Joel Miller x FMC | Explicit 18+
Middle photo made by: grapesfanfiction
Chapter 36: The Road to Ruin
The evening disappears into preparation.
Maps are spread across Joel's dining room table, corners curling with age and use. Ammunition is counted twice. Rations divided. Every possible scenario discussed and rediscussed until there's nothing left to say that hasn't already been said.
Joel plants his hands flat against the table and leans over the map, when he speaks, everyone listens.
"Here," he says, tapping a spot hard enough to crease the paper. "Yellowstone National Park. Ranger station's just east of the main road."
"That's assumin' they stayed put," Tommy mutters, arms crossed, weight shifting.
Joel doesn't move his hands. He doesn't straighten. He just lifts his eyes.
It isn't an argument. It's a statement of fact.
Tommy exhales through his nose, jaw tight. We all know he doesn't want to be on this mission — not now, not with a baby at home, not with Maria trying to hold Jackson together with both hands. He belongs behind the wall, not riding north into unfinished business.
Joel keeps talking, eyes flicking between the rest of the patrol — Tommy, Caleb, Eugene and only briefly landing on me. When they do, there's no softness there.
I'm not the woman he fucked in the woods.
I'm not the woman he tenderly kissed hours ago.
I'm a patrolwoman with a job to do.
Morning comes too quickly.
Ellie and Luna see us off at the gates, bundled against the slight chill. Ellie's pissed, of course she is. She argues with Joel right up until the last second, sharp and relentless, furious that I get an away mission when she doesn't.
Not at her age, he tells her.
She glares at me like it's personal.
She's not wrong. She's a better shot than I'll probably ever be.
We say our goodbyes to Jackson, praying it will still be standing when we return home. I trail my fingers briefly along the rough logs of the gate as we pass through, the wood splintered and worn smooth in places.
This time, I'm more brave leaving town.
I'm not scared. Or at least that's what I keep telling myself.
We set out just after sunrise.
The horses move easily beneath us, hooves pressing into damp earth softened by recent rain. Callus snorts softly as Joel urges him forward, steady and sure, like he's done this a thousand times before. I'm behind him, thighs bracketing his hips, arms wrapped loosely around his middle more for balance than comfort.
Every shift of Callus's step rolls through Joel first, then into me — the solid line of his back, the controlled sway of his body moving in time with the horse beneath us. Close enough to feel his breathing. Close enough to know when his shoulders tighten.
Close enough to remind me how mentally far away he actually is.
The forest swallows us as we ride, trees in the middle of giving up — green still clinging stubbornly to the branches, but yellow and pale gold spreading fast. Leaves scatter the trail in thin layers, crushed under hooves as we pass.
Everything is beginning to die.
The patrol stretches out naturally, horses spaced just far enough apart to keep sightlines clear. Joel takes point without discussion. The rest fall in behind us — Tommy, Caleb, Eugene — the distance from Jackson growing with each step.
It's quiet, but it isn't a peaceful quiet.
It's the kind that feels wound tight, waiting for something to snap.
The mission alone would be enough to set everyone on edge. Raiders. Distance. Unfinished business waiting for us somewhere north. But layered on top of that is everything unsaid, everything simmering just beneath the surface.
Joel hasn't spoken to Eugene since the breach. Not really. He keeps his distance now, jaw locked tight, eyes fixed anywhere but on him. The kind of restraint that feels deliberate. Like he knows if he opens his mouth, something else will come out instead.
I've seen what happens when he lets it slip.
That one stormy night, shadows stretched long across the buildings, his blade pressed close enough to Eugene's throat while spitting threats.
That same tension rides him now. Not anger that's burned out, anger that's been leashed.
Tommy Rides stiffly a few lengths back next to Caleb, shoulders squared like he's bracing against more than the cold. He doesn't say it out loud, but it's there — the resentment. Being pulled away.
And then there's Joel and me.
Whatever this thing is between us — unspoken, unresolved. He hasn't looked back once. Hasn't acknowledged the closeness forced on us by circumstance. He rides like I'm just another piece of gear he's responsible for carrying.
Far enough to keep himself emotionally untouched.
I let my gaze drift briefly between the others, the spaces they keep, the careful distances measured in horse-lengths and silence.
It strikes me then — quiet, uncomfortable.
None of them are tense with each other.
All of it leads back to him.
Joel Miller at the center of it, carrying everyone's anger, guilt, fear — like he always does. Like he always has.
And somehow, pressed against his back, moving where he moves, I've stepped into that too.
The land opens as we move north, the trees thinning just enough to remind us how exposed we really are out here.
The sound reaches us before the water does — the low, constant rush of the Snake River, cutting its way through the valley like it always has. Joel slows Callus instinctively, his body tightening beneath my arms. I feel the shift before he says a word.
We don't cross where the river is loudest. Joel angles us along the bank, scanning for something only he seems to see. A shallow bend. A memory. A place he's crossed before with Tommy.
We slowly move through it. Callus steps carefully, water licking at his legs. I tighten my grip on Joel without thinking, my cheek brushing his shoulder as the current presses against us.
"Y'alright?" he mutters, like it's only meant for me.
I nod against him. "Yeah."
His shoulders ease just a fraction.
Once we're across, no one speaks. We ride on damp ground, the smell of wet earth clinging to us, the horizon stretching wide.
That's when Jackson Lake comes into view. The surface is restless, dark water rippling under a sky that feels too big, too open. Wind sharply skimming across it.
And then the dam rises out of it.
The Jackson Lake Dam stands stark and pale against the water, a massive slab of concrete structure and open space, the attached plant beside it, large and commanding.
I remember hearing about Tommy and Maria coming out this way. Long trips. Long nights. Keeping the town's power running.
Jackson's alive because of places like this.
Joel doesn't slow until we're nearly across, posture rigid, eyes sweeping the span ahead. Whatever memories this place holds, he doesn't share them.
The dam watches us pass in silence as the water churns below.
Once we're past it, once the trees begin to gather again and the land closes in, I exhale the long awaited breath I was holding.
Joel pushes us onward until the late afternoon turns into dusk, the air cooling fast. When he finally calls for a halt, it's in a shallow clearing tucked just far enough off the trail to disappear if you aren't looking for it.
Callus slows beneath us, ears flicking as if he senses the destination before I do.
I lift my gaze and spot it through the trees — an old wooden sign, half swallowed by brush and leaning at an angle that suggests no one's bothered to straighten it in years. The paint is cracked and flaking, letters worn thin by weather and time.
Only part of it that's still legible.
Joel swings down first, boots hitting the ground with practiced ease. Callus shifts as I follow, legs stiff, muscles protesting as I land. The space between us reappears immediately, the closeness of the saddle gone the second my feet touch earth.
"This'll do," he says finally, voice low, already moving.
The horses are unsaddled quickly, efficiently. Joel checks Callus over himself, hands moving with the same care he gives everything he's responsible for. Water is found. Gear is stacked. The perimeter is established without discussion.
It isn't a place meant to feel safe.
At least we're not sleeping under the stars tonight.
We move into the lodge carefully, boots stamping on warped floorboards. The wood is dried out and cracked, the carved details dulled with age and neglect. Dust lies thick on every surface, undisturbed. The place has been rummaged through — drawers pulled open, shelves stripped bare — but not with the frantic destruction we've seen elsewhere.
The lobby opens up around us, secluded and quiet, the air stale with old rot. A torn curtain stirs when the door shuts behind us.
I sink down onto a leather couch near the center of the room, the cushions sighing under my weight. The leather is cracked but intact, worn smooth in places where countless bodies once sat and waited. I bend forward and tug my boots off, flexing my toes gratefully, letting my feet breathe for the first time since morning.
Around me, the lodge fills with purposeful movement. Joel and the others fan out without needing instruction, voices low, footsteps measured as they secure the building room by room. Doors open. Close. Floorboards creak overhead.
Tommy comes back into the lobby a few minutes later.
"Secure," he says, voice echoing through the open space before coming to a quiet.
He shrugs out of his jacket and drops onto the other end of the couch with a tired huff, stretching his legs out and rolling his neck until it cracks. His gaze flicks briefly to my bare feet, then back to my face.
"Hell of a day," he mutters.
I nod in agreeance. Then, I lean back against the couch, flexing my toes, wincing when a sharp sting shoots through my heel.
Tommy clocks it immediately.
"Hold up," he says, shifting closer. "You hurtin'?"
"It's nothing," I lie, but I lift my foot anyway, resting my ankle over my knee.
Tommy squints at it. "That ain't nothin'."
He reaches out without asking, fingers warm and careful as he gently turns my foot to the side. The skin at my heel is red and angry, the start of a blister already forming where the boot rubbed raw.
"Yeah," he mutters. "That'll do it."
He lets go long enough to dig into his pack, pulling out a small, battered tin and blister band aids. He pops open the tin with his thumb — ointment, the kind that smells faintly of herbs and oil.
"Maria makes this," he says absently, scooping a little onto his finger. "Swears by it."
He glances up at me. "You good?"
"Alright then," he says, voice low, almost gentle. "Try not to kick me."
He works the ointment in slowly, thumb careful where the skin is tender. It stings at first, then eases, warmth spreading under his touch.
"Gotta take care of this stuff early," he says. "Otherwise it'll slow you down tomorrow."
He peels the backing off a bandage and presses it carefully over the blister, smoothing the edges down with his thumb like he's done this a hundred times before.
"You're tough," he says after a moment, not looking up. "Most people would've complained about this hours ago."
"Guess I didn't want to give you the satisfaction," I say. "Being a newcomer and all."
"Oh, sweetheart," he says lightly, capping the tin. "You'd be surprised what gives me satisfaction."
He leans back before that can sit too long, reaching into his pack and pulling out a wrapped sandwich.
"She packed me a few of these," he says, holding it out. "Figured I'd share. You look like you could use somethin' decent."
I take it. "You always this generous?"
"Only to people I like," he replies easily, eyes lingering just a second longer than necessary. "And people who ride all day without complainin'."
"That's very kind," I say quietly. "Thank you."
He nods once, satisfied. "Anytime."
I carefully unwrap the parchment paper and take a bite. The sandwich is better than it has any right to be.
Soft bread. Sweet. Nutty. Familiar. I've barely taken two bites when the sound of footsteps drifts from the hallway.
I don't have to look to know it's him.
Joel steps into the lobby, rifle slung loose over his shoulder, eyes already scanning the room out of habit. His gaze passes over Tommy first, then drops to me.
To my bare foot next to his brother.
To the peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my hands.
Just a flash, sharp and gone so fast I almost convince myself I imagined it.
He's leaned back, relaxed, like this is nothing more than killing time in an empty lodge. The others are still moving through the building, settling in, making noise somewhere out of sight.
Joel's mouth curves, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
"Didn't realize we were havin' a damn picnic," he says mildly, tone dry. "Must've missed the invitation."
Tommy snorts. "It's just a sandwich, big brother."
Joel's gaze stays on me a beat longer than necessary, unreadable.
"Sure," he says. "Looks real cozy."
Then he looks away, already moving past us like the moment never mattered.
The evening slips by easier than I expect.
We sit in a loose circle in the lodge lobby, backs against couches and overturned chairs, passing flasks between us. Someone cracks a joke. Then another. Eugene tells us about a stupid prank he once pulled on his wife, Gail — something involving salt instead of sugar, and it spirals into laughter that echoes a little too loudly in the empty space.
From there, it turns softer.
Stories about home. About people we miss. Fond memories that feel warmer for having survived this long.
He keeps to the edges of the room, moving quietly through his checks — doors, windows, corners — the circle of his flashlight brief and controlled. Every so often he passes close enough that I catch the sound of his boots, the steady rhythm of someone who doesn't intend to be surprised.
Eventually, the laughter fades on its own.
"Well, fellas," I say, pushing myself to my feet, stretching as the ache settles into my muscles. "I'm gonna go get some beauty sleep. You guys have a nice night."
Tommy chuckles. "Good idea."
He drains the last of his flask and stands. "Think we could all use some rest now." He glances toward the darkened hallway. "I'll go relieve Joel. Take second watch."
I nod politely and shoulder my pack as I head toward the ground-level rooms I scoped out earlier.
The hallway is eerie, dust muffling my footsteps. I duck into the small room I claimed, closing the door behind me. It's modest — bare walls, a narrow window, a dresser missing one drawer, but the bed frame is intact, the mattress still in place beneath a thin layer of dust.
I set my sleeping bag on top of it and pause, a small smile tugging at my mouth.
For a first night on the road, I'll take the win.
I lie awake on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling long after the lodge has settled into silence. My thoughts won't stay put — drifting from the road ahead, to the miles behind us, to Joel. To Tommy. To how unexpectedly kind everyone's been to me so far.
The creak comes without warning.
My body reacts before my mind does.
My hand is already on the revolver tucked beneath my pillow as the door eases open another inch. My breath stills. The room fills with a shadow, a tall silhouette cutting against the faint spill of light from the hall.
I pull the gun free and raise it—
"Whoa," a voice murmurs, low and urgent. "Easy. Little wild one."
The silhouette lifts both hands slowly as it steps inside.
"It's just me," Joel whispers.
He moves closer, careful, measured. His eyes flick to the gun in my hand, then back to my face.
"Didn't mean to scare you," he adds quietly. "Y'alright?"
The door softly clicks shut behind him.
"Jesus Christ, Joel," I whisper, breath slipping out of me as I lower the gun and set it carefully on the nightstand.
He doesn't comment on it.
He approaches the bed carefully. The floor creaks softly beneath his weight, each sound landing louder in the quiet room. He stops a few feet away, just outside my reach.
"Good reflex," he murmurs. "Means you're listenin'."
His eyes flick once to the revolver, then back to me. Assessing. Always assessing.
Moonlight spills in through the narrow window beside the bed, pale and thin, catching the lines of his face as he steps closer. It sharpens the angles of his jaw, the tired set of his mouth, the shadows beneath his eyes. His hair is messy, shirt untucked, the faint smell of whiskey clinging to him like he forgot to care if anyone noticed.
"Sorry," he adds after a beat. Not for coming in. For making me reach for my gun.
The mattress dips slightly as he sits on the edge of the bed, far enough away to keep his distance, close enough that I feel the shift of his weight.
"You weren't sleepin'?" he asks rhetorically.
He nods like he expected that. Like he understands it.
Silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable. Outside, the wind nudges the lodge, wood settling with a soft groan.
"I wanted to check on you," he says at last. "Make sure you were alright in here."
His gaze lingers on my face.
"Is that all?" I ask, a faint smile present through my tone, testing the space between us.
"I saw you limpin' a little when you got off the horse," he says quietly.
"That what Tommy was helpin' you with?"
The question is casual on the surface. Practical. But there's something tight underneath it, something he doesn't bother hiding from me.
"Yeah," I say. "Just a blister."
"Mm." He nods slowly. "Figured."
"He didn't hurt you," Joel adds, not looking at me now.
"No," I say. "He was... gentle."
Joel's eyes lift back to mine, dark and intent, something hot and unmistakable flickering there before he reins it in.
"Course he was," he mutters.
His hands grip his knees, knuckles whitening before he forces them to relax.
"You shoulda said somethin'," he adds, voice lower now. "I would've taken care of it."
I click my tongue softly. "Please. You barely said a word to me the entire ride here."
"Focused," he replies immediately.
Then he shifts closer, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. I feel the heat of him through the blankets.
"I don't want Tommy touchin' you," he says quietly. "Ever."
"It wasn't even like that—"
He cuts me off by moving again, turning his body towards me while tugging the top of the sleeping bag back just enough to slide in closer, nudging my legs apart with his knee like he already knows where he belongs.
"The hell it wasn't," he growls.
I roll my eyes, though my pulse betrays me. "So what, am I your girlfriend now, or something?"
Joel leans in, crowding my space completely now, his hand braced beside my hip. He presses a short, hungry kiss to my lips — not gentle, not rushed. Just enough to remind me exactly what we've already crossed.
I taste whiskey on him and underneath it, the heat of everything he's been holding back today.
"Somethin' like that," he murmurs when he pulls back, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that's all confidence and claim.
Joel eases back instead of pressing closer, settling onto his heels, posture relaxed. Then he reaches for my leg, the one with the blister, lifting it carefully. His touch is delicate yet focused, fingers tracing the edge of the bandage as he inspects it, assessing his brother's handiwork without a word.
"Got a problem with it?" I ask, a note of challenge behind my voice.
Joel's jaw tightens. His grip firm at my ankle — not where it hurts.
"I got a problem with anyone thinkin' they get to take care of you but me," he says low. "Especially him."
The words send a heat curling through my stomach.
He leans in again, mouth brushing my ankle, then travels slowly up my calf possessively. My breath shutters when he gathers my other leg, slinging it over his shoulder.
His strong hand slides higher up my thigh, fingers spreading with control, intent unmistakable. He deliberately looks down at my panties, hunger in his eyes.
I flush, feeling vulnerable, painfully aware of how damp they already are.
His fingers hook the fabric and draw it aside, leaving me completely exposed to him now.
"Jesus," he mutters. "You're starvin'."
My hips lift without permission.
"So damn eager the second someone notices you." He murmurs.
Heat floods my cheeks, humiliation and want tangling tight in my chest.
"Smile pretty," he continues quietly, thumb pressing against my swollen clit to underline the point. "Let 'em think they're doin' you a favour just by lookin' your way."
I gasp as the need takes hold, sinful.
He takes his time, drawing circles on my clit — slow and methodical. Then, he adds two more fingers, they rim my entrance a few times before dipping into me, leaving me completely breathless.
"Tommy gives you a little attention," he adds, the southern drawl coming in thick as honey. "And you soak it right up. Like you're dyin' for it."
I swallow hard, pulse racing.
The rhythm of his touch shifts, no longer slow and steady. Quick. Purposeful. Like he's narrowed in on one goal and won't miss it.
And I know he won't — not when I'm this close already.
"But you don't go to him when you feel like this," he says, certainty ringing through every word. "You come to me."
His pace shifts deliberately, the change subtle but devastating. Slower now. Teasing. Like he knows exactly what it's doing to me.
"J—Joel" I stutter. "Pl—please."
The word barely makes it out before his expression darkens, satisfaction flickering.
"Shh," he murmurs reassuringly, making me feel younger than I am. "I know."
A beat goes by, the air thick around us.
"That what you want, baby girl?" he asks quietly. "You want me right here, takin' my time with you? Want me remindin' you who you come to when you wanna feel good?"
The word barely makes it out before he's smiling — slow, satisfied.
"Thought so," he mutters.
His fingers shift back into something practiced — something certain. There's nothing frantic about it. Just the steady confidence of a man who knows exactly what he's doing and has nothing to prove.
The age of him. The way he takes his time like he knows I'll stay exactly where I am. Like he knows I always do.
I hate how my body answers to him.
Hate how it betrays me so completely, how it arches and opens. Like I've taken a bite of something I was warned against, sweet and rotten all at once, knowing what it does to me.
This is the part they warn you about.
I come undone with a sound that feels like confession, like prayer twisted into something filthy. Shame and want twined together, my body shaking as if it's carrying something unholy, all because of a man built of violence and ruin.
He feels it — of course he does. The way my body gives itself over, the way I arch my back and clamp down around his fingers, cling to him like he's the only solid thing left in a world already falling apart.
Flee from sexual immorality.
I was taught to flee from it in Sunday school.
Both of us far past innocence.
And God help me — I would eat the fruit again.
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