager. Her name is Ellie and she’s fifteen years old.”

Your lips parted slightly and your eyes glimmered with something that looked a lot like recognition, though Joel couldn’t be too sure what prompted it. Perhaps you’d known someone with that name once in your life.

“There’s plenty of food, running water, electricity,” he listed off in an attempt to tempt you. “It’d be a shot at a normal life. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Crossing your arms, you lifted your chin again.

Why the hell should I even trust you? Why should I trust this place is what you say it is?

Joel bit back another frustrated sigh.

Normally, he wouldn’t bother to put up with such stubbornness. He wasn’t one to plead or beg and part of him almost wanted to give up so he could be on his way, but you had saved him from being killed. He owed you his fucking life. He had to get you to go with him. He wouldn’t give up until you agreed to go to Jackson with him.

“I’ll let you carry your weapons,” he offered. “Hell, you can walk behind me with your gun pointed at the back of my fuckin’ head if that’s gonna make you feel better.”

You squinted at him.

“Or that bow of yours,” he added, chuckling. “It’s your pick, darlin’. Whatever’s gonna make you feel safest. I’ll trust you not to shoot an arrow through the back of my skull. All I ask in return is that you at least make the attempt to trust me too. I think that’s a fair enough deal. Don’t you?”

You bit your bottom lip. 

I don’t know about this.

“I really don’t wanna leave you out here all alone,” Joel said, taking a step closer towards you. He found himself feeling a little surprised that it hadn’t startled you and he hoped that meant that to some degree, you did trust him. “Please. You saved my life—and I know you probably don’t need me savin’ yours, but at least let me take you to Jackson so you can see for yourself what we’ve got goin’ on there. If you don’t like it and you don’t wanna stay, then we’ll load up your pack with food and supplies and you can be on your way. You can choose to leave and no one will lift a finger to stop you, I’ll make sure of it. How does that sound?”

He waited, giving you the chance to think it over.

Finally, after a minute, you sighed and reluctantly nodded your head. 

Okay. I’m gonna try and trust you.

She remembers the first time he’d ever wiped food off her face. He had sighed beforehand, staring at her as she rambled on and on to Tommy about whatever dinosaur she was currently fixated on. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, and every second that passed with him staring at her, the more she’d talk. This wasn’t the first time adults had gotten mad at her for being excited, but Ellie wasn’t gonna back down just because he wanted some quiet.

Eventually the sighing stopped and he instead reached out his hand toward her face. That’s when she flinched.

Joel was a tough guy, sure, but she’d never gotten the impression he’d hit her. Apparently she was wrong.

She pulled back, taking a deep breath to prepare for the sting, but nothing happened. Peeking open an eye she saw that his thumb was resting against her chin, and he was simply just frozen in place. Even Tommy had stopped eating.

“You had some soup on your face kiddo.” He said, clearing his throat.

“Oh.” She leaned back into his hand then, allowing him to swipe his thumb along the juice on her face.

The rest of dinner was quieter, and she knew they were watching her, silently talking back and forth with their eyes.

It wasn’t like it was that big of deal, FEDRA agents did it all the time, it’d just been so long that he’d taken her by surprise.

Joel however didn’t see it that way.

When they’d gotten home, he’d ushered her inside, sitting her on the couch and demanding her to stay there. “I’ll be right back, don’t move.”

She listened for about five minutes until curiosity got the better of her and she ended up peeking through the curtains. She watched as he paced back and forth, jaw clenched while he muttered to himself.

She couldn’t understand why he was so angry about this. It wasn’t like she actually thought he was gonna hit her, it was mostly just muscle memory, and besides, it was a normal adult thing to do. Right?

When a kid messes up, that kid gets punished. She was talking to much when he might’ve wanted her to stop, so he was punishing her. Except obviously he wasn’t and maybe he was mad because she was convinced he was.

She bit her lip at the thought. Why wouldn’t her brain just fucking shut up for once?

“Ellie.” The door creaked and she jumped from her spot at the window, literally throwing herself down back on the couch.

Joel’s footsteps were heavy as he made his way to her, but his face wasn’t as harsh as before. She couldn’t decide if that comforted or scared her.

“Look Joel-”

“No ma’am.” He said, one finger flying out from his clenched fist. “It’s my turn to talk.”

Her breath was caught in her throat at that. Maybe she was wrong, maybe he was angry at her.

He was quiet for a moment, mouth opening and closing until eventually he began to speak. “When we were at dinner tonight, and I went to get that food off your face, why in gods name did you flinch?” Maybe he could see the fear in her then, and so he made sure to clarify. “I’m not mad, I promise, I just wanna know. I need to know.”

Even then she wouldn’t look at him, eyes glued to whatever surface looked the most interesting at the time. “It’s not even that big of a deal Joel. I knew you weren’t gonna hit me.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw his own widen for a split second. “Ellie.”

She groaned, tossing her head back. “Seriously Joel can you just let it go. I get it, I had food on my face and you were wiping it off. Now I wanna go to bed.”

She tried to jump up from the couch, feet carrying her as fast as she begged them to go, but Joel was faster.

“Ellie we are not done here.” He grabbed her wrist, making her jerk around.

“I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal about this. It’s not your fucking problem.”

“The hell it isn’t. Ellie you thought I was gonna hit you, your insane if you think that’s not something we address.”

And maybe it was the confusion about this whole situation, but something in her snapped. “Why the fuck do you care?! You said it yourself, you’re not my dad, and I’m not your fucking kid so stop acting like this is something it’s not.”

She saw hurt flash in his eyes then and it made her feel physical pain knowing she hurt him, but for some reason her mouth just wouldn’t stop.

“I know your pissed okay, but just let it go. It’s none of your business and-” Suddenly his arms were reaching out, and though she tried to fight it, he was wrapping them around her, pulling her as close to him as possible.

She didn’t react at first, body tense and arms straight at her side, but then Joel did something he’d never done before. He kissed her head.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered against her hair, giving her yet another kiss.

For some reason every bit of fight left her body then, and she completely crumbled against his chest, arms looping around him and squeezing him as tight as she could.

“I’m so sorry kid.” She didn’t mean to cry, but a few tears escaped anyway, and she just wiped her face on his shirt, relishing in the utter warmth it brought.

“I’m sorry that I ever made you feel like you were anything less then my kid.” He rubbed her back as he spoke, voice so gentle she swore it wasn’t really him talking. “And I would never ever hit you. No matter what you do, how bad it is, we keep our hands to ourselves. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She whispered. And so he kissed her again.

After that day, he saw the incident as cause to treat her like actual glass. His hands were so light everytime he touched her, cradling her against him like she was this precious thing. It was so confusing.

It would be different if she didn’t care, it wouldn’t bother her so much, but it hurt worse when she started craving it, and it became almost a problem when her body felt as if it was failing when he simply didn’t kiss her head.

There was one day where he was leaving for an early patrol, and of course, he was late. And instead of kissing her head, he just yelled goodbye and ran out the door, promising he’d be back before dinner.

She hated that day. Every hour that passed all she could think about was how she wanted Joel. She didn’t eat lunch and barely touched her dinner.

Joel stared at her the whole time, trying to gently encourage to take a few bites, but it was like a switch flipped. Sure Joel was here but she hadn’t felt him, so why would she want to do anything at all?

“Ellie?” He gently toed her with his boot, eyes all soft and easy. “You gotta eat something baby.”

She just shrugged her shoulders, pushing some more food around with her fork. “I’m not hungry.”

“Not even for cheesy potatoes?” He said lightheartedly, putting his fork on her plate. And despite her mood, she couldn’t help but smile.

Cheesy potatoes were in fact her favorite, but the catch was, she never put them on her own plate. Instead, she let Joel get them in bulk and then she’d steal whatever she wanted from the pile, knowing he’d finish the rest. He always teased her about it, telling her to get her own food, but she saw the smile and the little shakes of his head that came with it, indicating he was in fact amused.

But tonight she hadn’t even looked at him or touched his plate for that matter, she opted instead to stare at her own food and dwell on why she felt so weird. It was a feeling she assumed that not even cheesy potatoes could fix.

“No.” She sighed, putting down her fork altogether.

Joel looked absolutely flabbergasted at that. “You’re not eating cheesy potatoes? The world must be ending. You feelin okay?”

She shrugged for probably the millionth time today. “Yup, just not hungry.”

He gave her a hesitant look, stopping his movements as well. “Hey, you sure?”

Fuck, why did he have to be so nice about it? So fucking gentle?

“Mmhm.” She mumbled, running her sleeve across her face to catch those stupid tears she hadn’t even meant to cry.

“Ellie.”

“No it’s good, I’m good.” She gave him what was probably the least assuring smile ever, and picked her fork back up to push some more food across her plate.

Joel didn’t like that, and so he stopped eating altogether. “Why don’t we just go home?”

She knew it wasn’t a question, and yet she still argued. “No it’s fine Joel, just finish your food, you’re hungry.”

“Mm, not really.”

“Jo-”

“I think I’ve had enough cheesy potatoes to fill both of us for a week, let’s go home.” Though this statement was said with love, she heard the demand in it. It was time to go home.

“Okay.” She said quietly, slipping on her jacket and racing out the door.

More tears threatened to spill over as she raced to the house, feeling Joel’s stare as he walked behind her. She didn’t understand why he couldn’t just fucking let things go. They didn’t need to talk about everything, which of course was what he was gonna do, but things would all be so much easier if he would just fight with her. If they would yell and scream, hell, sometimes she’d prefer him to just dig a hole and throw her in it. For some reason she felt it would hurt less then actually telling him what was the matter.

It would also be less embarrassing.

She swears she’s in the clear when she pushes the door open, already forming a plan to get him off her back, but she’s barely even inside for a minute before he’s right behind her, telling her to stop.

“Ellie.” That’s all it takes, one single word and she’s turning around, feet glued to the ground.

“I’m going to bed.” It’s defiant, an opening to an argument, but it’s easier then admitting what she really wants.

“No ma’am you’re not, sit down.” He points to the couch, slipping his coat off and tossing it on the rack.

Every muscle, every bone in her body says to keep walking away, to start a fight. But her mind won’t let her. She must stand there for what feels like forever debating whether or not it’s worth it, but when Joel looks at her, eyes still soft besides the gruff sound to his voice, she caves immediately. With a groan she begins stomping over to the couch, hearing Joel mumble something about dinosaur feet on his way to her.

Any other day she’d laugh, come back with some stupid statement about how he’s older then a dinosaur, but all she can think about now is the way he gently placed his hand on her shoulder when he walked by, how the place where it was is warm and tingly. How she feels like there’s a piece missing from her just because it’s gone.

“You gonna tell me what the hell is goin on or am I gonna have to beat it out of ya?” He says it with a smile, a ploy to get her to laugh. She doesn’t.

“Nothings wrong.”

“That’s not what I said.” He replies, hands clasped in front of him as he leans forward. “Talk to me kiddo.” He just stares then, waits for her to speak, to yell, anything. But she feels stuck, like she’s walking through quicksand, going so far down she can’t breathe, can’t see anything other then her own fear.

“Ellie hey,” He grabs her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. She cracks a little more, eyes growing misty as she feels his callouses touch her newly soft skin. Why is this so hard?

“Look at me honey.” He crouches down, hands on her knees. There’s warmth everywhere on her body now, reaching from the tips of her toes all the way up to the top of her head, and yet somehow she’s still so fucking frozen in place.

“I can’t” She croaks out, a little sob shaking her upper body.

This obviously scares him, she feels it in the way his jaws ticks a bit, his hands tightening their grip on her own. “Ellie I promise you, whatever it is, no matter how bad it is, you can.”

She fights for a little while longer, Joel’s thumbs keeping her grounded as they brush along the skin of her hands and every now and then her knees.

How does she explain this? Where should she even start? Hey Joel, I feel like a fucking mess whenever you don’t hold me all the time because I’m a little baby with absolutely no self-worth and can’t function unless you kiss my head goodbye.

That wouldn’t do. No matter how much it was true, it wouldn’t do.

The frustrations of not being able to voice it made her chest feel even tighter, her fingers instinctively curling around Joel’s as she fought to breathe.

“I can’t.” She says again, eyes closing shut.

She hears him sigh before he readjusts to sit on his butt, hands never moving from hers. “Try.”

“I-”

“Ellie try.”

She inhales deeply, still struggling to find her own footing. It’s like a war inside her brain. Tell him, don’t tell him, back and forth nonstop. The only thing that seems to quiet it is when he lifts her hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles and massaging her tense hands. “Try.” He whispers again, in what she reads as a plea.

But how?

“You know,” The words come before she can even understand what’s happening, and she starts to stop, but he whispers it again and so she keeps going. “You know in the mornings when you like, when you hug me bye or like,” She sighs, still struggling. “I don’t know, when you kiss my head and stuff.”

She thinks she sees recognition flood his face and for a moment can breathe. “Oh Ellie, if you don’t like that just….” Everything goes quiet and her ears start ringing. Just kidding, he doesn’t get it.

“No.” She says quickly, “no please it’s not that. Confusion now, and she feels even worse. “It’s, I like it when you do that.”

“Ellie I’m not understandin. I’m sorry.” She inhales again, trying not to cry. It’s his fault he can’t read her mind and it’s not his fault she doesn’t know how to speak it.

“Promise you won’t make fun of me? No matter how crazy.”

“I promise.” He says it with no hesitation, without even blinking. She thinks that’s a good sign.

She takes a deep breath. “I don’t like it when you don’t do that. Like this morning when you left without a hug and you didn’t do anything I thought I was gonna explode the rest of the day. I don’t know what’s wrong with me?”

Joel gives her a little smile, cupping her cheek. “Baby there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Yes there is.” She says frantically, pulling everything away from him. “I’m almost fifteen, I should-I should be able to function by myself. I should be able to go to sleep without you around, I should be able to have a normal fucking day at school without needing your hugs. But I can’t do it.”

He opens his mouth to reply, eyes going even softer as he watches all of her frustrations fall into his hands. “Ellie.”

“No there’s-there’s something wrong with me, I know it. I’m like a baby and I shouldn’t-”

“Hey now,” He says, grunting as he moves next to her on the couch. “Don’t talk like that, you’re not a baby and there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Yes there is.”

“Ellie listen to me.” He guides her eyes to meet his, rubbing his thumb along her cheek. “You’ve gone your whole life without anybody to hold your hand. Nobody to say it was okay when you were scared, nobody to take care of you when you’re sick. And your goddamn tough for that.”

She smiles a bit at that and he takes it as a window to keep going. “But you’re still a kid, and kids need affection. It’s normal, hell,” He laughs, “Sarah still cuddled the same damn way you do. So it’s okay.”Ellie sniffles, nodding her head at his words. “And really the only difference between that babygirl and this one is that you have a shit ton of catching up to do. But it’s okay.” He repeats it, needing her to get it through her thick head. “You hearin me?”

He leans their foreheads together, his lips gently kissing her temple and she just closes her eyes, reveling in the feeling of his utter presence “Yeah.” She thinks she does.

“Good, now no more theatrics.” He says jokingly, pulling her to his chest. “Okay?”

“Okay.” She laughs, nuzzling into his side.

It’s still not easy really.

It takes her weeks to finally walk up to him and just wrap her arms around him in a hug, but she does it, and a little bit of the weight loosens when he rubs his hand over head.

He takes the whole thing like champ, tries to make it easier for her to come to him. She doesn’t understand what he does differently or if he even changes anything, but everything else seems to just fall into place on its own until eventually it becomes normal for her to randomly walk up to him and fall against his chest. No matter where they are or who they’re with she learns that it’s okay, cause he’s gonna pull her in close and keep her shielded from everything and everyone every single time.

On the one hand, each night’s sleep feels incomprehensibly deep, as if making up for decades of lost rest. At the same time, it’s hard to doze longer than six hours at a time.

So, both of you have unknowingly developed a comfortable ritual to start every morning.

Both of you descend the stairs quietly and then sit at the wooden table in the kitchen. It’s a peaceful margin to your day where time feels irrelevant.

Sometimes you kiss, perched on his lap, his hands pressing into your back under your sweater, skin warm on yours. Most of the time you don’t speak, the tender side of his body tucked against you enough.

Today isn’t one of those mornings. There’s a grimace on his face, directed at you. He is standing near you in the space between the table and the stove countertop, and his voice is loud. Your arms are crossed over your chest protectively.

It’s hard to focus on what he’s saying. He usually doesn’t talk to you like this. He doesn’t talk to you like this ever, period. You don’t remember what you’re arguing about. There’s a vague awareness of him saying something about patrol, his tone firm. Is he angry because I asked to go on patrol?

No, you don’t think so. You don’t wish to go on patrol in the first place. Is it Ellie? Did I suggest Ellie should be allowed to go on patrol? That rings truer, but you’re still not sure.

Your ears are buzzing with something, probably your blood. There's a rhythm to it. Too enthralled in the pounding in your ears, you fail to notice the silence in the room. And then you look up.

You don’t think Joel’s yelling anymore. You register his towering figure looming over you at once. You cower instinctively, hands coming up to your face to cover you defensively. The speed with which you do it surprises you, and you don’t feel the pain in your butt from the force of your crouch. Maybe you’re shaking.

It’s been a long time since you’ve felt so small. It feels endless, inescapable. You don’t move.

And then it’s like all your senses come back to you at the same moment, overwhelming you with the reality. It’s quiet, you suppose.

And then immediately after, there’s his whisper is loud in your previously deafened ears. “Sweetheart,” His voice sounds laden with emotions, anger not one of them. Still, you find it’s impossible to move.

You blink once and realize that he is also crouching in front of you. He moves your hands away from your face with care. You blink again a few times, breathing coming in tiny gasps. Joel looks nauseated, and you detect the feeling of wetness on your cheeks. When did you start crying?

Joel says it again, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, “Sweetheart.” As you take in your surroundings you notice he is troublingly pale.

Your breathing comes steadier, beginning to understand. You’re not in danger, there was an argument.

Swallowing a lump down your throat you acknowledge that at one point in your life, an argument very much meant you were in danger.

There’s little to say, so you just choke out a “Joel”, voice wrecked. His eyes take in your expression carefully.

“Are you okay?”

You don’t answer him, looking down at your socked feet. It angers you, him raising his voice at you like that. Leading you to think that he would hurt you. So yes, you’re angry at him.

But nothing angers you more than this having to be your reaction by default. You know it isn’t your fault, and yet. It’s debilitating, and it exposes something ugly in your past without you voluntarily handing it out. It has you fucking shaking.

Joel doesn’t speak for a long moment. He is probably gathering his thoughts. There’s too many conclusions to be drawn from what just happened. It might be possible to avoid the worst of them. In the end, you’ve all survived unnamable tragedies and brutality.

And, as much as it ties his throat into an agonizing knot to recognize, he’s aware you’ve seen him be quite barbaric more times than he cares to count.

Still, he had hoped it wouldn’t make you afraid of him. Had prayed he’d shown you enough times that he would die before doing anything to scare you or Ellie. He understands there’s things he has no control over.

You’ve never reacted like this to him. Never. It’s just too specific to brush aside. The realization that you’re more frightened of whatever this reminded you of than he’s ever seen you, more affected by this than by the horrific carnage you’ve survived the past decade of your life, has his stomach like an upside down bag of sugar.

He finally speaks again. “Hey, baby, why don’t we sit down?”

Your eyes are wide, but you nod. You crumple into the floor, folding your knees into your chest, and he doesn’t hesitate before he settles in front of you, a pronounced distance between you. You’re almost sure that he meant sit at the table, but you’re honestly afraid your legs won’t hold you up all the way there.

It’s been a while since you’ve seen Joel this distraught. He’s probably thinking the same about you. His voice stays kind, though there’s a tremor to it.

“I’m sorry.”

You nod, still unable to answer him, your thoughts too overwhelming and confusing.

He continues, “You just—sort of went away. And I walked towards you because it scared me.”

You nod again, eyes burning worse. You feel ridiculous. He was checking on you. He interrupts any further spiraling,

“But I know that wouldn’t have caused that reaction if I hadn’t been yelling.” He breathes once, deep enough that you see his chest expand. “It’s not okay that I got like that. No argument grants it.” The image of you shrinking into the floor in panic floods his mind. His voice is strained, but he aims for steady, “You didn’t deserve it.”

You look at his face, see the raw concern there. It's difficult keeping your eyes on his.

His voice breaks, next. “I don’t ever want to scare you. Not you, baby.”

Your breathing is back to normal. You’re torn as to what you’re supposed to do. You know Joel, understand easily that he means what he’s saying. He raised his voice, that’s all he did.

He didn't insult you, or shove you, or slap you. And yet, still. You’d be lying if a part of you isn’t doubtful for a moment. You can’t not, after everything that’s happened.

You push the thought away, though you know you will have to acknowledge it later, once your head has cleared. That openness pacifies you, understanding that you can explore it, that you aren’t automatically shutting it down. You can think it through by yourself, open up about it with Maria, maybe even come to him.

You lean forward a little bit, and Joel understands you're seeking out his touch. His voice is sort of raw, though still gentle, “Can I touch your face?”

You slide towards him, “Yes, please.”

His two hands come to the side of your jaw, his right thumb stroking along your cheekbone. His eyes are still darting all over your face, as if looking for something.

You try to speak, but it comes out more like a sob, “I’m sorry.”

Joel strokes a bit firmer, frown deepening even further as he shakes his head. “Hey, easy. Easy, baby. You’re not the one who has to apologize here, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You shake your head. That’s not what you mean. You don’t know how to explain everything you’re thinking, not with the adrenaline still coursing through you. You look at him, and simply say,

“You don’t scare me. You’ve never scared me.”

Joel breathes out at once. It looks like his lungs empty in a single blow. You feel him wipe away a stray tear from your swollen face, concern clear on his as he takes in your expression.

You speak again, feeling the need to move this forward, leave this moment. “I don’t even remember what we were fighting about.”

He chuckles, but there’s no real humor behind it. “It doesn’t matter now, baby.” He raises his eyebrows, making sure you look at him when he says, “I was just irritated and I took it out on you. It wasn’t okay.”

You frown. This is the proof that he’s understood something new about you. There’s no hiding behind anything now. This is why he’s so wrecked. He saw the reaction for what it is. The knowledge gnaws at your insides.

You close your eyes. He must somehow sense your discomfort, because he tries to soothe at once,

“You know you can tell me anything, right? Anything at all.”

The searing in your eyes reaches a boiling point, and the tears spill over. You give in completely, crawling towards him, all your shame gone. You mold your body to his, arms wrapped around his front, head pressed against his chest.

Your grasp is harder than he’s used to. His hands reach around your shoulder blades, kneading the skin there as he squeezes you to him.

You’re fully sobbing now, tears and snot soaking the grey shirt he sleeps in. His hand is steady on your back. It startles you that this is happening now.

It feels like every moment has been leading you here. You’ve never talked about this before.

“I don’t want you to look at me differently.”

You feel his chest expand against your skin. “Nothing could ever do that. It's just me. You can tell me.”

Centering your gaze on the open devotion on his face, you try.

The title comes from the song “Cool About It” by boygenius.

The question is loud, posed in the middle of the lunch rush in the canteen. Joel’s heart nearly leaps out of his chest. “Would you — Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Ellie. Keep it down.”

Luckily the chatter drowned out her voice, and only Joel seems to have heard her. You laugh and put a hand on the forearm of your friend, clutching at her, your other hand clenched on the brim of your stetson. 

“So,” Ellie prompts. “Does she?” 

“No,” he grumbles, drawing his eyes away from you. He glances at Ellie briefly who is smiling at him, before he refocuses on the bowl in front of him. “I ain’t lookin’ either. Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Ellie just laughs and shovels another bite of food into her mouth. “You so are, man. Tommy’s right, you’ve got it bad.” She drags out the word bad, stretching it until Joel tells her to shut up. 

He manages to keep his gaze off you for all of six seconds before furtively searching for you again as Ellie chatters on about something else. 

You aren’t in line anymore but sitting at a table. You’re listening to someone talk, a pencil tucked behind your ear. There’s a smile playing around your lips, your eyes crinkle at the corners. 

Joel’s never seen anyone look so effortlessly beautiful, just sitting still—

“Dude!” 

“What?” He snaps, head whipping back to Ellie. 

She rolls her eyes, “You’re just proving my point. Have you even fuckin’ talked to her?” 

“Of course I have.” 

And he had.

Exactly once. 

Tommy had fallen ill and you’d volunteered for the patrol shift he would be missing. 

Something about you left him a little tongue tied, though he isn’t sure you’d noticed. He has a reputation for being quiet anyhow, and you’d filled the silence with so many words he hadn’t needed to say anything. 

The tight shape of your ass in your jeans as you rode ahead of him only distracted him a little. Sure, you had a voice he could listen to forever, and yeah, maybe you looked like some kind of goddess riding through the autumn light, red and yellow leaves swirling down around you—but that didn’t mean a damn thing about what he was feeling. That choking, stuttering, warm feeling fluttering around inside him. 

“When?” Ellie demands. “I’ve only ever seen you look at her.” 

Joel rolls his eyes, and scrapes the remaining bit of chili from his bowl. “Patrol.” 

“That was weeks ago!” 

And ever since then, he can’t seem to stop seeing you, he can’t seem to stop looking at you and for you, listening for you, the sweet lilt of your voice. But he hasn’t approached you. 

But that's a fuckin’ pipe dream.

He’s sure you have a bad impression of him after your one and only patrol together. 

Joel stands, “I ain’t had much cause to cross paths with her again. Now finish eatin’ and leave it alone. I don’t got a crush.” 

Ellie grumbles under her breath as Joel returns his dishes and leaves the canteen. Outside the autumn sunshine is warm. The sky is clear and perfectly blue. He breathes out and shakes himself. 

His brother and his kid might be right. 

He might have a damn crush. 

If only you weren’t so goddamned pretty. When Tommy told him he was changing shifts with someone, he’d expected someone like himself, like Tommy. Someone who would just get the job done, quiet and gruff. 

Most are. 

But you’re sunny as sunny can be. Cheerful. 

He’d assumed you’d lived most of your life in Jackson, coddled and protected from the harsher realities of the world. But you were new to Jackson, had only been there a couple of years. 

When he asked Tommy about it, he’d just shrugged. Always been like that, ever since she got here. She’s been through shit, but she’s just like that. 

“Hey,” a voice calls from behind him now as he crosses through the center of Jackson. It’s your pretty voice. Christ, he could listen to you read a phonebook. Footsteps pound along the pavement. “Joel.” 

The sound of his name in your mouth sends something rolling up from his gut to nest down in his lungs, a burning kind of pain that’s half pleasurable. 

Jesus, your voice. He wants to hear you sing, he bets you sound so good. He wants to hear your voice in other ways too, panting, with his name on your lips.

He turns to find you, in all your shimmering, pretty glory, catching up to him. Something seizes him by the throat. His tongue is too big for his mouth, his breath caught in his throat. When was the last time he felt like this? 

Years. Decades. Maybe when he first met Sarah’s mother, before things got complicated and everything fell apart between them. 

You come to a stop in front of him and smile. 

It’s a beaming, radiant smile. 

It makes him feel like he’s having a heart attack. 

Jesus. He needs to get a grip. 

“Hey, darlin’,” he manages, clearing his throat. “You need somethin’?” 

You blow out a breath, your cheeks puffing out. You rock back on your heels and stuff your hands in your pockets. “Well, maybe it's a bit forward of me,” you start, making Joel’s heart lurch in a way that he swears physically hurts him. He’s too old for this. Too old for crushes, too damn old for heart palpitations. 

“My usual patrol partner isn’t gonna be able to make my next rotation,” you continue. “And I thought we got on pretty well that time I filled in for Tommy. You think you’d wanna come along with me this time?”

The corner of your mouth lifts in a little smile. 

He swallows, tracing the bottom curve of your lip with his eyes. You have your stetson on now, and even though the brim of the hat shields your eyes from the sun, you still squint at him, those little crinkles appearing by your eyes. 

“You can say no,” you say when he just looks and doesn’t say a damn thing, laughter in your voice. “I won’t hold it against you.” 

Joel shakes himself. “No—I, of course. ‘Course I will.” 

“Really?” You sound surprised.

He lifts a brow, “Is that surprising?” 

You smile again. “Despite what I said before it did seem like I was a little much for your taste last time.” The twist of your lips turns self deprecating. 

Joel doesn’t mean to ask why you’d think that, but the words fall out anyhow. “How do you mean?” 

“Ah, c’mon, now,” you roll your eyes. “I know how I come across, and I know what it makes people think of me.” Before he can get a chance to respond to that, you’re continuing on. “So you’ll really be my partner?” 

“Sure,” he agrees again, like it doesn’t make him sick with nerves. Being alone with you for hours on end. “Just lemme know when.” 

You beam and flick your hat back with your forefinger to get a better look at him. “Great, thanks!” You give him the day and time of your rotation, but all he can focus on is how you still have that pencil tucked behind your ear, the curve of your cheek, the column of your throat. 

Seemingly without warning, or maybe he just hadn’t heard you, you spin away and make your way back to the canteen. 

“So you’ll actually have a conversation with her this time?” 

“Ellie—” 

“I’m just sayin’, man. You gotta snap that one up. You see how everyone looks at her.” 

Embarrassment like he’s never known it blooms in his chest. “Ellie,” he sighs again. “Go back to the damn house.” 

She relaxes further into the pile of hay she’s lying on, a comic book Joel had found for her held up in front of her nose. “No way, I gotta see this.” 

“Good morning!” Your sunny, sugared voice echoes from the entrance to the stables.

Ellie peeks at him over the edge of the comic book, clearly waiting for him to make a fool of himself. He tightens his grip on the reins of the horse he’d been saddling and glances around the edge of the stall. “Hey, sweetheart, good mornin’.” 

“Ready to go—Oh, Ellie, good morning, honey, what are you doing out here?” 

Ellie gets slowly to her feet, making a show of dusting her jeans off, hay feathering down as she does. “Just seeing the old man off,” she quips. “Didn’t want him to get lost on the way over.” 

You smile and laugh. “Hey if you meet us when we come back, I’ll get you those colored pencils like I promised.” 

Joel nearly strains his neck when his head snaps to look at Ellie. She’s just smiling, the little shit. “Oh, yeah, I’ll definitely meet you when you come back.”

You tilt your head at her tone, still grinning. 

Ellie wacks Joel on the arm with the comic as she walks by. “Don’t be weird,” she hisses under her breath.

You don’t seem to have heard, busy saddling your horse. “How are we on time?” You ask. 

“We got plenty. You and Ellie—”

He’s cut off by the laugh that slips past your lips. 

Joel watches the lift of your shirt, the thin line of exposed flesh between the edge of your t-shirt and your jeans. “Ellie is really good at attaching herself like a burr to certain people,” you confide. “She saw me drawing once in the market. Hasn’t left me alone since.” 

Ellie’s room flashes through his mind. The pad of paper she’d started carrying around, drawn pictures of people around Jackson, wildlife, the town, improving with each crack she took at it. She’s been drawing for months. 

She’s known you for months. 

That little shit. 

“She get that sketchbook from you?” He asks, just to confirm as he swings up into the saddle. 

“Yep,” you smile over your shoulder and then hook your foot into the stirrup. “Ready to go?” 

He nods, the knot in his chest a little looser at the ease between you. He can do this. He can converse with you, get to know you. 

Joel feels like he’s never had to talk to anyone in his life when he’s around you. He can’t remember what it's like to have a conversation. 

But you more than make up for it.

The way you chatter, he knows you’ve never met a stranger. He does his best to respond in kind, but his mouth and brain don’t seem to be on the same frequency. You don’t seem to mind his short answers, not bothered by his reluctance to say much of anything. 

Patrol is quiet aside from a few infected that you both quickly dispatch. You have a wicked aim, more than competent with the rifle you carry. 

He had tried not to doubt that you could handle yourself. He doesn’t think you would have been put on patrol had you not been able to. But seeing the determination settle into your features, the stern cut of your jaw as the smile disappeared from your lips, had reminded him that you weren’t the sheltered thing you seemed to be. 

You’d known something hard, before. You’d clearly known loss, with the hollowness that pulled at your eyes after the encounter. 

By the time you get back to Jackson, you’re smiling again, and Ellie is waiting as promised. You barely have your back turned before Ellie is nudging at Joel’s ribs with her elbow and lifting her brows. 

He shakes her off with a grunt, only for Ellie to offer you a place with them for dinner. “Tommy and Maria usually sit with us too,” she informs and you smile.

“I’d like that.” Your eyes briefly flick to Joel and then away. He can’t read the twitch of your lips, the way you duck your head. “Wanna come along for the colored pencils?” 

“Yep, c’mon Joel.”

He doesn’t protest, knows it's no use.

The warm, rocky feeling in his gut swims into his lungs when your fingers brush his as you walk along together. Ellie on one side, you on the other. Electric shoots through his veins. 

It’s only a matter of damn time before you really do give him a heart attack.

At your place, he sees your drawings. There are portraits of Ellie, Tommy, Maria, other folks around town. A couple of girls on horseback. All of your art is of Jackson, capturing life there. There’s no way you know every single one of those people personally.  

And yet, not a single one is of him.

“She’s lookin’ at you.” 

Joel huffs and lifts his beer to his mouth. The community hall smells like popcorn, like butter and salt. “She ain’t,” Joel says, keeps his eyes focused on film being projected onto the wall. 

“She is,” Tommy insists. “Just look over there.” 

Ever since you had dinner with him and his, Tommy and Ellie had decided to appoint themselves matchmakers. Maria rolled her eyes, but let it happen because it so clearly annoyed Joel. 

It reminds him of how Tommy and Sarah used to rib him, so he can’t be too irritated with them. 

He’s spent most of any of his free time with you over the last few months. He’s better at talking to you now, finds ease in your presence even when he feels warmth settling between his bones like something cancerous. You’re growing inside him, slow moving, choking off all other thoughts. 

Joel spends a lot of his time watching you draw anyone but him as you talk his ear off. It’s pleasant. He’ll never get tired of it.

Despite Joel’s words, he can’t keep his eyes from wandering, from seeking you out.

You’re sitting alone at the back of the room and you definitely aren’t looking at him, as he’d suspected. He rolls his eyes at Tommy’s dramatics but doesn’t look away from you. You set aside the glass in your hand and then begin to fidget with your fingers when your eyes suddenly flick up. 

You smile as soon as your gaze meets his, your whole face brightening. He swallows, and returns your wave when you raise a hand to him. 

“You always were bad with girls.” 

He groans. “Tommy would you jus’ let it go?”

“No,” he answers. “Just go on over and sit next to her. What’s the harm in that?” 

Joel grits his teeth. “Ain’t no harm unless she don’t want anythin’ to do with me.” 

Tommy whistles lowly. “Ain’t never seen confidence so low before—” 

“Jesus, alright, fine,” he slams the bottle down on the bar and works his towards you, going the long way around so he doesn’t block anyone’s view of the movie as Tommy’s laugh follows him. 

You glance up when he stops by your side. “Evenin’,” he greets, his voice waspish to his own ears. 

Great.

“Why hello, Joel Miller,” you respond with mirth in your voice, the melody of it melting into his skin. 

“Seat taken, sweetheart?” He asks gruffly. 

When you shake your head, he settles himself in the seat next to you stiffly. You stare at him and then glance around. The motion of it is so dramatic and put on that he has to ask—“What?” 

“Oh, nothing, I’m just looking for the snipers that must be trained on you,” you joke. “To make you so clearly sit next to me against your will.” 

He’s not sure what makes him do it, but he reaches over and cups your chin in his hand to direct your gaze to Tommy. “Right there he is,” he says, releasing your face. “My idiot brother.” 

“Ah, so you don’t wanna be sitting next to me.” 

“Never said that.” 

You grin. “Well I was hoping you’d come over, so color me flattered you aren’t being held at gunpoint.” 

He chuckles, his irritation easing. “It’s an honor, darlin’. My brother was just testin’ my patience.” 

“Siblings will do that,” you say with a nod. “I think he means well though. Him and Ellie both actually.” 

He frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“Oh, c’mon, Joel, neither of them are very subtle are they?” You nudge your knee into his. “Ellie asked me if I thought you were handsome just a few days ago. She looked kind of disgusted about it.” 

Joel swipes a hand down his face, sweat beading on his forehead. His stomach tightens with nerves. Leave it to those two to ruin something without even trying. He knew they were playing matchmaker, but he didn’t think you knew it too.  

“Jesus. I—I’m sorry if either of ‘em has made you uncomfortable.” 

You blink at him. “Well, Joel, don’t you wanna know my answer?” 

He winces. This is it, you’re putting him, all three of them, in their place. “Not so sure I do.”

You tilt your head and lie one hand against his forearm. “Well, okay. I won’t tell you how I said I think you’re the prettiest person I’ve ever laid eyes on. And I won’t tell you how that made Ellie gag and say she doesn’t need those kinds of details.”  

A laugh startles out of him, heat blooming in his neck and cheeks. He’s blushing like a damn teenager. 

He doesn’t dare to hope. 

Not yet. 

“Look,” you continue. “I knew what they were trying to do these last few months. And I think, maybe, neither of us are very good at this. I’m—I’m certainly not good at this kinda thing. I’ve never needed to be but,” you pull away from him and shuffle through your pockets. “This is what I was drawing that first time I met Ellie. She’s got a keen eye, noticed right away.” 

He takes the paper you pull from your pocket, folded into a creased, neat square. When he unfolds it, he finds he’s staring at himself rendered in pencil and charcoal. “Here’s where I embarrass myself and admit that I’ve had a—well, I guess it's a crush. For a while.” 

In the drawing, he’s standing with Tommy outside the stables. It’s clearly spring time, flowers budding on the nearby trees. “Was this last spring?” 

“Yep. So I jumped when Tommy needed someone to fill in.” You squirm, your hand hovering over the paper like you’re stopping yourself from snatching the drawing away from his fingers. “And then I didn’t shut up that whole time on patrol and you were so annoyed. I thought I messed it up.” 

Joel finally glances away from the paper and into your eyes. “Messed it up? Darlin’ I was—Jesus, I still am—struck by you. My tongue was twisted.” 

You blink. “Really? So I’m not making a fool of myself?” 

It's only then that he realizes how embarrassed you look, that you’re waiting for him to shoot you down, and that he hasn’t said anything to you, not really. “No, no, I’m—” 

Joel catches Tommy smirking from across the room in the corner of his vision, and when he looks around Ellie is laughing too, from where she sits with a group of her friends. No one else is paying you any mind, turned toward the flicker of the movie. “So damn obvious about it too,” he rolls his eyes. “Ain’t very good, are they?”

You laugh. “They seemed to be having fun. Bonding over it, really. And there was no harm in it, anyway, so I left them to it. Besides, y’know, maybe getting my feelings hurt a little.” You duck your head, a smile playing around your lips. 

“Well, I guess there wasn’t any harm,” he acknowledges. “Sorry, sweetheart but they, uh, they were right. I’m just about as stubborn as a bull.” 

You nod. “Got that impression of you.” 

Joel swallows, all the words tied up inside his mouth finally coming together, “I might be stubborn. But I ain’t above seeing when I’m wrong.” 

“And what are you wrong in?” 

“Waitin’ so damn long,” he says. 

The room is dark and no one is paying you any mind. When Joel cups your face in his hands, you lean into his touch and the tight fist around his lungs loosens. 

You taste like the sparkle of the drink you had been sipping on before he came over. Your mouth is as soft as your laugh, as smooth as the flutter of your voice.