SuniSid3Up

Act I: The Arrival Chapter 1 - Arrival Chapter 2 - Warm Welcome Chapter 3 - Outbreak Day Chapter 4 - The Verdict Pt. I Chapter 5 - The Verdict Pt. II Act II: The Rebuild Chapter 6 - Jackson Chapter 7 - Dinosaurs Chapter 8 - Guardian Chapter 9 - Tea Chapter 10 - Ribs Act III: The Tension Chapter 11 - Warning Chapter 12 - Tommy's Turn Chapter 13 - Close Chapter 14 - The Final Verdict Chapter 15 - Silver Lake Pt. I Chapter 16 - Silver Lake Pt. II Chapter 17 - The Apology Chapter 18 - Birthday Girl Chapter 19 - The Letter 'D' Act IV: The Beginning Chapter 20 - The Kiss of Death Chapter 21 - The Great Escape Chapter 22 - An Hour Chapter 23 - Nothin' Chapter 24 - Seen Chapter 25 - Roots Chapter 26 - Ambush Chapter 27 - PB&J Chapter 28 - Pairs Chapter 29 - Take On Me

Joey by jaymee.draws

June 4, 2024

Showing up with breakfast muffins is objectively ridiculous and you realise it as you walk up to his front door. There’s something borderline farcical about standing on Joel’s porch holding the small lunchbox like it constitutes an apology he already said you don’t owe him. Still, the guilt of accidentally digging up something he had buried got worse after you left yesterday and you had to do something about it.

You knock and wait. A minute goes by.

Nothing.

A second, firmer knock then. 

Still nothing. 

That’s when the worry starts to barrel in uninvited again. It’s hard not to start thinking about the way he shut that drawer yesterday and wonder if he’s doing the same to you now. But he asked you to come back today. He wanted you here.

Trying to play it off, you glance around and attempt to not appear anxious. You decide on one last attempt and knock a third time, much louder now. Even with his bad ear, he’d feel it through the floorboards.

No answer.

Did something change overnight? Did he get back in his head and let it consume him when you weren’t around to stop it?

You’ve already turned to step off his porch in quiet defeat, swallowing the pain down when you hear the latch.

Whatever state you were expecting to see him in, it wasn’t this. He looks rough. Really rough. His eyes are at half-mast and his shoulders carrying none of their usual authority. It’s startling to witness.

“Hey,” you say carefully.

“Hey.” His voice is rougher than usual and scrapes uncomfortably out of his throat. “Sorry. Didn’t hear you knockin’.”

You just stare at him for a moment. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah…” He scratches across his stubble. “Just didn’t sleep last night, that’s all.”

“Oh,” you say, suddenly feeling like you’ve just interrupted an attempt at getting some rest. “I can come back tomorrow instead if you—”

“No— no.” He seems to wake up just enough to blurt it out quickly. “I was waitin’ up for ya. Come on in.”

You follow him in and the house confirms everything. His workstation is still scattered with yesterday’s shavings, there’s dishes on the counter and in the sink that nobody bothered to deal with and the living room looks like it has been completely neglected. This is evidence that the man had gone upstairs, shut the door and stayed there after you left. You do your best not to acknowledge any of it openly as you look around.

One thing you love about Joel is how he moves. It’s like watching a lion overseeing its pride. Today, however, he moves like every step requires energy he simply does not have. He makes it as far as the kitchen counter and parks himself there, leaning and taking the weight off of his legs.

“I brought these,” you say, holding up the lunchbox uselessly. “Thought you might be hungry.”

He takes it from you and turns it over in his hands before popping the lid off. He inhales a whiff and and something about him mellows to a degree. “Made these yourself?”

You shrug. “With Michelle’s help. Spent the evening with her and Arron after Jeremiah went to bed.” A short pause. “Wanted to make you something after yesterday.”

He musters up as much of a smile as he can before pressing the lid back on and setting them aside. His eyes drop to the tiles as he leans back against the counter again. “Sorry for how I reacted. I didn’t mean to… y’know—”

“It’s fine. I promise.” And you mean it. “Things were going a little too well. It was bound to happen.”

He looks up at you now like he expected consequences and can’t believe he’s receiving unearned generosity and understanding instead. He’s been up all night convincing himself he’s botched whatever this is, and here you are buffing it out with humour.

You stumble over and take the space next to him and let your shoulders sit together. The morning light filters through the kitchen windows across the mess neither of you is addressing.

“We’ve been through this already,” you begin. “This isn’t going to be easy, for you or for me. But I’m not here because I want answers you’re not ready to give me yet. I’m here because I want to be here. And I hope you know that by now.”

His chin stays dipped, eyes vaguely aimed somewhere near your feet. “How can you be okay with me knowin’ so much about your past but you knowin’ hardly anythin’ about mine?”

You give it a minute of thought.

“The past is the past,” you reply, glancing sideways at him. “We’ve all got one. I had to give mine up for safety, for trust. Yours isn’t mine to take. Maybe— hopefully one day you’ll feel capable of sharing it with me. But what I care about right now is the man here with me today.”

He takes a long breath and holds it before letting it out slowly. His hand starts to move across the counter, his fingers finding the edge of yours. You turn your hand over and close it around his and trace your thumb idly across his knuckles. Tommy’s voice asking you to be patient with him loops in your mind.

“It means more than you’ll ever know,” he murmurs eventually. “Just don’t know why you’d do all this for such an old sad sack o’ shit like me.”

“Ah, give over,” you tut. He turns to look at you. “You asked me for time, so I’m giving you time. And I’ll wait as long as you need me to. Until then, you’re my oldsad sack of shit.”

The lines between his brows loosen. He leans across to kiss you. There’s no trace of coffee or toothpaste, just his warmth. When your lips part with a soft pop, his eyes hang half-open, blurred by tiredness and whatever the kiss drained out of him.

“Why don’t you go lie down?” you suggest then. “Go get some rest.”

He straightens up a little and glances around. “Uhh… Yeah. Are you… are you comin’?”

“I’ll follow you in in a bit,” you say, pushing yourself off of the counter. “I want to get all this stuff put away first.”

“No, no…” he says dismissively. “Ellie’ll do it when she gets home.”

“She’ll be tired and she’ll have homework,” you reply, already rolling up your sleeves and starting to stack dishes. “Besides, I don’t mind. I have a little energy I could burn off.”

“I’m not havin’ you clearin’ up in my house—”

“Joel.” You cut him off with a stare. “I want to. Now go on. I won’t be long. Should only take me a few minutes.”

He holds his stance for another second before surrendering. He swipes a hand down his face and moves off into the living room, not having the energy to argue any further. You hear the distant sound of him losing the battle with gravity and dropping onto the couch followed by a long, exhausted exhale. 

The layout of his kitchen comes back to you quickly. You’d practically memorised it the afternoon you helped Ellie bake her own birthday cake without meaning to. Dishes get rinsed and returned to where they belong, the dried clods of mud crumbled around the floor get swept up and dealt with and the layer of wood dust gets cleared from his work station. It’s nothing over the top, but the place looks like itself again.

“Alright, all done,” you sigh, rounding the couch to find him. “Do you want me to heat you up one of the breakfast muff—”

You halt in place. 

He’s out like a light. Feet up on the armrest, one arm tucked behind his head and the other draped loosely across his stomach.

Your heart turns to mush at the sight of him. Any plan for what the day would entail is resigned in that instant.

“Hey,” you whisper, tapping the side of his foot gently. “Mind if I join you?”

His eyes open by the smallest fraction. They’re clouded and barely there, purely from surfacing back out of the deep sleep he was about to slip into. A low sound comes out of him before he starts making space and lifting his arms. It’s less of a sleepy invitation and more of an instinct.

You pull the red knitted blanket from the back of the couch, kick off your boots and tuck yourself into the gap he’s made. Your head settles under his chin and his arms come around you, one hand pulling the blanket up and the other taking hold of your forearm. 

A long exhale from him follows which lets you know he’s gone again.

You stay awake for a little while. There’s no real reason to, but you just find yourself enjoying listening to the way his breathing deepens, the way his hand stays circled around your forearm but goes gradually more slack as sleep takes him fully. 

Whatever kept him awake all night apparently left him the moment he felt safe enough to allow it. He waited for you and he opened the door. He’s resting because you’re finally here. 

His snoring starts up eventually and the heat of him becomes utterly sedating. Your eyes grow heavier with every breath you take until you finally follow him into a state of tranquility.

—

Your mother stands at the water’s edge. The sky above Silver Lake is colourless and her skin matches it, grey and papery, depleted of everything that once made it look alive. She’s speaking, but the space between you keeps swallowing her words. You can barely make out what she’s saying. I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry. Over and over. The gun appears in her hand and is pressed to her temple without warning.

Your heart starts to thud and you run to try and save her. The gravelly beach beneath your feet tilts, and no matter how hard you try, the distance between you only opens wider. 

Then you hear the bang. Blood coats the rocks where she lies. Your own scream comes from somewhere outside of your body and it’s louder than anything you’ve ever heard.

David rises from the water behind, crawling up the shore towards her body. He’s almost unrecognisable with his face reduced to a pulp of knife wounds and cordyceps claiming much of his body with thick, fungal plates. He opens what’s left of his mouth to reveal tendrils sprouting from his throat along with haunting, wet clicks. 

He starts to charge directly at you.

“Joey?”

Joel nudges you awake and his voice chases away the hazy images in your mind.

Your eyes snap open and for a brief second, you’re disorientated and trying to figure out where you are. Your pulse hammers in your throat and your whole body is tense and shivering like it’s still locked in the nightmare you just got pulled out from. As Joel’s living room starts to reassemble around you, you become aware that he’s still underneath you and you’ve got a fistful of his undershirt bunched in your hand.

“Wh-what happened?” Your voice comes out ragged. You lift your head from his chest.

“Nothin’. Everythin’s okay.” His voice soothes without even trying. He notices the fright still sitting behind your eyes. “You were mumblin’ and twitchin’. Were you havin’ a bad dream or somethin’?”

More sensation starts to return in stages. His arms are still around you and you’re overheating from the blanket.

“Yeah. Just a dream.” You swallow. “Sorry. It happens every now and again.”

His hand cups the back of your head and guides it back down to his chest. His other arm closes around you even tighter. “S’okay, baby. I’ve got you. You’re safe. Happens to me too sometimes.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt again as the last stubborn traces of the nightmare ebbs out of you. He starts stroking up and down your back in slow motions until eventually, the shaking ceases and your breath untangles itself. 

You’re almost slipping back into sleep when a distant, cheerful voice from somewhere outside Joel’s house reaches you… and it’s getting closer.

“Alright, see you tomorrow!”

Ellie. She’s home from school.

The two of you are on your feet and moving in a graceless, soundless panic before you’ve even thought to question it. The velocity in which you snatch your boots off the floor and Joel folds the blanket back over the couch ironically resembles two teenagers caught doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing.

“Bathroom,” he says, nodding towards the one tucked away under the stairs out in the hallway. “Go. I’ll try get her upstairs.”

Being asked to physically hide yourself still stings despite everything, but Ellie walking in on the two of you like this deserves more than fifteen seconds of preparation. You take your boots and head for the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind you with as little noise as possible.

At the same time, the front door pushes open. Ellie’s sigh carries across the hallway.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey kiddo.” You hear it straight away. His tone sounds like he’s trying too hard to conceal something. It’s too even and not like him. There’s no doubt she’ll notice that. “How was school?”

“Boring. Same as every other day.”

You stand there and listen to the muffled sounds of her dropping her bag somewhere and unzipping her jacket. All of it sounding way too close to the door between you and the scene.

“Got much homework?” Joel asks.

There’s a pause long enough that you can feel her suspicion forming. It’s clearly not normal for him to show this much interest in her day at school.

“Not really. Why?”

“No reason. Just— I want you gettin’ it done earlier from now on. None of this leavin’ it ’til last minute any more. Head on upstairs and make a start before dinner.”

She pauses again. 

“Why do I have to do it upstairs?”

“Because this is my house and you’ll do as your told,” he says with a touch too much force than the situation calls for.

You clamp your eyes shut and try to communicate with him telepathically. Dial it back, Joel. Jesus.

“Let me guess,” Ellie says, her voice changing from suspicious to more understanding. “Didn’t sleep again?”

You hear Joel shift on his hips and let out a small exhale right outside the door. “Yeah. Sorry. Rough night.”

“Dude, you need to get that under control,” she says, starting to move around again. “You can be such a dick when you don’t sleep.”

“Language.”

She rolls her eyes so hard you can hear it through the wood. “Sorry, sorry…”

Then, you hear her stop right by where the foot of the stairs are.

“Uh, what’s Joey’s jacket doing here?”

Your internal organs fall out of you to the tiles below. You hung it up on the banister when you arrived earlier. It was mild enough outside this morning that you didn’t even really need to bring it. You just grabbed it out of habit. And now it’s there, giving away your presence like it’s a neon sign.

Joel’s not quick enough to think of an explanation. He leaves it two seconds too long so you act on instinct and impulse. You flush the toilet and let it confirm that you are indeed in the house. After counting to ten, you push the door open and step out into the hallway with as much casualness as you can possibly gather.

Joel’s face is the first thing you see. His eyes are pulled wide open and he’s frozen in place wondering what the hell you’re doing. Ellie is stood by the banister where your jacket hangs, confounded by what’s unfolding before her.

“Hey, Ellie,” you say in the voice of someone who was absolutely not just standing in a tiny bathroom under her stairs listening to the entire conversation she was having. 

“Hey…” You can see her glancing between you both, picking you apart and trying to piece together what’s going on. “What are you doing here?”

It registers then how strange it must be from her perspective. You’re essentially a staff member at her school and a confidant she has grown to trust. And here you are, chilling at home with her guardian in your free time when you have no real business to be doing that.

“I, uhh… I was just passing through,” you begin, already aware that this is going to require some seriously believable engineering to get by Ellie. “I dropped off some breakfast muffins for you to try.” You flick your head back in the direction of the kitchen. 

“I made them last night. I wanted to see if you liked them. Thought maybe we could practice them together sometime or get Elise to do them for the next masterclass. I wasn’t even supposed to stay long, but I really needed to use the bathroom before the walk back and Joel kindly offered, so…”

She continues to dissect you. The sleep crease on your cheek, your hair flattened on one side, the relaxed attire… Something about the blankness in her expression tells you she’s not buying it. It’s too over-explained and convenient, but she opts not to dig into it.

“Oh, cool…” she says in a way that only sets you more on edge. “Well, I was actually going to stop by Jeremiah’s later to ask if you still wanted to teach me Take On Me. I know you still have a few days off work, but—”

“Of course,” you say. “No, yeah, let’s do it. How about tomorrow? Are you free after school?”

“Yep!”

You look over to Joel who’s still trying to hold himself together. “Is it okay if I stop by tomorrow then?”

He glances between the two of you and his chest slackens from letting out the breath he was holding. “Yeah… Okay. As long as your homework gets done.”

—

June 5, 2024

“Ugh, I’m never gonna get it,” Ellie says, dropping her hand from the strings. “Why is it so hard to switch from this chord to this one? I can’t get my fingers right.”

She has spent the bulk of the evening attempting it and the frustration has been accumulating steadily. There was a precise moment where she stopped playing her guitar and started fighting it.

The porch holds the last of the day’s warmth. The sun is dragging itself down slowly behind the roofline across the street. Joel is inside putting together something for their dinner. Behind the screen door, Ellie’s schoolbag is slumped against the wall where she left it the second she got home.

“Okay, I think it’s time for a break,” you say, feeling the need to step in before she throws the instrument across the yard. “You’re doing really well already, but sometimes just taking ten minutes can help reset.”

“No, my stupid brain and stupid fingers just need to coordinate properly,” she mutters.

“Hey. Enough of that. You’ve literally just started learning it today. These things take time.” You hold out your hand. “Give me the guitar.”

She gives up and shoves it across to you. You settle it on your knee and look at her for a long moment. 

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” you say. “You’ve got a lot of skills under your belt already that most fifteen year olds don’t have. Look at how quickly you picked up the bow.”

“I know,” she says. “So why am I not getting this as easy? It shouldn’t be this hard.”

“There’s not one person alive who’s perfect at everything,” you reply, turning the tuning peg absentmindedly. “And things aren’t always easy. But think about it, it’ll be so much more rewarding when you do get it. Because you will get it. A part of the skill is the patience it takes to master it.”

“But, I am patient!” she says, as though you’ve accused her of something.

Your tilt your head and raise an eyebrow at her. “Ellie… You are many things. Patient is not one of them.”

She goes to open her mouth, but aborts and just sits back in Joel’s chair. You can’t help but smile.

A comfortable enough silence passes. The neighbourhood hums quietly as everyone starts to wind down for the night. Ellie twirls the guitar pick between her fingers, passing it back and forth and staring blankly at the wood beneath her.

“Joey, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

Another rotation of the pick. She hesitates, but then decides to just plough ahead.

“Is there something going on with you and Joel?”

The question crashes into the evening like a meteor and you find yourself trying to do anything but overly react to it. You take a sudden interest in the streetlight furthest from the house and keep your eyes fixed on it.

“Uhh— What do you mean?”

“Like, are you two…” She takes a second to choose her next words carefully. “Seeing each other?”

Nothing gets passed this little twerp. She can read people better than you can read a fucking billboard. Every time she showcases this unsettling talent she has, you’re not sure if you admire or despise her for it. Usually, you end up leaning more towards admiring because you start imagining what she’s been through that has required her to develop and sharpen this particular skill.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say. “Why would you even ask that?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Because it’s really fucking obvious.”

“Hey, language,”, you quip, but then immediately catch yourself.

She produces the most insufferable smirk because she knows she’s cracked the code. You can physically feel the secret slipping between your fingers. The one person Joel didn’t want to find out yet above everyone else now knows.

“Joel and I are just friends,” you say with as much conviction as you have in you. “He’s my partner— patrol partner, I mean. You don’t need to be worrying about it.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” she says pleasantly. “I just wanted to know. Besides, I think it’d be good for him. To have someone. Especially someone like you.”

She quietly picks at a splinter in the arm of Joel’s chair and you wonder how a fifteen year old could possibly know what would be good for a man like him. 

“He’s different when you’re around,” she continues. “He’s been different since… Since my birthday, I guess.”

Your eyes are still glued to the far end of the street. You take a long and slow breath in and out. “Hmm, yeah. Well, it’s got nothing to do with me, so…”

“Ding ding ding, my bullshit-o-metre is going off,” she teases.

You’re about to double down when you catch a glimpse of scarring on the underside of her forearm. The skin there has healed over and is left smooth and shiny. You’d forgotten about the bandage she had back in March around her birthday. She catches your eyes dipping to it and quickly tugs her sleeve down.

“Ellie, is that a burn?” you ask. “What the hell happened? It looks really nasty.”

“Nothing. It was just a stupid accident.”

You tilt your head again at her. “Come on, if we’re going to be grilling each other with questions, you can give me a little more than that. Tell me what happened.”

Before she can answer, the front door swings open. Joel leans out and takes in the scene before looking down at her schoolbag. “Ellie. Homework. Food’s almost ready.”

She reaches over, takes the guitar back from you and starts to get to her feet. “Is Joey staying for dinner?”

You go very still and look at Joel. He glances between you both as she approaches the front door.

“Yeah,” he says after a brief pause. “If he wants to. I made enough.”

The grin that breaks across her face is entirely too unnerving and makes the hairs on your arms stand up. She tops it off with an exaggerated smoochy face, obvious enough that Joel catches it, before bouncing back inside.

His neck almost snaps turning to face you as she passes him by. Whatever laxness he had in his face has curdled into unbridled horror. He checks behind him and then steps out fully onto the porch and pulls the door closed behind him. 

“What the fuck was that? What did you say to her?”

You jump to your feet. “Nothing! I didn’t tell her anything, but she knows!”

“What did she say? How does she know?” The urgency in his voice almost frightens you.

“She asked if there was something going on between us. I said there wasn’t, but it was like she already knew. Apparently we’re not that good at hiding it.”

He looks off down the street, his jaw tightening and hands finding his hips. “I don’t fuckin’ believe this… How the hell would she—…”

“I think you greatly underestimate how smart that kid is, Joel.”

“Oh, I know all too well,” he grumbles. “She just wasn’t supposed to know yet. No one’s supposed to know.”

The stress visibly flourishes in his features so you step closer to try and offer him some level of comfort and reassurance. “Hey, hey… Look, I know this isn’t what we planned and I know it’s scary, but she didn’t seem to be bothered by it at all. She actually seemed quite… happy about the idea of it, if it were true…”

His jaw stills for a second before he exhales hard through flared nostrils. “That’s not the point, Joey. I’m not ready for her to know. I wanted more time. It was supposed to be just for us.”

“Well, I don’t think we have that luxury anymore, Joel,” you say quietly. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not how you wanted it, but we’ve got to do something. Continuing to pretend like this is not happening is the worst possible thing you could do right now. For you and for her.”

He lifts his eyes then and looks at you like you’ve just said something extremely dangerous. “What’re you sayin’?”

You hold his gaze and bite down on your bottom lip. “I think you should just tell her.”

“Are you— Have you lost your goddamned mind? Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

“Joel. She already knows,” you repeat. “I didn’t want to be the one to confirm it for her. It’s not my place. But she knows, and the longer you lie to her face, the less she’s going to trust you in the long run. Believe me. She needs to know she can trust you.”

That seems to register deeply in him. Trust, and the breaking of it, appears to be a subject him and Ellie might have faced at some point in their history.

“I know it’s a lot to consider,” you continue, “and I can understand not wanting everyone in the settlement knowing, but Tommy and Ellie… these are people that care about you. This is your family. And unless you’re planning on ending this, I think they should know because it’s too messy to hide. Think about how much easier it’ll be if we can at least just let our guard down around them.”

He goes very quiet and very still. He stares down at the porch boards fighting himself. The breeze picks up suddenly and rustles the trees surrounding his yard.

You take another step closer and reach to brush a finger against the side of his hand, just enough to let him feel your touch. His hand reacts and his fingers curl into yours.

“I’ll be right there with you if that’s what you want,” you say. “But she deserves to hear it from you. You know she does.”

Eventually, he nods. Once and barely.

“I’ll tell her at dinner.”

—

“Looks good,” you say as Joel places a plate of vegetables and buttered bread in front of you. It doesn’t, if you’re being truthful, but someone had to break the uncomfortably awkward silence at the table.

“Why can’t you cook for us more?” Ellie asks you from across the table.

“Because Joey doesn’t live here,” Joel says, shooting her a look. “He lives with Jeremiah. Now eat.”

He drops into the seat beside you and starts shovelling carrots into his mouth without another word, eyes fixed to his plate and brow scrunched grumpily. He’s rigid with nerves.

You pick up your own cutlery and make a start.

The first carrot you chew confirms what you suspected. It’s overcooked to the point it’s almost liquid. It just tastes like the boiling water it was cooked in. No flavour, just mush. Your eyes flick over to the salt shaker, but you resist.

“Want some salt?” Ellie says then, lifting the salt shaker like she knew you were thinking about it.

You glance at Joel next to you and then back to her. “No. I’m fine, thanks.”

She pops her eyebrow knowingly and then proceeds to lace her own plate with it until Joel notices and tells her that’s enough. You’d rather suffer through the rest of this food as it is than hurt his feelings any more than they already have been.

Everyone has almost finished eating by the time you realise no one has spoken a word. Every scrape of cutlery around the table feels amplified. Ellie has remained quiet all throughout dinner which is very unusual for her. She always fills the silence no matter where she is. It’s practically her function. A part of you wonders if she’s keeping quiet because she’s waiting for someone else to fill it tonight for a change.

Under the table, you reach over and press your knee against his. His eyes slide over to you and he reacts like he was trying to forget what he set out to do tonight. From your periphery, you watch him fight himself one last time. He swallows down his last mouthful, pats his mouth clean with his napkin and readies himself with bunched fists.

“Uhh— Ellie.” 

His voice comes out with a flakiness to it. He’s already unsure and wobbly.

She stops mid-mouthful and looks up. Without even needing to acknowledge it, you can sense that he can’t look at her directly.

“I got somethin’ I need to talk to you about.”

Her eyes flick between the two of you. The tips of her ears flush red and she presses her lips together to hide the smile pushing up at the corners. You can almost hear her saying this is gonna be good in her head. She places her fork down and leans back, open and ready.

The room quiets even more around him. It takes him a moment to get started.

“I— uhh… I heard you asked Joey a question… out on the porch earlier today,” he says quietly. “About us.”

He speaks like every word is the equivalent of stepping on glass.

“Mhm.” She doesn’t blink.

He wipes his clammy hands on his jeans, still not able to face her.

“Well, uhh—… I thought I should let you know that, umm…” He and his words start to fall apart slowly. His shoulders sag and his head dips to his lap. “Me and Joey— uhh…”

Even Ellie’s expression softens watching him struggle through whatever it is he wants to say. The amusement drains out of her now that he’s shrinking. It’s almost pitiful to witness.

He’s just about to continue on and push through when he gives up on himself and collapses inward.

“You say it,” he mumbles to you under his breath. “I can’t— I’m sorry. Fuckin’ stupid…”

You hear the frustration in it. It’s not aimed at you or Ellie, but it’s difficult watching it swallow him whole.

Taking a breath, you straighten up a little in your seat. Beneath the table, your hand finds his where it rests on his thigh. You curl your fingers around it and give him a small squeeze.

“It’s alright,” you murmur, just for him. “I’ve got you.”

When you turn back to Ellie, she’s already watching and waiting.

“What Joel wants to tell you,” you say, picking up where he left off, “is that he knows you’ve noticed that we’ve been spending a lot of time together. Outside of patrols and stuff.”

She measures you like she already knows where this is all going and she’s just waiting for you to cough it up.

“Well,” you continue, trying to choose the right way to say it, “that’s because we enjoy spending time together. And we’ve gotten… quite close in the last while.”

Beside you, Joel visibly squirms. You feel it more than you see it. His hand tightens under yours and the rest of his body goes rigid like he’s bracing for some sort of impact.

“Joel is a really, really good man. He’s helped me with a lot since I got here. And I’ve helped him too, I think. And somewhere along the way, we’ve realised that we rely on each other — and that we care about each other… a lot.”

Ellie’s expressions remains unreadable, but she’s listening. Really listening.

“So when you asked earlier if there was something going on between us… I lied, and I shouldn’t’ve lied. I’m sorry I did. But I did it because this is something Joel wanted to tell you himself in his own time… when he was ready… because it’s important to him. But I think you know the answer.”

Your thumb traces back and forth over Joel’s knuckles and it’s unclear who it’s more grounding for, you or him.

Ellie tips her head forward slightly, peering at you through her lashes. “So… you two are seeing each other?”

You don’t want to answer this part. Instead, you wait and let him do it. He eventually looks up from his lap. His eyes move from you to her and he gathers up every last bit of courage he has knowing he’s got the final word. 

“Yeah.”

A single syllable, but now it’s out there. He did it and you can’t quite believe he did it. Your hand squeezes his again. His body language hides nothing. It’s abundantly evident that it took a lot for him just to do that.

Ellie’s cheeks tint a little and that small flicker of amusement returns to her eyes.

“Cool,” she says, like you’ve just told her some mildly interesting fact about space she hasn’t heard yet and not something that has had Joel in knots this entire time.

You look at her across the table and the smile you wear is just for her. She’s young, but she’s intelligent enough to understand what she’s just done for him, and by extension, you. You see it in how she knows to not use it as an opportunity to tease him the way she normally would or make it into anything it doesn’t need to be. By being appropriately gentle, she just took an enormous burden off of his shoulders, and you’re full of gratitude for that.

Joel’s eyes find yours then and they give away exactly how he’s feeling. He doesn’t know quite what to do with it. He’s jammed somewhere between relief and disbelief. All that tension he had held on to, all that fear, and she just… accepts it like it’s nothing. Now it just needs to find it’s way out of his body.

"So you're… okay with it?" he asks, still shielding himself as if she might change her mind. "It doesn't bother you?"

She almost winces at that, like the question itself is a little painful to receive. “Psh, nope. Why would it bother me? I like Joey. Joey’s cool.”

"I just—…" He exhales and collects himself. "It doesn't change anything. Between you and me. I need you to know that."

She picks at the ends of her fingers and nods like she understands the gravity behind those words. A small silence passes before she looks back up at you both. “Wait, so how long has this been going on? Am I literally the last one to find out?”

“Not that long,” you say, your fingers still laced through his under the table. “It’s still quite new for us. But only you and Tommy know, and we’d like to keep it that way for now. Okay?”

She nods again.

“Ellie.” Joel’s voice is considerably more firm than yours. “I mean it. You can’t tell anyone. Not until we’re ready.”

“Yeah, I heard him the first time, jeez…” she replies. “I won’t say a thing.”

He analyses her for another moment, checking for any potential cracks in her demeanour, before finally letting it go. “Alright, well… clear your plate away and go to your room or somethin’.”

She slides her seat back, takes her plate to the sink to rinse it and then begins to make her way out to the hallway. Back at the table, you and Joel follow suit, collecting what’s left of the dishes to finish tidying up.

She stops in the doorway and turns.

“You know,” she says, making you both pause. She takes the sight of the two of you in, standing together in the amber light of Joel’s dining table with dishes in hand, like she’s piecing you together in a new way for the first time. “You guys kinda suit each other.”

She says it simply and like she’s pleased with herself for saying it. Then she’s gone. Her footsteps go climbing up the stairs and her bedroom door closes.

The silence she leaves behind is very different than the one before dinner. 

Joel leans forward onto the back of a dining chair, propping himself up and letting it take some of his weight. His eyes find the tiles below and he lets out a resolute exhale as he starts to process what just happened. You set down the dishes you’re holding and cross to him. Your hand moves up his arm and stays there. You fold yourself against his side, resting your face on his shoulder and your arm curving around his back.

“You did it,” you whisper against his flannel, pressing several little kisses there. “I’m so proud of you.”

He doesn’t move for a minute. He just stands there and lets it all flow through him.

When he finally straightens and looks at you, his eyes are glossy and a little lost. Not lost in a bad way, lost in a way that someone would look if they carried that much shame and worry only to learn that they never needed it in the first place.

“How do you feel?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “I dunno…” he says. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on… I just didn’t think it’d be like this. I don’t know what I thought was gonna happen.”

“She’s not like us,” you reply softly. “You’ve got to remember that, Joel. Ellie didn’t grow up with what we grew up with. None of this matters to her the same way it did for us. She’s like Tommy. She just wants you to be happy.”

He absorbs that somewhat and nods slowly, his gaze drifting somewhere past you before finding their way back.

“Would it be alright if— uhh…” He clears his throat and tries again, quieter this time. “Would you mind stayin’ tonight? I just— I think I’d sleep better if you were here.”

The shyness of it, the need… it makes you melt. It’s still very much apparent how hard it is for someone like him to be this way, so you don’t take it for granted. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I can stay. I’ll just need to go and get Jeremiah sorted first. I’ll be back in a bit.”

—

Joel eases his bedroom door closed with a soft click once you’ve returned and everyone has decided it’s time to turn in for the night. With Ellie tucked away in her room and getting herself ready to sleep, you can’t help but notice the subtle difference in how he moves around his room now. He’s still carrying some residual tension from the reveal earlier tonight, but he’s definitely a little looser. Even when he answered the door downstairs just now, there was an openness that wasn’t there before and almost a relief that you had returned.

Your patrol backpack has been repurposed to an overnight bag for the night. Some spare clothes and a few essentials, nothing major. You set it down at the foot of the bed and take in your surroundings like it’s the first time. Nothing has inherently changed except the eyes that look around it now. Everything feels different through this lens.

The room still holds Joel’s version of cozy. It’s practical and a little worn-in, but it’s tidy. Lamps hum warmly in the corners, casting shadows along the walls. Every surface still holds tools, books or just random belongings of his. Nothing feels out of place though.

At the window, he draws the curtains closed to shut out the quiet stretch of street outside.

“How’s Jeremiah?” he asks, unbuttoning his flannel and toeing off his boots.

“He’s actually doing pretty well,” you reply, doing the same, starting to shrug off your own layers. “You know how much I hate leaving him on his own, but I think he enjoys having the place to himself. Less of me hovering around him all day.”

By the time you’ve brushed your teeth, he has already changed into his nightwear and passes you in the doorway with a graze of his shoulder as he heads to take his turn at the sink.

The bathroom door swings half-shut behind him and you take a second to just watch him. It’s strange how easily it’s all slipping into place. It feels almost presumptuous to wonder if this could become a regular thing, but the thought is there nonetheless.

When he reemerges, you’re standing at the end of his bed.

“Which side do you want me on?” you ask.

“You choose,” he murmurs, barely glancing over as he busies himself with folding the last remaining articles of clothing left lying around.

There’s no need to overthink it. Naturally, you gravitate to the same side he made you sleep on the last time and tuck yourself under the covers.

The sheets are fresh and cool against your skin as you slide in. You catch the scent of soap as you pull them up over your chest. You watch him circle the bed before following you in and leaning down to press a light kiss to your forehead.

He reaches behind him to switch off his bedside lamp. In that moment, something nags at you. You consider letting it pass. Tonight has already taken enough out of him and out of you. But you need to know the truth.

“Joel,” you say quietly, just before the lamp goes off. “I need to ask you something.”

He pauses and glances over his shoulder at you. Whatever he sees in your face makes him stop. He turns back to face you and props himself up on his elbow.

“What’s wrong?”

You take a long breath in to buy yourself a second, trying to think of the smartest way to ask.

“I know today has been a lot. And I meant it when I said I wasn’t looking for answers that you’re not ready to give me yet, but there’s something I really need to know.”

He shifts again and sits up a little like he’s bracing for whatever it’s about to be.

“How did Ellie get that scar on her arm?”

It drops on him heavier than you intended it to. The stillness is immediate. His eyes become quite vacant as they drift past your shoulder. You can see thoughts starting to churn uncomfortably in his head.

“I saw the bandages before and I asked her, but she wouldn’t say what happened,” you continue. “I asked her again out on the porch when I saw it had healed over, but she still wouldn’t tell me a thing. She just kept saying it was nothing.”

His gaze drops to the rumpled sheets between you. He swallows nervously. 

You hesitate, but then decide to push a little further.

“It didn’t look like nothing. It looked like she was trying to cover something.”

That pulls his eyes back to you. He receives it almost like it’s an accusation. Without you needing to say it, he knows what you’re insinuating.

There’s no mistaking what he’s thinking now. You can see it written all over his face. You’ve stepped on the line, maybe even over it, but he’s calculating whether this is something he can be truthful about with you. After the past few months you’ve had with him, if he can’t trust you at this point, maybe he’ll never be able to fully trust you.

It takes a long moment, but he eventually breathes out slowly, like he’s decided what he needs to say.

“She’s immune.”

He says it flatly and with no build-up or cushioning. The words are so disorientating that you’re not even fully sure you heard or understood them correctly.

Your brows pinch slightly. “What do you mean immune?”

There’s a clench in his jaw. His eyes stay glued to the creases in the sheets like he’s reading from them, like it’s easier than looking directly into your eyes.

“She got bit,” he says then. “Long time ago now. But she didn’t turn.” He pauses and swallows. “It just healed. By itself. That’s how she ended up with me. Someone wanted me to take her out west — to Salt Lake City. Fireflies had a base out there. Said they might be able to use her to make a cure.”

Your head feels overloaded and like it’s struggling to keep up. Every piece of information shatters everything you thought you knew even more.

“A cure?” you repeat, but your voice is barely audible.

“It ended up not workin’,” he continues. “So we left. Came back here so we could be with Tommy. Give her a life worth livin’. Keep her safe. She burned herself to hide the bite. Didn’t want any attention.”

You drag your gaze away from him because looking at him feels like too much right now. The world you’ve been surviving in, as broken as it already is, has never felt more out of alignment. 

Immune. The word runs circles around you and refuses to sit still. A cure. A concept you didn’t think was even possible anymore. 

All the years passed. All those that were lost. The idea that things could’ve been different or still could be different. It’s crushing. It’s too great to even comprehend.

“If people knew,” Joel says, and this time you feel his eyes on the side of your face, “I don’t know what they’d do, so they can’t find out. There ain’t anyone else like her. Might never be anyone else like her again.”

Just when you thought you had him figured out, he uncovers this layer to him that completely rearranges any notion of reality you had. Jackson doesn’t feel quite as simple anymore and neither does this.

“If we’re really doin’ this,” he murmurs, each word measured carefully, “I need you to swear to me that you’ll keep her safe. No matter what.”

Your eyes meet his again. They’re heavy with the burden of what it takes to be around him. Joel’s fear is never loud, it’s always buried deep enough that only those who truly know him get to see it.  He’s speaking to you in a way that should feel like you’re being given an ultimatum. But you made your mind up the day she barrelled into you in Elise’s bakery, whether you knew it or not.

You give one slow and certain nod. “No matter what.”

Joel watches you carefully after that, in that way he does when he’s testing for any fragility. You just let him. You can feel it in the way his eyes move across your features. He doesn’t find anything. You mean it and he knows you do.

Still leaning on one elbow, he reaches over and cups the back of your head to pull you into him. He kisses you with intention. It feels less like affection and more like an unspoken oath you’re making here in his bed. When you part, your lips separate softly and he keeps you close for another minute, foreheads pressed together while the quiet breathes around the two of you.

Then he shifts lower beneath the covers, settling into the mattress and ready to rest. Instinctively, he reaches to pull you against him, but you stop him halfway and flip the motion on him, guiding him carefully until his back rests flush against your chest instead. You tuck yourself into him, your arm slipping under his and lacing your fingers together. You press feather-light kisses to the back of his ear.

Tonight, you’re holding him.

After the day he’s had, after everything he’s done to include you, you don’t want anything from him now other than to let you hold him. It’s a wordless gesture to let him know that he no longer has to carry the full weight of all of this by himself anymore. 

Things between you have moved faster than you ever imagined they would. Faster than either of you probably intended. But that’s the new world. It’s all about survival and rebuilding. Healing. It just so happens that you’re both puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together the way you do right here in this bed.

Who knows how it will end. Who knows if any of this is a good idea.

All you know is that lying here with him, with Ellie asleep a few doors down the hallway, it’ll all be worth it.

—

June 6, 2024

The first thing that registers as you stir awake is the light, brilliant and insistent pouring through the gaps in the curtains. The second is the empty space beside you when you stretch your leg over to feel for his. The sheets have already gone cool where Joel had been. 

The en-suite door is open and no one is beyond the frame. The house feels eerily quiet and there’s a sharp chill in the air that the duvet had been shielding you from. Propping yourself up on both elbows, you look around the room one-eyed as you slowly surface from sleep, listening for any sign of life until you hear something.

Before your heart has a chance to start ticking, the clang of something heavy being placed on the hob in the kitchen downstairs confirms someone is still here.

Once your chest has unknotted, you climb out of bed, throw on some fresh clothes and head out to the hallway. Ellie’s bedroom door is still closed, but she’ll surely be up for school soon. 

You head downstairs and round the corner to find Joel in his pyjamas at the stove with his back to the doorway, moving around the kitchen like he’s taking the job of cooking breakfast way too seriously. 

The kitchen is a little warmer, golden and smells of butter heating gently in a pan. Sunlight spills through the window in angled, honey-coloured rays, spread across the countertops and dishes that have already started to accumulate by the sink. 

He doesn’t seem to have heard you come down the stairs. He only realises you’re there when you mumble “morning” from the doorway, your voice still sandpapery with sleep. He turns fast enough to suggest he wasn’t expecting you to be awake just yet.

“Oh. Mornin’.”

You flatten your hair and cross the tiles to him, drawn by the promise of his body heat and the smell of bed still clinging to his skin. He sets the eggs he was holding down on the counter and opens his arms just as you reach him. You press your cheek into the side of his neck, close your eyes and just stay there to breathe him in. His arms encircle you and hold you against him and his mouth presses comforting kisses into the side of your head.

“You alright?” he murmurs quietly. “Sleep okay?”

The answer you give is more of a noise than it is language. It’s a soft, sleepy mhm. You lift your head to find his mouth and kiss him once before returning back to the space between his chest and jaw. He starts to sway you slowly in place and lets you stay there with him until you’re ready to detach, peel yourself away and drop into one of the dining room chairs.

“How d’you like your eggs?” Joel asks, turning back to the pan.

You scrub both hands across your face and yawn before answering. 

“Sunny side up.”

He gets to work, so you just sit back and watch. The level of concentration he’s using for the task is downright adorable, but you do your best to make it seem like you’re not enjoying it more than you should be. He clearly really wants this to go right.

“I’m gonna make a pot of coffee,” he says over his shoulder. “You want some?”

“Nah, I’m grand.”

He turns to look at you fully then at a speed that is almost comical. His face drops because he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

“Of course I want coffee,” you say, grinning back at him.

He shakes his head disapprovingly and reaches for the coffee tin on the top shelf near the stove. He rattles it in his hand before pulling the lid open and peering in. “I’m runnin’ a little low.”

It should be no surprise seeing as he’s been making more servings than he normally would since he found out you love coffee as much as he does, but he’s assessing and calculating roughly how many more cups he’ll get out of what’s left.

“Don’t worry about me then,” you say. “Save it. I’ll just have water.”

He gives you a look that he would only reserve for suggestions that he considers thoroughly idiotic. “No, I’m makin’ you some. I keep it for special occasions.”

“Then don’t waste it on me,” you repeat. “It’s a finite resource. Save it for a special occasion.”

But he’s already spooning some out into two separate mugs. “I’d argue today is a special occasion.”

That makes you go quiet. Inside, your chest feels like it’s struggling to contain your heart. There’s no way to hide what’s going on on your face, so you pick at the corner of the napkin lying on the table next to you and let yourself continue to be surprised by this man who has done nothing but surprise you in the last few months.

“If you’re sure,” you say finally.

He carries one of the mugs over and sets it down in front of you. 

“Just means I’ll have to go find more soon,” he says. “And when I do, you’re comin’ with me.”

Your eyes meet across the table for a moment, long enough for the idea to form in your imagination. Riding out together at some point in the future for something as ordinary as coffee seems way more romantic than it probably should.

“Need a hand with anything?”

Joel surveys the kitchen in a quick audit, tallying up what’s left to do. “Uhh, no. S’pretty much all done. Just waitin’ for the bread to toast.”

It’s only a minute later that the toaster pops and you watch him start to assemble everything onto plates. A thought repeats in your mind, how strange it still feels to be sitting in his kitchen. It feels like watching a dream play out in front of you. It’s reality allowing one of your wildest fantasies to seep through just for once. Your fingers have barely closed around it and you already can’t bare the thought of letting it go.

Plates start hitting the table, and that’s apparently all the signal that’s needed to summon Ellie from her bedroom. She barrels down the stairs and stops for a split second in the doorway when her eyes land on you first. You can’t blame her for forgetting you were staying the night. It’s a new visual seeing you sat at Joel’s dining table with sleep still holding you — and it’s still early in the morning. 

She smiles, somewhat delighted with the scene that greets her, and drops into her chair at the head of the table.

“Sup.”

“Morning,” you say. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” she says, picking up her fork and examining the slightly burned toast and eggs on her plate. “What about you two?”

You glance across to Joel, who is finishing dumping dishes into the sink with his back to you. “Really well, actually. We were out like a light. Especially Joel. He was exhausted.”

“Well, just so you know,” Ellie says, lifting her brows as she starts cutting into her eggs. “I didn’t hear a thing, so don’t worry.”

The look that Joel gives her from across the kitchen would frighten a heavily armed raider, but as always, Ellie remains totally unfazed and unaffected. “Keep quiet and eat your food.”

“I was talking about snoring.”

You duck your head and bite the inside of your cheek to suppress the chuckle that’s attempting to disrupt the silence left behind.

Joel drops into the seat next to you and starts eating. If the unspoken awkwardness of everyone adjusting to this wasn’t there, this would be rather peaceful and comfortable. It’s the ordinary percussion of a shared meal. Cutlery against ceramic, the crunch of toast… Blissfully plain.

Your eyes are drawn to the kitchen window and a thin cloud moving slowly across the pale sky. With the inhale of a breath, you realise for once in God knows how long, you don’t feel dread. There’s nothing to worry about in the next hour, the next day or even the next week. You’ve taught yourself to not put too much faith into feelings like this because they never last, but maybe this time they will.

“This is nice,” Ellie pipes up after a while.

Both you and Joel look up at her from your plates. Her eyes move between you and she has that same satisfied smirk that make her freckles appear more prominent on her nose and cheeks somehow. 

“What, the eggs?” you ask, glancing over to Joel. “Yeah, they’re actually really good. They turned out perfectly.”

“No, I mean…” She waves her fork in a vague arc to gesture to the three of you arranged around the table in the remarkably simple way that you are. “This.”

She just goes back to eating like it’s nothing. 

Joel’s eyes have already found yours by the time you look back at him and they stay there for a minute. No one else would be able to read what he’s thinking the way you can. He’s having the same realisation you did moments ago. He’s watching something he imagined, hoped for, becoming real right in front of him. 

In some ways, maybe Ellie is reaching that same conclusion too. In one way or another, all three of you have craved safety and belonging and everything under the umbrella of that. And here, at this table, it feels like you may have finally found it.

Outside, the world comes to life for another day. There’s warmth when you curl your hand around your coffee mug, but it’s nothing compared to what’s going on inside of you. 

And right on cue, the dread comes crawling right back, cruel and unwelcome, because now you have something that you can lose.

AN: And there we have it, folks! The final chapter of this act. Thank you so much for reading this far.

I'm going to be taking a few weeks off from posting while I write the next chapters and try to catch up with myself. I have no exact idea how long it'll be for the next chapter, but it'll be a few weeks. Make sure you're following me on my socials as I'll keep everyone updated there! (SuniSid3Up on Twitter and suni.sid3.up on IG).

Some more BTS stuff -- Since I posted chapter 28 last weekend, my dad developed some chest pains and went to get it checked out and it turns out he was on the verge of having a major heart attack and is now preparing to get a quadruple bypass surgery, so things have been a little nuts for me the last few days. His surgery is coming up and I don't know what lies ahead, but writing is helping me stay sane and level to some degree.

Like I said last week, I hate asking for this, but I would love it if you could like, share, kudos, comment on the story as much as you can because it makes all the difference! I hope you go back and re-read your favourite chapters while I'm gone too because it's fun finding all the little details and easter eggs buried in there.

Also can we PLEASE give it up for the incredible artwork for this chapter by my friend Jaymee?! Please go send her lots of love and follow/support her.

June 2, 2024

The dining room at Tommy and Maria’s has its usual pre-dinner mayhem around it. Overlapping voices from the kitchen, the sound of dishes clattering on surfaces, the smell of whatever’s roasting coming out of the oven… Whatever it is, it smells good and has everyone’s tummies pleading to be fed.

Ellie has been yapping about space for the better part of twenty minutes and you and Joel have been doing your best to keep up. Jupiter is her current favourite planet. She can’t quite wrap her head around the fact that over 1,000 Earths could fit inside it because it’s so enormous.

Joel has a whiskey cradled in his palm and his eyes occasionally cross the table to catch yours with a barely-there smirk that he’s been trying to conceal since Ellie started talking. The problem is, you’re doing the same thing, because the two of you are clearly in on something that she isn’t.

It’s mild enough outside that no one bothered to light the fire tonight. The company and the bustle from the kitchen keeps the space toasty enough. Candlelight has done some heavy lifting too, throwing the room into soft amber shadows.

As much as you try to stop it, you can’t suppress the low, persistent unease that’s been sitting in your gut since you made your way here. Tommy knows, and you haven’t really seen him since. Joel insists he’s fine with it, and you want to believe that, but faith doesn’t stop you from tracking him anxiously whenever he comes in from the kitchen to start getting the table ready. It’s like you’re trying to find something in his face that might tell you how this is really going to play out.

If Joel is a little more relaxed about it, you should be too, but you’re not. You have no real reason to think it won’t be fine, but maybe you just want this to work so badly, especially after making the progress you have, that any new potential disturbance is surely going to make you nervous. You care about Joel and Ellie too much. You care about Tommy and Maria too. You care about how you’ve unintentionally slipped into this family and their routine and how they’ve accepted you in it. You can’t afford to lose it now. 

At some point during Ellie’s ramblings about celestial something-or-others, your boot clips Joel’s under the table and you pull it back with an automatic “sorry” before she’s even noticed an interruption. A moment passes, then his boot nudges back into yours and stays there. You glance at him. He’s mid-sip and his lips are doing everything the rest of his face is trying not to. You return your attention to Ellie before it becomes obvious.

“Do you think humans will ever get to go to the moon again?” she asks, pivoting mid-thought the way she normally does and expecting you to keep up.

You and Joel look at each other. He shrugs, handing off the responsibility of the answer to you.

“Do you want my optimistic answer or my realistic answer?”

She thinks about it for maybe two seconds. “Optimistic.”

“Hmm.” You lean back in your seat slightly and flatten the front of your shirt with your palm. “Well, I’d like to imagine that there’s a group of survivors out there somewhere who happen to know how to build a rocket. And I hope you find them one day so they can take you up there to see it for yourself.”

She absorbs it and you exchange a warm, hopeful smile.

“Maybe then we’ll all finally get a bit of peace and quiet around here,” Joel says from across the table.

“Listen here, you,” you quip back, pointing a finger at him. “You leave her alone. She’d be the luckiest girl alive to get that far away from you.”

Ellie’s face lights up with pure, vindicated delight and she sails straight back into the topic of stars and constellations, completely missing the smile that passes between you and Joel in the slipstream of it. A smile that isn’t for anyone but the two of you.

You nudge him under the table again. This time, you let your calf slide up against the side of his leg, slow enough that it couldn’t be mistaken for an accident. You feel him register it through the two layers of denim with a slight change in his posture and his eyes flicking over to you a second later. He does the most unsettling thing possible in return: absolutely nothing. He just stares over the rim of his glass as he takes another sip like it’s a challenge or an invitation. Maybe even both.

It’s pathetic and embarrassing how much it does to you. Your forty-fucking-years old and your ears are gone pink as a result of his solidity and the fact he’s just letting you do it. More than that, he seems to be enjoying the delicious discomfort he’s putting you through.

You’re gnawing down on the end of your thumb, trying to look normal, when Tommy and Maria materialise on either side of the dining table holding plates and orbiting around fast to get food served so they can get to the actual point of the night. No one is more eager to hear about Dubois than Tommy.

Chicken and herbed potatoes are on the menu for everyone else at the table. The smell of thyme draws another loud, hungry groan from your stomach. For you, potatoes and a dense, dark loaf of pressed nuts and grains that Maria sets down with a tentative look.

“Wanted to try something new,” she says. “Give you a bit of variety. Let me know if it’s any good, okay?”

“Sounds great!” you reply, eyeing the patty optimistically. “Trying new things seems to be the theme this week. I tried a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for the first time yesterday.”

Ellie’s ears perk up at that.  She quickly glances over at Joel and then looks away before he notices.

Tommy doesn’t even wait for cutlery to start scraping or napkins to unfold before the questioning starts. “Alright, hit me. What happened out there? What did you two see?”

One of your potatoes on your plate suddenly requires a lot of attention and slicing. Anything to avoid looking directly at Tommy. Joel’s leg remains placed between yours like he’s leaving it there on purpose to help keep you level.

“Journey there took a bit longer than expected,” Joel begins, taking the wheel. “But supplies were easy enough to gather, all things considered. Didn’t get everythin’ on the list, but we took what we could. It’s all been handed off already.”

Tommy glances between the two of you. “So the place wasn’t stripped clean?”

Joel shakes his head. “Pretty much untouched. Looked more abandoned than looted.”

Tommy turns to you directly then. “Joey? How ‘bout you? Anythin’ to report?”

You look up from your plate and the words simply aren’t there. It’s an ordinary, basic question, but your mouth has gone thick and your brain is suddenly useless. Tommy’s attention on you is inexplicably paralysing now that things are different. You hesitate for a second too long, so Joel jumps back in.

“We got ambushed,” Joel says. “On our way out.”

Tommy’s expression closes up and he straightens in his chair. “Settlers?”

“No. Gunman on a roof. Took him out, but then…” His gaze drift back to you. “Another one came up behind and grabbed Joey. They followed us.”

It’s the tone of how he recounts the moment that makes Tommy pause. It’s less like a report and more like he’s reliving how fearful and shaken it left him seeing you that close to death.

“He had a gun to my head,” you say, speaking up finally. “The guy on the roof was a friend of his. We thought that was gonna be it, but then an infected came out of nowhere and tackled him before he could pull the trigger.”

Tommy chews the thought more than the food in his mouth.

“Joel dealt with it while I tried to get my bearings,” you go on. “Then we… we tried to get him to talk. Find out what they wanted, who sent them…” You set your fork down and wipe your mouth with your napkin. “I noticed blood coming through his sleeve, so I rolled it up and saw a fresh bite… But right under that there was some sort of branding burned into his skin… The letter D.”

The air in the dining room changes. Tommy’s elbows find the edge of the table.

“Did he say what it meant?” he asks.

You look across to Joel and wrap your legs around his a little more.

“Joel got it out of him eventually,” you say. “He said it’s the mark of The Disciples.”

“The Disciples?” Tommy repeats, glancing to and from Maria with growing concern. “Who’s The Disciples?”

The nausea that’s been creeping through your body moves up from your stomach and into your throat.

“Probably not a good idea to talk about it right now,” Joel says to his brother, subtly nodding his head in Ellie’s direction to signal. She spoons a carrot into her mouth with an indifference you hope is genuine.

“Ellie,” Tommy says. “You wouldn’t mind steppin’ out for a couple minutes, would you?”

She looks up.

“Tommy.” Maria’s voice has that scolding edge to it. “She’s still eating. It can wait.”

“No, it’s okay.” Ellie’s already sliding her chair back and getting to her feet. “I need to take a piss anyways.”

Right on cue from Joel. “Language.”

She leaves the room and heads for the stairs. The four of you track the sound of her footsteps, the creak of the floorboards overhead and then the bathroom door closing and locking.

Tommy’s focus returns to you now that it’s clear to carry on with the details.

“Some sort of cult from what we could gather.” You subconsciously keep your voice low in case the walls can hear and pass secrets. “He wouldn’t give us any names at first. Said their leader would kill him for it.” You pause. “But Joel made him talk.”

Tommy looks at his older brother, not needing any further elaboration on how he achieved that because he knows all too well. “So… Who is it?”

Joel can tell by how you’ve gone quiet and returned to your plate that you’re not capable of this next part. He turns back to Tommy on your behalf.

“David.”

Another pause, much longer now as the name makes its way around the table.

“David?” Tommy asks, pinching his brows together. “As in… Silver Lake?”

Joel holds his gaze. That’s all the confirmation he needs. Maria’s hand subconsciously moves to her bump.

“Well, that’s impossible,” Tommy says, almost laughing at it. “Right? You found him before you got outta there, right Joey? You said—”

“I know what I said.” It comes out harsher than intended. “He couldn’t have survived, but… he seemed so… sure. He was terrified of what David would do to him. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.”

Tommy considers that for a moment before forking a bite of chicken into his mouth. “Sounds like just another group of religious loonies if you ask me. Plenty of ‘em out there. Nothin’ we need to worry about.”

“‘Course we need to worry about it,” Joel interjects flatly. “They knew who we were, Tommy. They know we’re here. They’re trackin’ us. These are the same people who put Kai and Archie’s heads on pikes.”

“Silver Lake was overrun with infected by the time you both got out,” Tommy says. “How many of them could possibly be left?”

“They could be recruiting for all we know,” Maria adds quietly. Everyone turns their attention to her. “That’s how these groups sustain themselves and grow. They just need a cause and someone charismatic enough to lead and people will follow if they’re scared or desperate enough.”

Tommy taps the side of his glass. “Well, we still got more bodies and walls than they do, so unless they’ve got their own settlement somewhere nearby that we don’t know about, I like our chances.”

“They’re gonna try pick us off,” Joel says. “They’ll wait for the right time, just like they did to us. They were already targetin’ us for some reason, and now two of their own are dead. They’ve left us alone for months. We need to be prepared for retaliation.”

The toilet flushes upstairs. Four pairs of eyes find the ceiling and the curtain closes on the conversation. Ellie comes thundering back downstairs and drops into her chair, ready to continue eating. She notices the prolonged silence and looks around at everyone.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

—

Maria swats you out of the kitchen after you offer to help clean up. It’s playful at first until she gives that bullish look that always makes you back down. It’s like she finds it mildly offensive, and to an extent, you understand. Even though she could give birth in a matter of weeks, her home is the one place where she still has some sense of control and purpose now that she has almost entirely relieved herself from community duties.

You drift into the living room instead to take yourself out of her way and start moving slowly along the shelves and walls. Even though you’ve been here many times at this point, you’ve never really taken the time to look around properly.

One framed photo stops you in place. 

Joel and Tommy, much younger than they are now. They’re standing in some sort of yard in front of a building with scaffolding visible at the edge of the frame. There’s a large sign you can’t really make out hung in the background.

Tommy’s arm is hooked around his brother’s neck and he has that same grin he usually wears, just considerably less weathered. Joel looks a little less enthusiastic as you’d expect, but he still stands as stoically handsome as he does today. Even then, he was attractive in a way that never asked for attention but he probably received it regardless. Less lines, lighter mien and that marginal curve of his mouth. Beautiful.

“I take it Joel told you.”

Your soul nearly leaves your body. Tommy quietly appears directly behind you.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Tommy.”

He ducks his head and chuckles to himself at the floor.

“My bad.”

Your hand is still clutching your heart as you wait for your pulse to find its way back down. He steps up beside you, both of you looking at the photo now.

“Yeah,” you say. “He told me on the way to Dubois.”

Tommy’s voice drops a little even though you’re the only two in the room. “Well, I don’t want you to feel like you have to avoid me, alright? Nothin’s gonna change between you and me.”

You pull yourself away from the photo now and look at him, unsure how to respond to that.

“I meant what I said to him and the same goes for you,” he adds. “I’m real happy. For both of you.”

You look down at your hands. “We’re still figuring it all out,” you say. “We don’t really know what it is. It’s all very… new.”

His mouth slants at that. “Well, no one here’s gonna rush you.” He pauses, considering how to approach what he wants to say next. “All I’ll say is — he must mean somethin’ to you and you clearly mean somethin’ to him, so I just hope you know what you’re walkin’ into.”

You turn back to him again, eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means what you probably already know it means,” he replies. 

He sees the lack of comprehension in your expression, exhales softly and readjusts to make another stab at it.

“Joel doesn’t do this,” he continues. “He hasn’t for a long time. And he’s—… He’s my brother, and I love him, but he and our whole family come with a lot of… baggage. A lot of it’s not pretty. We’ve all done things to survive that we prefer not to talk about, so things might feel easy now, but I just want you going into this with your eyes open.”

Unbeknownst to him, things have been far from easy, but you think on it before responding. “We’ve all had to do terrible things to survive.”

“Oh, I know that.” He looks at you sideways. “I just like havin’ you around. You belong here. And I’d hate for things to change if it didn’t work out.”

You bite down on your bottom lip. It feels more intense than it did a moment ago. You hadn’t even considered the idea of it going wrong and what the fallout of that would look like.

“Someone like you is good for someone like him,” he goes on. “I can see it, how you act around each other. Just… be patient with him and look out for yourself as much as you do for him. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

His hand finds your shoulder with a firm, grounding squeeze. It feels like an acceptance and a wish of luck at the same time. He nods towards the kitchen.

“Maria set some food aside for Jeremiah. Make sure you take it home with you.”

—

June 3, 2024

Joel blows across the surface of a new sculpture he’s been working on in his hand, sending a small swirl of sawdust into the light. He turns it over, running his thumb along the edge where the dremel has been, checking for any resistance in the grain. There’s a tiny ridge near the base that he’s not happy with. He’s about to go back in on it when there’s a knock at the door.

He sets the piece down and pulls his goggles off before making his way to the hallway.

He finds you standing on his porch with your hands buried in your jacket pockets. The first thing your attention goes to, before you’ve even greeted each other, is the blue flannel tucked into his jeans and the way his sleeves are pushed up with a fine dust of wood shavings clinging to the hairs on his forearms. It’s yet another breathtaking ‘pinch me’ moment where you have to remind yourself that that’s really your man.

“Hey,” you manage.

“Hey.” He’s already stepping aside to let you in. “Everythin’ okay?”

“Yeah, yeah…” You move past him like a breeze into the hallway, picking up on the smell of whatever woodwork he’s doing. “Thought I’d drop by. I wanted to see you.”

He takes a sharp but quiet breath in and pauses for a second at that. It’s small, but it causes a recalibration in him. The fact that you’re not showing up with an agenda or a problem for him to solve, and that you want to be near him just because, seems like another concept he doesn’t know how to process just yet.

He pushes the door closed and watches you drift into the living room in that way you move through his space with curiosity and naturalness. 

“Ellie’s at school?” You say it more like a confirmation than asking a question.

“Yeah. I was workin’ on somethin’ at the bench. She hates the noise of the tools, so…” He stands with his hands on his hips. “I do it when she’s out."

“What are you working on? Can I see?”

A look of being caught-out crosses his face, or like he wasn’t expecting you to show any interest in that. “Uhh… sure.” He nods towards his station at the far end of the room. “S’over there.”

Pale shavings and used tools are scattered across the surface of his workstation. The smell of freshly cut wood and something oily gets stronger as you approach. In the middle of his mess sits a sculpture, roughly six inches tall. It’s some sort of bird. It’s wings are pinned tight against its body and its head is angled forward. It’s posture carries an impression of authority, readiness and intention.

You’re just landing on the thought that it looks familiar when it hits you.

“Is this…”

“An osprey,” Joel says quietly from behind you. “Was gonna be a surprise, but…”

You pick it up and hold it in both hands. The detail is astonishing. It has its individual feathers, a sharp downward hook in its beak and it looks just as alert as its real-life counterpart. Just like the one from the riverbank.

“A surprise? For who?”

“You.” He says it like it doesn’t warrant saying. “Who else would it be for? Been workin’ on it a lil’ while now. Wanted to make somethin’ to mark the patrols, I guess… Commemorate them.” He pauses and looks out at the nearby window like he’s just realising how it sounds out loud. “Stupid.”

It isn’t stupid. It’s quite the opposite, actually. You don’t really have words for what you’re feeling, so you just stand there holding it, wondering if your heart could possibly be about to expand out of your chest because it has nowhere else to go.

You set it back down carefully and turn to find him closer than you registered him being. You’ve already turned to mush for him and your hands run down his forearms until they’re in his. He moves in closer so that there’s no space left between you.

“Thank you,” you say quietly enough that it’s only for him. “It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever made for me.”

His brown eyes shimmer and his lip curls into a small, proud smile before he leans in. Your own fall shut as his mouth finds its way to yours. His hand cups your jaw just in time before it feels like your head is going to topple off of your shoulders from the sweet surrender of it.

His other hand travels along your waist and stops at something unusually large and cylindrical in your pocket. He breaks away for a moment and looks down.

“What’s that you’ve got?”

A smile forms on your face before you can do anything about it. “Well… I also brought you a gift.” 

You reach into your pocket and produce one of the bottles of lube taken from Dubois. His eyebrows pop with surprise when he recognises what it is. He stares between you and it and you can tell he is clearly trying very hard not to let the grin break across his face.

He fails.

—

Joel’s back hits the inside of his bedroom door and you’re on your knees moments later, filling your mouth with his thickening cock. His jeans are only dragged low enough to free him, bunched at his hips while you press in close with your nose buried into his body hair to take him as deep as possible and test the limit of your throat.

Your vision starts to blur almost immediately. It’s too much and not enough all at once. The salt taste and heavy heat of him has your breath snagging and desperate for more.

When you do ease up, it’s only to set a rhythm with your hand joining in on the fun, working him thoroughly with your mouth. You look up at him through wet lashes. His head tips back against the door for a second before it drops back to watch his length vanish past your lips.

“Fuck, baby… feels so good,” he breathes shakily. His hand gathers a clump of your hair just to hold on to and anchor him.

Baby. 

Hearing it makes you falter for a moment. Something so sweet uttered in the most filthy of circumstances. Not only is it the first time he’s referred to you in that way, but it’s the first time you’ve heard anyone call you that in decades. It shouldn’t hit you as hard as it does, but it does. You want to hear it over and over again until it loses all meaning.

Heat surges through you as he drags you towards the bed and places you down onto the mattress. He follows right away, crawling onto you like he needs his weight on you right now.

His hands roam restlessly as they map out your torso through fabric. He kisses like he’s chasing something out of reach which gets a sound out of you before you can help it. His fingers hook beneath your t-shirt and push it up out of the way, searching and desperate to feel your skin under his. 

When he takes a firm grip of your chest, it’s rough enough to make your breath hitch and a spark run straight through you. But then he moves down to your waist, making you arch up into him as if you could be any closer.

There’s a very brief break that’s long enough just to strip off and discard t-shirts without care before he’s right back on you and pressing you into the bed. 

The taste of his morning coffee still clings to his tongue, cutting through the faint trace of toothpaste. It shouldn’t work together, but it does. It tastes like him. His mouth is greedy and wetter than usual. It’s like restraint isn’t even on the table anymore.

The second he feels the erection springing to life in your jeans, he’s fumbling with the buckle and yanking them down your hips and off in one go, taking your underwear with them. Denim bunches at your ankles before he yanks everything free, leaving you bare beneath him.

He chucks everything to the floor and pauses when he spots something. He grabs hold of your ankle and fingers curl around your foot as he lifts it, his brows scrunching with sudden focus.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“You got a hole in your sock,” he mutters with a low, analytical husk. He turns your foot slightly like it’s something delicate, thumb brushing the skin peeking through before grabbing the other and checking it just as thoroughly. “Jesus… this one too. Are they all like this?”

You huff out a small, embarrassed breath. “Uhh… Yeah, pretty much. Tommy only gave me a few pairs. Working in them so much and washing them so often just ruined them… I keep forgetting to ask for more.”

He grins crookedly, not to mock, just out of fondness. He peels them off and throws them somewhere behind him, then drops back down to press a string of kisses from your neck up to your mouth. “Remind me to give you some before you go. I got plenty.”

The moment passes as quickly as it came. His focus snaps back into place, even more so when his own clothes are removed.

He lays back and lets you climb over him, his hands holding you steady at your hips as you press down. The slow drag of your cock against him makes him squeeze hard at your ass, hard enough that it steals your breath from you for a moment.

You dip down to kiss him and he answers with a quiet, approving hum that vibrates against you. Between your legs, his own cock is already slick and leaving a damp trail where you move against him, desperate for more.

The morning light cuts across him at an angle and warms one side of his face, leaving the other in shadow. It catches his irises and turns them richer somehow. There’s dust drifting lazily between you, visible only because of the light.

He studies you like he’s seeing you clearer now than he ever has, like he’s piecing you together all over again. It makes you pause and feel a little diffident.

“What?” you ask.

He hesitates for a split second.

“Everythin’ about you’s so beautiful, you know that?” he murmurs. It barely makes it past his lips.

It isn’t just the words themselves that hit you in your gut, it’s the way he says them. From him, it feels like an anomaly. You can’t imagine him speaking this way to anyone or holding them the way he’s holding you.

“You too,” you whisper back. A small smile tugs at your mouth which he mirrors softly.

He manoeuvres you onto your back again and starts working his way down your clavicle, chest and the soft part of your stomach with feathery kisses that make your legs curl up of their own accord. Your hands find the side of his head just as he settles between your thighs.

He looks up at you with eyes that are too stupidly sweet for a man built the way he is. A few more kisses to your inner thigh and then he takes your cock into his mouth. He measures the effect it has on you. Your breath trips in your chest and your back lifts off the mattress again. He keeps one hand wrapped firm around the base to hold the head exposed and works his lips over your sensitive ridge.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs against the tip. He’s more assured than he was the first time. He has started to learn your geography and what undoes you.

When he synchronises the pull of his hand with the movement of his mouth like you do for him, the heat builds fast. Faster than you’d like.

“Slow down—” You sit up quickly and cup his head again to ease him off. “Slower… I’m getting close already.”

The smirk he gives you from between your legs hearing that is nothing short of criminal. He obliges to an extent, but he has no plan of lessening the pleasure he now knows how to give you. His lips draw back over the head and he traces them ever so softly across your frenulum in small, torturous strokes. His moustache drags right where it needs to which leaves you twitching and pulsing in his grip.

Those embarrassing, pathetic sounds that he seems to enjoy so much start bubbling up your throat. You press your eyes shut and your head sinks deeper into the pillow but you can sense the grin forming on his face. His free hand snakes up the sheets and takes hold of yours, interlocking your fingers and giving you something to squeeze.

“Fuck, Joel…” you breathe. “That feels so… s-so good.”

He hums with satisfaction against you now. He continues to track the rise and fall of your chest. “Yeah?”

When his mouth migrates lower and starts working your balls, the sensation hits like a livewire. Your whole body seizes and you practically launch upright, grabbing his head again with both hands and letting out some sort of shriek and laugh hybrid. He pulls back and chuckles as he watches the last of your self-consciousness dissolve. You’re in a breathless stupor from the rush and he leaves your heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to break free.

He comes back up to all fours and kisses you where you’re sitting. His mouth his still warm and you taste the remnants of yourself on his tongue. When he breaks, he leans his forehead against yours and stays there.

“You ready?”

You hold his face and press needy little kisses on the bridge of his nose. “Yeah.”

With his forehead, he gently pushes and topples you onto your back and then pulls you closer to him like you weigh nothing. He kneels between your elevated legs with less apprehension than last time. 

He picks up the little bottle from Dubois left on the nightstand and squints at the label seeing as he left his glasses downstairs by his workstation. He pumps a few squirts onto his fingertips and as soon as he registers the coolness of it, he instinctively starts to warm it up between them.

He lowers himself down on you then, curling one arm under your neck and the other hand disappearing between your legs. He tucks his face into the hollow of your shoulder and starts placing kisses there like he’s in no rush.

“Think you just need to relax for me, baby,” he mumbles against your skin. Your legs fall open for him and his fingers start circling your entrance carefully while you let his mouth do all the heavy lifting of completely unwinding you.

When the first finger starts to ease, the difference the lube makes is undeniable. It’s clean and easy with barely any resistance. Even that initial stretch passes without any drama or pain.

The second one is in before you know it, but he still keeps the pace slow like he somehow knows not to get too overzealous. He’s taking his time with you and enjoying it just to enjoy it.

He lifts his face from your neck and watches you when your hips start to almost ride his fingers involuntarily and you start to moan with each movement. His eyes are still soft and he bites down on his lip seeing you in this state. “Could listen to you makin’ those noises for me all day.”

Every word has you falling deeper into it, breathing through each pump of his hand and finding the sound of his tender care alone almost has you seeing stars. A cool thread of precum drips onto your stomach, evidence of the complete state of bliss he’s putting you in.

Once he realises you’ve loosened enough, he withdraws his fingers and situates himself back between your legs. He pumps more lube into his palm and coats himself with it before edging forward. His sturdy thighs press against the back of yours and he guides his tip to your hole, circling it slowly and warming you up for what comes next.

“Tell me if it hurts, okay?” He’s looking down at you and taking in the way the red flush has creeped up your neckline. You nod and keep your legs raised for him, waiting to feel that delicious fullness you’ve been carrying around in your memory since the last time.

With his tip in position, he starts to apply pressure. It’s more immediate than you anticipated, but within a few seconds, the head passes through smoothly. His eyes lift to you and then drop again, checking. Always wanting to be careful.

Another inch follows soon after. The stretch is nowhere near as rough as the last time. There’s no sensation of tearing or splitting. Your body seems to remember him.

“How’s that?”

“Good…” A breath. “Keep going.”

Your sole priority is giving yourself over to the rhythm of your lungs and letting every muscle relax. Joel senses it because his free hand finds yours again and laces his fingers through yours, a wordless declaration that he’s there with you.

He pushes a little further but lets the lube do most of it. Then, he holds in place and you feel it. The fullness arrives all at once as the rest of him sinks into you until he’s flush against your body and completely seated. A breath releases from your chest that was seemingly waiting for the right moment.

You both look at each other blankly for a second as if you’re expecting something to happen. 

But nothing does. There’s no pain. Just the warm, stretching pressure of him filling you completely and the mild disbelief in your faces that it went so smoothly. He smiles, almost to himself, and then shifts his hips to settle a little more comfortably while your body continues to accommodate him. A thin sheen of sweat catches the light across your chest from the effort.

“That okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you grin. “Perfect. No pain at all.”

He tests with a few slow thrusts and watches your face shift through them. Even at this pace, shy but involuntary sounds start coming out of you. Feeling the swell of him inside you, his skin hot against yours, his pubes grazing against your balls — it’s genuinely mind-melting.

His arms bracket either side of your head as he picks up the momentum and lowers himself down to press kisses along whatever part of you he can reach. You hook your arms around his neck and pull him even closer to listen to the deep, glorious sounds he makes against your ear. Your fingers curl into the back of his neck and your hairs stand on edge.

“Oh fuck, Joel, just like that…” It comes out helpless. Your face is turned into his temple where sweat has started to dampen his hairline. He answers by working harder, keeping his angle and coaxing more noise from you. His shoulders have gone glossy with sweat within minutes and the room is significantly warmer than it was when you entered earlier.

He pulls out of you carefully a while after and taps your leg. “Turn over.”

You do as you’re told and flip onto all fours. He wastes no time. His hands grip your hips and pull you back greedily to the edge of the bed until he’s stood behind you. He takes two large handfuls of your ass and smacks and squeezes until he’s left an imprint on your skin. 

He lines himself back up and inserts back in. The new angle is a revelation. Your mouth actually waters and you only realise when your cheek lands in a damp patch of drool you just left on his sheets. His girth moving in and out from this position is dizzying in the best way. It consumes you entirely. You grab a fistful of sheets and moan into them as he builds back up and his hips begin to meet yours with an audible slap.

“Take it baby, take it,” he hisses through gritted teeth. Your moans climb to a pitch they haven’t reached before and it’s driving him crazy. “You feel so fuckin’ good.”

When he finally pulls out, he drags his forearm across his forehead and drops onto the bed next to you, spent and trying to catch his breath.

“Here, lay back.” You push him down and start to mount him by swinging your leg over. He goes willingly, looking up at you like he needs to be guided and arranged so he can gather himself. You seat yourself and lean down to kiss him with a hunger that has only grown over the course of the morning.

While his mouth works against yours, you reach between your bodies and position his cock for you to sit back on. He slides into you again but it still manages to steal your breath. The moan exchanges between your mouths.

You find an angle that elevates the sensation even more. It’s not up and down, it’s more of a rolling slide forward and back. His head tips back with a dry groan so you keep milking him with the movement of your hips.

Your own cock has become unbearably hard from the friction and is leaving a silver trail of precum across his stomach. He’s almost fascinated by it, smearing it around his happy trail with his hand.

His hand takes hold of your length again and toys with it at first before it starts to pump in sync with your hips. The combination of it with his cock massaging against your prostate on every grind stacks the pleasure into something you’ve never felt before. The familiar sensation of heat pooling at the base of your spine grows and starts to bring you close to that line.

Without much warning, he powers you onto your back again, reclaiming control with an effortlessness that should scare you. He must be rested enough.

“I think I’m gettin’ close,” he says, his eyes somewhat frantic as they land on yours. “You wanna keep goin’ or you ready to go too?”

“Yeah, yeah… I’m ready,” you pant softly. “I’m close too.”

He exhales and dips down to place a kiss to your forehead, oddly tender given the circumstances but more than welcome. 

“Won’t just be me this time for once,” he smiles.

You smile back, struck by the fact it’s true and you didn’t even notice yet. “Better make it good then.”

He chuckles lowly and continues laying kisses into your neck, jaw and lips to soften you up for the finale. He presses his nose against yours and slides himself back in without needing any help finding the way. Once he’s going again, you lock in and focus. It feels special before it has already happened. It’s almost like the first time all over again. 

You start to tug at yourself and work up to a more frantic pace than before. He’s hitting that spot so good that you can’t help but look down and watch him fuck you senseless and listen to his strained grunts like it’s being fed directly into your nervous system.

“Eyes on me,” he says, commanding your attention back to his face.

He’s close, and you can tell by the way his pitch starts to climb and the urgency creeps in with each new thrust.

And then you feel it.

“Oh fuck.” Your voice splits. “Joel— I’m gonna cum.”

His pupils dilate and darken further, fixated completely on you now. “Yeah? Look at me while you do it.”

Your throat strains and flushes deep red as you start to tip over the edge. A string of broken expletives leave your mouth as you burst across your own stomach with warm, white shots. Almost immediately, you’re seeing stars and your pulse drills in your ears from the intensity of it. Never in your life have you been brought to such a level of ecstasy before.

He doesn’t last another second past watching you climax. A vicious, guttural sound tears out of him and his hips stutter and glitch against you.

“Aw Joey— here it comes! I’m cummin’—” 

He slows and starts to empty himself inside of you in long, shuddering pulses. The warmth of it floods deep into you and the sensation of being filled while your own orgasm still ripples through you produces a high that has your legs quivering. You just see white light behind your eyelids every time you blink and feel his shaft twitching inside as it spurts out the last of it.

It’s a long few minutes before he can even think about moving. He remains buried inside of you, rigidly locked in the oversensitive aftermath, holding you as you quake. A bead of sweat drops from his face to your chest, your fist still glazed with your own release.

Eventually, he drops forward with all his weight, with a broken and exhausted exhale against your neck. His curls are damp against your cheek and the scent of sweat and sex clings to him, and now to you. You hold him steady for a moment, absentmindedly tracing your fingertips across the breadth of his back and listening to his chest start to unknot. His hands tangle in your hair, gripping onto you like he needs it for the comedown.

Then, he lifts his head from where it’s buried against you.

You’re already looking at him and waiting, close enough that your noses graze together. He hovers there, his breath warm against your lips. Instinctively, you reach up to kiss him. Now you’re seeking a different degree of intimacy. You crave his safety, and he gives it to you with patient, attentive kisses in return that don’t stop coming until you’re ready for them to stop.

“Well,” he murmurs. “That was somethin’.”

“Yeah…” A dazed little laugh slips out of you. “So much better than last time.”

His brow raises just a touch. “Really? Didn’t hurt at all?”

“No, not even a little bit. Felt good the whole way through.”

His eyes glimmer with satisfaction like he finally did something right for once. He holds your gaze for a moment before glancing back over his shoulder at the bottle on the nightstand.

“How much of that stuff did you take again?”

The both of you laugh with a careless ease now that the tension has drained out of you. There’s all sorts of chemical reactions going on in your body right now that make you feel more airy and relaxed than you’ve ever felt with him.

“Wanna jump in the shower with me?” he asks softly. “Get ourselves cleaned up… then we can get back into bed for a bit?”

Then you remember. You’ve got the whole afternoon together. No patrol duty, no school shift… Ellie won’t be home until after three. The day opens up just for you two.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “I’d like that.”

—

Joel tests the water with the back of his hand, adjusting it slightly before letting it flow a bit more. You linger by the sink and start to notice the aqua-blue tiles and sparse clutter left around his en-suite that makes it feel like it’s truly his. He reaches into the hamper, pulls out two clean towels and hooks them neatly on the back of the door.

“Alright,” he says after a second. “Should be okay now. Get in.”

He steps aside and gives you space, guiding you into the cubicle with a light touch at your hip. It’s bigger than it looked from the outside. There’s about enough room for both of you without brushing elbows every other second. He follows you in and slides the door shut. Now it’s just him, falling water and steam rising quick and thick around you.

The heat on your skin is immediate relief. You look down at your body and start to notice marks you didn’t even realise he had made. The scratch of his beard, rough hands and hungry mouth have done a number on you.

Joel tilts his head under the stream and lets the water cascade over his face. He pushes it back through his hair until it darkens. When he lifts his head again, droplets cling to his lashes and roll down the bridge of his nose. You’re completely mesmerised by the size and shape of him.

You don’t realise you’re staring as blatantly as you are until he does.

“Turn around,” he says with shy amusement.

He reaches for a bar of handmade soap and starts to lather it up in his hands. It smells of lavender, just like the way he smelled that night you knocked over.

His hands slide up your shoulders as he starts to massage it into your skin. He takes his time and begins to work down your back. The pressure is just right. It’s soothing enough that your head starts to fall forward.

You hum lowly. “I haven’t had my back rubbed in… God… over twenty years.”

He moves into your hair next, his fingers threading through and working the suds into your scalp. All of this is as new to him as it is to you. This level of connection and shared comfort would once be terrifying for people like you and Joel, but it feels like second nature in this confined space.

When he starts to rinse the soap and body fluids off of you, he stays close enough that his mouth brushes your shoulder. Then the back of your neck and the base of your skull. Absent little kisses that he doesn’t even think about giving, he just gives. Between him and the heat, your knees start to feel a little unsteady with dizziness.

You turn back to him before it gets too much. “Your turn. Turn around.”

A smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth but he turns and faces the tiles without protest. You take the soap this time and lather it up before pressing your palms into the warm skin of his back. He looks and feels even broader like this.

You move slower than he did, mostly because you’re unsure of yourself and want to give him the same feeling he just gave you. You follow down the line of his spine to his waist. When your hand drifts lower to playfully cup and squeeze his butt, he swats at you without looking back.

“Hey, hands off.” 

You can’t help but laugh.

Next, you’re massaging his scalp in small circles with firm pressure. His head dips back towards you after a moment. The tension of however long slipping out of him and flowing down the drain.

You rinse him clean before he then turns back and brings you closer to him.

Another kiss follows. But this one’s different, because it’s the first time you’ve actualised that you are irrevocably and wholly his. 

His hand cups your jaw and his thick thumb brushes against your cheek as he takes in the sight of you. It’s as though he’s coming to the exact same realisation.

Maybe others would speak it out loud and make it known, but for some reason, it’s not necessary with you and Joel. There’s a knowing between you that neither of you can explain. The truth is, even if you did want to speak right now, you wouldn’t be able to. Not when he’s looking at you like this.

Instead, you nuzzle into his chest and press your ear into him, listening to the music of his body and the water hitting your skin, letting it lull you into a state of calm. His chin settles on your head like he’s keeping you there for good. He places a series of kisses on your crown as you rest. If the world allowed it, you would stay here forever. 

It starts to feel like that restless, gnawing search for a reason to survive and a place to belong quiets — if only for a few minutes. And it wasn’t the walls of Jackson that did it, nor the community that sustains it.

It’s him.

—

Hair still damp from the shower, you pad back into his bedroom and drop onto the mattress. Your limbs feel like liquid as you sprawl out across the sheets like a tired puppy. You find him watching you from the foot of the bed with a quietly fond expression.

It occurs to you belatedly that you’re in his space still and now you’re more aware of yourself. “Sorry… Which side is yours?”

“Both of ‘em,” he replies before circling around to the one nearest the door. 

He climbs in next to you with an aged grunt and the mattress sinks under his weight. His arms are around you before you’ve even finished settling down fully. He pulls you flush against his chest and rearranges you against him in a way that doesn’t leave much room for negotiation. Your legs find his under the sheets like they already knew where to go. You can feel your nervous system start to calm in real time.

Minutes pass of just listening to him breathe and feeling his chest inflate and deflate under your cheek.

“I never thought I’d be able to feel this way again,” you say, silently enough that it’s almost to yourself.

“Me neither,” he murmurs into your hair, dwelling on it for all but a second. “Now go to sleep.”

Before you even manage to make a real attempt, he starts to snore softly. You tilt your head up from his chest to look at him. He’s out and defenceless, mouth parted and completely succumbed to his exhaustion. The morning’s exertion and stimulation catches up with him all at once.

You’ve never heard him snore before. Not even in the old farmhouse on the way back from Dubois where he’d slept next to you on a damp mattress. That night was different. That was within unfamiliar walls in unfamiliar territory with one eye open and an ear facing the door just in case. 

He wasn’t able to surrender in the way a person is required to in order to really sleep in that place. Here, with you, he can. And he does.

The realisation of that folds over you like a second duvet. The warmth of his body bleeds into yours and you feel it take over completely. Your eyelids begin to get heavier in increments, blinking slower and slower, each time needing a little more persuasion to open again.

Eventually they stop trying.

—

Waking up in Joel Miller’s bed is different from waking up anywhere else you’ve slept in the last twenty years and you feel it before you’ve even fully surfaced. The afternoon light comes through the curtains with a warm glow. His scent surrounds you: on the pillow, on your skin, in the air itself.

You slide your feet off his legs and stretch out a little before trying to pry yourself away enough to get your arms out and yawn properly. The movement stirs him. His arm reaches over and finds your waist to haul you back against him like he’s not done with you.

A sleepy chuckle comes out of you at the force of it. His chest is hot against your back. His nose finds its way into your curls and you feel the whisper of his breath against your neck.

“What time is it?” he mumbles groggily.

“No idea.” 

Then you spot the old clock on the bedside cabinet on your side. You lean yourself out to check it without him letting go.

“Oh, fuck…”

Without seeing him, you know his eyes just sprung open. “What?”

“It’s almost three. School’s almost done. Ellie’ll be home soon.”

He pushes both palms into his face with a groan and then flings the covers back and swings his legs out over the side of the mattress. He gets to his feet and stretches. The sight of him standing there in just his boxers adds a little cherry on top to the day.

You rise out of the bed too, moving around the room and collecting your clothes from wherever they ended up. “I didn’t realise we were asleep that long.”

“S’what happens when you’re too comfortable, I guess.” He says it to himself as much as to you with a private, self-satisfied smile.

He stoops to pick up something from the floor and then your t-shirt is sailing across the room. You catch it and pull it on.

He has your socks in his hand then and he turns them over once more. “I’ll go throw these in the trash for you,” he says. “Pick yourself out a couple pairs of mine. Second drawer down on the left.” He tips his head towards the chest near the window and heads out into the hallway.

You zip up your jeans and take a sweeping glance at his room. Leaving this so abruptly feels almost cruel considering what it took to make it here, but nothing will take away the fact that this morning happened and it was extraordinary. 

You and Joel Miller. Still strange to think about.

When you stumble over to the chest of drawers and pull open the second one down on the left, instead of finding socks, you find an accumulation of random belongings. Tool parts, one of Ellie’s handmade bracelets that has snapped, a small carving you don’t recognise… You’re about to close it back over and check the other side when a photograph gets your attention.

You pick it up and turn it over.

It’s Joel, but much younger than he is now. Barely recognisable. His arm is around a girl you don’t recognise either. She must be twelve or thirteen years old and is wearing a blue and white striped soccer jersey. She’s holding a trophy with both hands in triumph. He looks down at her with a pride you’ve never seen him wear before. It makes his features softer, but not just from youth. There’s a light in his eye that’s missing today. Her skin and hair is darker, but the architecture of her face is unmistakably similar to his. 

“Find ‘em?”

You jump and spin around.

Joel is in the doorway. You didn’t hear the creak of him on the landing coming back. His eyes goes straight to what you’re holding and it’s like a door slams shut. His face empties and he crosses the room to take the photograph from you in one clean motion before turning away.

You’re left stood there blinking at the speed. It wasn’t rough in any way, but it’s clear he did not want you to see it.

“Who was that?”

He’s eerily quiet. He slides the photograph back into the drawer gently and then eases it closed.

“Sorry,” he says unsteadily. “Meant second from the bottom. Socks’re in here.”

He crouches to open the correct drawer, fishes around in it and comes back up with a large handful of pairs which he places into your hand without eye contact. “Here, take these ones.”

They’re plain and thick. Just as you’d expect from someone like him. 

You look back up at him. “Joel… Who’s the girl? In the picture.”

He meets your gaze then but there isn’t much behind his eyes. They’re dark and still with a touch of fragility sitting behind them. “I can’t. Not today.”

He doesn’t say it in a way that’s frosty or cutting you out in the way he used to. This is something else entirely. It’s as though you’ve accidentally opened up something that hasn’t been opened in a very long time.

You don’t push any further. Some things aren’t yours to coax open, and you care about him enough to know this is one of them. It’s abundantly clear whoever the girl was meant a great deal to him and you were not meant to see that picture, so you leave it there.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “I’m sorry. I found it by accident—”

He shakes his head. “It’s alright. I know.”

He still won’t quite look at you. He stays preoccupied on whatever empty space there is around you, anywhere that isn’t your face. You watch him for a moment longer, noting the rigidness in his limbs, before letting it pass. You lower yourself down onto the corner of his bed and pull your new socks and boots on in complete silence.

“Okay,” you exhale, getting back to your feet slowly. “I, uh… I better get going.”

He nods, his thumb grinding into his opposite palm in slow, anxious rotations. For some reason, he’s quietly berating himself. It’s like he’s pissed that the morning had gone so perfectly and it ended up souring right at the last part.

“Thanks for these,” you say, holding up the handful of socks. “And for… having me over.”

His jaw twitches, but he’s somewhere else entirely. It’s almost frightening watching whatever it is take hold of him so suddenly.

“I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

As soon as you ask the question, your own stomach twists into a knot. What if you won’t see him soon? What if this is the thing that permanently sends him back into himself? What if he avoids you for good so he never has to relive whatever he’s reliving right now?

He breathes out through his nose and then, almost reluctantly, his eyes finally lift to look back at you again.

“C-could you… stop by tomorrow? Again?” he asks. You’ve never heard him sound so vulnerable and unstable. “You don’t have to— we don’t have to do nothin’. I just… wanna have you around.”

The request catches you off-guard entirely. Not because it’s unwelcome. It’s the opposite of unwelcome, in fact. It’s just the last thing you’d expect to hear from him in this very moment.

There’s a slight tremor in him that you could hear in his voice too. He has that glassy, needy look on him like there’s a chance you could possibly refuse.

“Yeah,” you say with almost a whisper. “Of course. I’ll be here.”

A small part of him relaxes at that. He nods once more and swallows something he was holding in his throat. 

You cross the room to him and press a short and undemanding kiss to his cheek, one that doesn’t ask of anything in return. It’s just enough to let him know you’re committing to coming back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say, stepping back towards the hallway.

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

AN: Oh my god, this one took so long to write and I'm so glad it's out 😮‍💨

I really hope you're enjoying the post-Dubois fluff! We've got one more chapter to go next week before I take a break from posting for a few weeks. Originally, I was guestimating 1-2 weeks, but nothing is set in stone. Could be longer, might not be 🤷🏻‍♂️ But it's a great time to go back and re-read as many chapters as you like before Chapter 30 which is going to be a big one.

I never ask for this or expect it, but if you have been enjoying the story so far, I would greatly appreciate you to share it, like, kudos, comment etc while I'm on my break. It really means the world and I love interacting with you across every platform.

June 1, 2024

Saturday morning rolls in like a welcome breeze. You’ve just cleared the last of the dishes and put the kitchen back in order after breakfast. Jeremiah has marched himself back to bed now that he’s been fed and sorted. The only thing left on the agenda for the morning is to brew yourself a fresh cup of tea. The ritual of it alone feels nostalgic, like the last twenty years never happened. As long as there’s teabags in the tin, you’ll always have that connection to home. 

When Tommy tasked you and Joel with the supply run to Dubois, time off duty didn’t seem that impressive of a reward. But now that you have days ahead of no responsibilities other than to relax, it feels like its actually paying off.

Hot steam rises from your mug and it’s just about to reach your lips when there’s a soft knock at the front door. The specific kind of knock that can only belong to one person. 

You set the mug down and march into the hallway, pulling the bolt back and swinging the door open to find Joel standing there with his hands tucked into his pockets acting like he just happened to be passing by. He straightens fractionally when he sees you. It’s as though he wasn’t expecting it to be you answering the door.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” he answers in a quiet voice that matches his knock. His eyes flick over your shoulder and then back. “Is everythin’ okay?”

You frown and follow his line of sight, checking behind you. Strange question to ask. “Yeah. Why?”

He lingers on you for a moment, still scanning for some sort of problem he was preparing to find. “Oh. Uhh… I just… didn’t see you yesterday so… I wanted to make sure you— everythin’ was alright.”

You lean against the doorframe, hang the tea towel you’re holding over your shoulder and try to figure out what this is about. “Everything’s fine. Was I supposed to come find you?”

A visible awkwardness takes over him then, the slightly bowed head, avoiding eye contact… He’s realising whatever reasoning he had in his head to be here sounds different out loud.

“No… no,” he mutters. “Uhh… Just thought maybe you—… maybe you’d’ve stopped by. That’s all.”

Then the penny drops.

The supply run has changed things. You spent two full days in close quarters, slept rough together and survived yet another near-death experience when you were ambushed. He must’ve expected that thread would carry on without a break once you got back. A little over twenty four hours apart and he’s on your doorstep assuming something’s wrong.

The man fucking misses you.

You chew down on the inside of your cheek and try to keep your face neutral. He’s becoming more and more insufferably endearing with every passing day and he’s getting really bad at hiding himself.

“Oh,” you say a little sheepishly. “Sorry. I was just wrecked after we got back. I still feel a little… off, to be honest. I haven’t really left the cabin. Jeremiah had a rough day yesterday too so… thought it’d be best to stay in.”

His posture adjusts subtly, his shoulders decompress like they’ve given up on carrying unnecessary worry. “Wish I’d known,” he says. “I’d’ve stopped by.”

“I know,” you smile. “But I’m fine. Really. Nothing I can’t handle.”

He accepts that with a nod and euthanises whatever else he had been queuing up to say because he’s now fully aware that his concern is starting to look like hovering. There’s no way he’s going to apologise for turning up, though. That much is evident.

“Well...” He clears his throat and his eyes drift away for a half second. “Seein’ as Tommy’s got us off patrols for a while… figured we could… y’know… spend some time together. Properly. If you wanted.”

Properly. 

Nearly every hour you’ve spent in each other’s company has been underwritten by something else or tied to some form of duty. He must have noticed the distinction too. As much as you enjoy riding the route for patrol alongside him and putting yourself in danger for the sake of the settlement, the idea of just being together with no need to be on the defence sounds like a dream.

A grin bypasses your composure and surfaces on your face. The tops of your ears go pink and you’re suddenly more aware of your heartbeat. 

“Just us?” you ask. “As in, like… a date?”

Saying it out loud makes him shift on the spot and dip his head with a crooked, shy smile. At fifty-six years old, in a world that has been largely inhospitable to joy for two decades, the word “date” should sound absurd to someone like Joel Miller. And judging by his face, it does. He seems to find it more funny than mortifying though, which feels like progress.

He pops a shoulder. “Somethin’ like that. Yeah, I guess so. If that’s what you wanna call it.”

You feel your cheeks going embarrassingly rosy. “Alright then. How about this afternoon?”

The speed of it almost makes him stumble. “Uhh… Sure. Did you have somethin’ in mind?”

“Nope,” you say simply, still smiling. “That’s your job. You’re gonna have to surprise me.”

You can pinpoint the exact second the gears behind his eyes start to malfunction. The task, the timeline, the fact he’s been commissioned with less than four hours notice and no idea where to begin. His eyes trace briefly down the street before returning to you with something to offer.

“Meet me at the stables,” he says. “Midday. There’s someplace I wanna take you.”

That alone kindles something in your chest.

You throw a glance up and down the neighbourhood to make sure no one’s about and then step out from the doorway, taking two fistfuls of his jacket collar and pulling him forward into a kiss. He clearly wasn’t ready for it because his hands haven’t even made it out of his pockets by the time he’s in it, but his mouth goes soft against yours in the way that it tends to. 

You hold him there for longer than strictly necessary, partially to make up for those lost twenty four hours, but mostly just because you want to. When you let him go, it takes him a second to come back.

“See you later then.” 

You’re back in the cabin and the door’s closed shut before he’s managed to catch up and reassemble himself. He stands there on the other side of the door, flustered and disorientated, now needing to focus on getting himself organised for midday.

—

Joel is halfway home when he becomes aware of how fast he’s moving. His stride is stretched to the point it’s almost a sprint. His arms work at his sides and his breath has picked up from the pace of it. Anyone that happened to see him would assume he was late to something very important.

Hand the man a faulty pipe or wonky chair and he’d have it fixed before you’ve even finished explaining the problem. Planning a last-minute date is another matter entirely, and one he has had zero practice at.

By the time he’s through the front door, there’s a damp patch forming between his shoulder blades and under his armpits. He takes the stairs two at a time, does a frantic and rather ineffective job at fixing himself up in the bathroom, then grabs his backpack from his room and heads back down to the kitchen.

The plan is straightforward enough: pack a suitable and decent lunch, get to the stables before midday and don’t embarrass himself in the process.

He starts opening and closing cupboards like a maniac, taking things out, reconsidering and putting them back. It goes on for longer than he’d like. Eventually, he arrives on something universally loved and within his own capabilities — peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

He lays out four slices of bread and reaches for a knife in the drawer. It slips out of his hand and cracks against the counter. He picks it up, swears quietly to himself, scoops up some of Elise’s chokecherry jam and drops it again with another sharp clatter. This time, it leaves a dark, sticky smear across the surface.

He stands there for a moment and stares at it, trying to keep a lid on things.

He cleans it up, resets and tries for a third time. This time, he actually gets as far as getting the jam onto the bread, but he’s too rough with the knife and tears a large clump clean out of the centre of the slice.

“Fuck,” he spits, chucking the knife into the sink with way more force than is called for.

The noise disturbance draws Ellie out of her room. She comes rumbling down the stairs and rounds the corner into the kitchen, unsure of what she’s about to walk in on. 

“What’s going on?”

“Nothin’,” Joel grumbles, shoving the ruined piece of bread to the side.

She cranes around him, too nosey for her own good. “Peanut butter and jelly? Why are you making peanut butter and jelly—”

“Mind your business.”

She pulls a face at the back of his head, the same one she does whenever Joel gets a little snappy. “Well, if you don’t wanna tear up the bread like that, try using the back of a spoon instead. That bread’s too soft.”

He glares at her over his shoulder with a look that communicates, among other things, that he did not ask for her advice.

“Joey taught me that trick,” she adds smugly. “Works every time.”

His jaw tightens as he stares at her for another moment, then opens the cutlery drawer and fishes out a spoon.

“Is that other sandwich for me?” she asks.

“No.”

“Then who’s it f—” 

Joel sets down the spoon with a little too much feeling behind it. “Why do you always have so many questions?”

She shrugs, completely unbothered. “Just asking. I already ate something. And I want to know who you’re making a second sandwich for.”

“A friend,” he says plainly before returning to the bread.

She stays put, looking at him with her head at a slight angle when she notices something unusual about him. He feels her staring from the side and looks back at her.

“What?”

Her brows pinch together. “Did you comb your hair?”

At first, he doesn’t know how to respond. He lets the silence hang for a sliver too long. His hand almost reaches to tussle it back to his usual state.

“Uhh—… hair’s just gettin’ a little long,” he says, continuing to coat the bread and praying that’s the end of her interrogation.

He shunts the discarded slice of bread across the counter to her with the spoon. “Here. Eat it. Don’t let it go to waste.”

She approaches eagerly like she’s about to claim a prize but then stops when she gets close enough to him. She leans slightly more and sniffs the air around him, picking up on an unfamiliar woody, spiced scent clouding around him.

“Are you wearing cologne?”

He freezes and turns two shades paler.

Now he’s really caught. In 2024, cologne is reserved for the most special of occasions. Funerals, weddings, anniversaries, dates… Certainly not for random Saturday afternoon plans with a “friend”. People trade medicine for cologne. The stuff is like liquid gold.

Instead of giving her any sort of response, he just privately curses her sharpness and finishes wrapping up the sandwiches in cloth with rushed concentration so he can get out of the kitchen as fast as possible. He tucks them into his backpack along with two flasks and a couple of other provisions before zipping it up, slinging it over his shoulder and bolting.

“I’ll be back later,” he says. “Do your homework. Tidy your room.”

“Have fun,” she calls after him, taking a bite of her mangled bread with a satisfied smirk plastered on her face.

— 

Joel has Dusty ready and waiting by the time you get to the stables a little after midday. Dusty senses your presence first. Her ears swivel and flutter pleasantly the way they do when you’re near. Joel notices it and follows her attention around to find you crossing the yard in his direction.

His face does something that will take time for you to get used to. It opens like the sun breaking through dark clouds when his eyes land on you. It’s unfathomable that this is the same man who sat across from you at your council hearing four months ago radiating pure hostility.

He reaches up and smoothes over his hair with his gloved hand. 

“Sorry,” you say, a little out of breath. “Traffic.”

He ducks his head into a chuckle.

“You look…” You pause to take him in close up. “handsome.”

He short-circuits behind the eyes. His brain clearly hasn’t been wired to receive compliments, so he starts glancing around shyly like an appropriate response might be spray-painted on one of the stables. 

“Uh— thanks. You too. But… you always do, so… s’not really… anyways—”

His awkwardness is disgustingly charming. All you can do is smile wide.

“I— uhh… was startin’ to think you were standin’ me up,” he says.

“I thought about it,” you tease playfully. “Jeremiah talked me out of it though.”

His expression changes from thinking you were being serious to realising you were joking. He huffs another little laugh and then sets Dusty’s body brush aside. “How is he?”

“Better than yesterday. More like himself this morning. Bit more stable.” You look out in the general direction where his cabin would be. “I just felt terrible when I realised I’d be leaving him on his own all day. He said it was okay, so… But I managed to rope Arron into checking in on him later. That’s why I was a little late.”

“Well,” Joel says. “I’ll try not to keep you to myself for too long. We’ll just be gone a few hours.”

Then, he does a quick scan of the yard to ensure no ranch hands are about, grabs hold of your hand and steers you around the side of the building where the stabled back up against the fence line. It feels like it happens in one fluid motion. One moment you’re by Dusty, the next, your back is up against the wood and he’s on you.

He kisses you warmly, like he’s finally getting back at you for the kiss at Jeremiah’s front door. His hands settle at your waist and anchor you there while he does his thing. His hips press into yours and the breadth of him swallows you up.

Admittedly, you’re still a little rankled with the arrangement of having to sneak around and stay in the shadows to feel safe. It’s a tax that shouldn’t be necessary in the first place. It won’t last forever because it can’t, but for now, it’s just him and just you.

When he eventually pulls away, his breath grazes your face and his eyes have gone soft in that way that drives you insane.

You breathe him in, and when you do, you catch something out of place with it. Something artificial and intense. Not his usual scent. 

“Are you… wearing a fragrance or something? You smell different than normal.”

His cheeks flush pink and a small, reluctant smile follows. “Uhh, yeah. Little bit. Why, how do I normally smell?”

“Like… man. And… outside.”

He grins wide, unable to take his eyes off of your lips as his thumb makes a single slow pass across your cheek, right below the scratch caused by the wall chipping after the Disciple shot at you. “That a bad thing?”

You lean and take another kiss from him, then another. “Definitely not. I’d take that over whatever the hell that is any day. It’s nice though.”

He gets you back immediately by digging his fingers into your sides, making you fold against him laughing and trying to shield yourself. You’re both left grinning when it subsides, and you can’t help but compare and contrast him to the version of himself that would’ve been incapable of this level of openness mere months ago.

“Ready?” he asks, once you’ve both gathered up enough composure to be trusted in public again.

You nod, your cheeks still warm and eyes twinkling at him. It feels like your heart is physically expanding in your chest the more you let him in. There’s only one word to describe how you feel in this very moment: smitten.

—

The sky above Jackson opens out wide as you pass through the gates, pale and washed-out blue. It makes the whole stretch of land feel bigger than it is. The sun is out and bright white overhead, but it doesn’t offer much warmth.

Five minutes down the trail and you’re still having to remind yourself that there’s no checkpoint to reach or report to fill out today. Joel chose a direction and you’re following. The only thing that is expected of you today is being by his side.

Most people would feel the need to fill the pockets of silence that linger between you on the road. You don’t with him. There have been maybe four people in your entire life that have made you feel like you can be quiet in their company without them thinking it’s time wasted. Joel is now one of them.

Instead, you find yourself watching him from a few paces behind. He rides Old Beardy with an effortless authority. His eyes comb the landscape with that systematic quality of his. Your thoughts drift to the way he assessed you from above in his bed. You try to steer your mind away from it before too much heat pools in your gut and it becomes a problem.

“You’re still on the lookout,” you say.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t break focus. “Habit. Can’t be too safe. Not out here.”

He’s not wrong. The Disciples wouldn’t hesitate if they saw an opening. The infected don’t know today is your day off. The world outside the walls doesn’t allow you to ever truly take your guard down. The difference today is that he’s not watching out to protect the settlement, he’s watching out to protect you. 

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” you say. “Having no duty today. I was nearly going to drop in to the school just to find something to do while the kids were home. But then you knocked.”

He glances back over his shoulder at that, one eyebrow slightly raised and a smile just beginning. “Well then, aren’t you glad I did? You say that like you’d rather be at the school.”

“Of course I’m glad,” you say. “I just hope the surprise is worth the trip.”

He turns back to the road ahead with a quiet laugh moving though him. You find yourself smiling at the back of his head like an idiot, eager to get your hands on him.

“Have you been playin’ that guitar much?” he asks then.

“Yeah, actually.” You smile to yourself. “Usually in the evenings. I’ve played a few songs for Jeremiah. I’m still a little rusty, but it’s some entertainment for him at least. It’s been nice getting back into it.”

He tilts his head back, eyes moving upward to the canopy like he’s trying to construct what that scene looks like in his head. Jeremiah in his armchair, you with the guitar on that same couch he kissed you on, strumming away by the fire. 

“What was that song again? The one Ellie said you were gonna teach her.”

“Take On Me,” you reply. “My all-time favourite song. I promised I’d teach it to her soon actually… I must get on that.”

“I wouldn’t worry for now,” he replies. “She’s gotta get better at chords first. Been tryin’ with her, but she ain’t there yet.”

You glance sideways at him. “She’ll get there. Look how quickly she picked up the bow.” It’s silent for a few seconds. “How long did it take you to learn to play?”

He sits a little taller in his saddle. “Been playin’ since I was a kid. I… always thought I’d be a singer growin’ up.”

That steals your attention. “A singer? You sing?”

“Not well.”

“Huh,” you sigh, nudging closer on Dusty. “Now you have to sing me something.”

“Absolutely not.” He doesn’t even hesitate.

“Why?” It comes out in a half-laugh.

“I’m not singin’ in front of you.”

“Come ooon,” you press. “Just something small. For me?”

“No. Forget it.”

You let it go for a total of five seconds. 

“Maybe I just need to get a few whiskeys into you.”

“There’s not enough whiskey in the world. S’not happenin’.”

You nudge Dusty up even further until you’re level with him. “Mark my words. Before I die, I’ll make you sing for me.”

— 

“Are we almost there?” you groan, massaging your fingertips into the base of your neck where tension has been building for the last hour. “My back is killing me.”

“Uh huh.” He tips his head forward. “There she is.”

The trees fall away on either side. The trail lifts and crests before bringing the surprise into view. Jackson Lake.

It’s vast brilliance takes your breath away instantly and makes you still on Dusty without meaning to. The pale but luminous water extends out far and wide and shimmers like crown glass. Green crowds the banks and beyond it, the mountains stand tall and resilient, their peaks dusted with snow that still hasn’t left. It’s enormous in a way that makes everything else feel small and unimportant. 

Across the water, a row of faded red cabins sit along the far bank beside what appears to be a boathouse with a narrow pier stretching out into the shallows.

It looks like a fucking postcard.

Neither of you speak for a long moment. Joel doesn’t need to. He’s too busy enjoying the view of watching you experience this for the first time from the side.

“How did you find this place?” you ask once your breath comes back.

“Been out here a few times,” he says. “S’pecially lately. Usually when Ellie’s at school and I need someplace quiet to clear my head. Thought you might like it.”

He takes the horses closer to the shore where the ground flattens out, ties them to a post and settles them.

Once again, he’s bringing you into a space that he keeps only for himself. It’s hard not to wonder what brings him here when he’s in need of an escape. Some of it is probably obvious, but the longer you know him, the more you’re starting to understand that Joel’s history is confidential. He’s not an open book by any means, but he’s slowly allowing you to turn the pages to discover new details every day.  

When he returns, he shakes out a red and white blanket over the most suitable patch of grass and places his backpack in the middle to anchor it down. The pair of you lower yourselves with mutually aged grunts. Your boots are off and you’re leaning back on your hands to take the pressure off your spine within seconds. The breeze moves over your socks, soothing your sore, overly warm feet. The sun casts down across your skin and the sound of distant birdsong fills the air.

Joel has barely looked out at the lake since you arrived. He’s still too transfixed watching you take it in and the way you’re squinting into the sunshine and how it highlights the subtle sheen of sweat along your hairline from the journey.

“So,” he says. “Whatcha think? Like it?”

You give a soft hum of agreement first, unable to pull your eyes away yet. “Sometimes I forget places like this still exist out here. Outside the walls.” You turn to him then, meeting his gaze. “It’s beautiful.”

There’s no hiding the satisfaction on his face. There must be something significant about seeing you sat here admiring a place where his mind has castigated him.

He reaches into his backpack and starts laying things out between where you lay. Two cloth-wrapped bundles, a couple of apples and some napkins.

“What’s all this?” 

“Lunch,” he says. “Peanut butter and jelly.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles lowly. “You really think I’d take you all the way out here and not feed you?”

“No, it’s just—” You watch him set an unwrapped sandwich out in front of you on it’s cloth. “I’ve never had peanut butter and jelly before.”

He pauses unwrapping his own. “What d’you mean you’ve never had it? It’s PB&J.”

“It’s not really something we had in Ireland,” you explain, picking it up and examining it curiously. “Even when I moved here before the outbreak, I just never got around to trying it.”

He takes a large bite of his own and chews like he was eager to eat. “Well, go on then. Try it. Lemme see.”

You look at it one more time before committing. It’s not something you’d call beautiful. The colour clash is rather unappealing and the mix of textures is questionable at best. And yet, despite the aesthetics, the fact he made it for you makes it special.

You take that first bite.

The softness of Elise’s bread hits you, then the salt of the peanut butter clings to the roof of your mouth. Finally, the sweetness of the jam pulls it all together and makes it a masterpiece.

“Lord almighty,” you manage around your mouthful. “That’s fucking delicious.”

His expressions softens even further somehow.

You tear off a corner of it with your fingers and hold it out for him. He looks at it tentatively before leaning to take it in his mouth. Unplanned, you smear a blob of jam on his nose, leaving him frozen in place and both of you tittering like teenagers. 

“Hold on,” you say. “Come here.”

You stretch over his way and shamelessly suck the jam off the tip of his nose, leave it with a single kiss and retract back.

“I did bring napkins, y’know…” he grimaces playfully, wiping the trace of you off with the back of his hand.

“Can’t let Elise’s jam go to waste.”

The sandwiches are done when he dips into his backpack again and pulls out one of the maroon coloured flasks and hands it to you. “Brought you some coffee too.”

That’s what does it. A small breath comes out of you. You take the flask and stare at it. To him, this is just a thrown-together picnic he had virtually no time to prepare for. For you, it’s proof that something you stopped believing in still exists when people put in the effort.

On the shore below, the lake moves with a slow, serene rhythm. Your heartbeat eventually matches the pace without trying and suddenly it’s really obvious why he would travel all the way out here.

Over thirty minutes of sharing stories from being on the road go by in a blink and suddenly your hands are wrapped around your flask and your nose hovers over the steam, chasing the heat with every sip.

Joel notices when he looks over. “You gettin’ cold?”

“A little bit,” you reply, looking up at the sky like someone’s to blame for turning the temperature down.

“Why didn’t you say?” He’s already clearing the clutter from the space between you. “Get on over here.” He opens an arm out like it’s an invitation you can’t refuse.

You shimmy across on the blanket into his side and his arm draws you in close. Now you can both just gaze out at the pale water and watch it wash in and out against the banks.

Joel reaches down and takes one of your hands and turns it over in his as if he’s examining it for something. His skin is coarse and calloused where yours is soft, but there’s an indisputable warmth from him that seeps into you. His thumb moves gently across your palm, tracing idle circles before his fingers fold over yours.

“Jesus, your hands are really cold,” he mutters.

He lifts it to his mouth and presses brief kisses to your fingertips. His breath follows, hot against your skin as he exhales over them. Then he closes your hand back in his again and holds it like he’s determined to keep the heat in.

“I think we needed this,” you say after a moment goes by. “After the last few days.”

He makes a low sound of agreement deep in his chest. He looks down at the top of your head resting against him. “Thought that might’ve been the reason you stayed away yesterday.”

You tilt your head up slightly to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“What happened before we got out of Dubois…” His eyes glaze over for a second. “Thought maybe I scared you off… or you felt different about me now.”

There it is. The real reason he was on Jeremiah’s doorstep this morning.

“No,” you say, resting your head back down. “I don’t feel different. I think I just forgot what it’s actually like out there. Having a place to call home again — a real home… Having people I care about. Having people that care about me. I think I was starting to let myself get a bit too soft. Dubois just reminded me you can’t be soft. Not anymore.”

“You sure that’s all it was?” His mouth remains close enough to your hair that you feel his words as much as you hear them. “I don’t want you to think I’m a bad guy.”

You shake your head. “I don’t. But does it still feel that way for you? Do you still feel it? Does it all still feel wrong? Having to go to these lengths.”

He looks off into the distance now, the breeze lifting a few strands of his hair. “Yeah,” he murmurs eventually. “But we did what we had to do.”

That brings you some relief. Maybe subconsciously you feared that the brutality came and went a little too easily with him, even the type of brutality that was necessary to keep you both alive. 

“I just kept seeing it on the ride back to that farmhouse,” you say. “His face. The blood. I kept replaying it over and over all night. But I understand it.”

His expression loosens then like he was bracing for a different reaction.

“I’m still scared though.” You stare out at the water. “Of The Disciples. About what that guy said. They know where we are. What if he wasn’t just crazy? What if David is still out there? What if he’s coming for Ellie—”

“Stop,” Joel says firmly. “David’s gone. We’ve been through this.”

“But what if—”

“Joey.” 

It’s not unkind, but the tone in his voice makes you lift your head again. He meets your eyes and holds them.

“Today’s not for that. Today’s just for us. Nothin’s gonna happen to you or Ellie. Not while I’m here.”

His unreserved adamance makes you go quiet so you can only listen.

“I don’t want you to be like me,” he says. His thumb starting to run along the back of your hand again. “I want you to be soft. It’s better for Ellie, havin’ someone like you around. You can give her things I can’t. You’re strong in ways I’ll never be. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way.”

It’s less of a promise and more like a declaration of intent. And you have no choice but to believe he’ll see it through. The next breath you let out takes some of the worry with it.

You reach up and slide your hand to the back of his skull and let your fingers thread into his hair. You’re drawing him down, but he’s already moving into you without resistance. His lips are warm against yours, giving more than they take and alleviating the last of the tension in you.

He sets your flask aside and guides you down onto the blanket carefully until you’re flat against it. His body follows and presses you into the grass, grounding you there beneath him.

Sunlight dapples with calm flickers on the surface of the lake behind him and the breeze picks up for a minute, but the broadness of him absorbs it before it has a chance to reach you.

His hand travels over your sternum before slipping beneath your flannel searching for contact and your heat. That first touch of his skin against yours near your waist pulls a small jolt and gasp from you. He remains focused on seeking out your little sounds like they’re your own language he’s still learning.

Your arms stay draped around his neck, keeping him there while the rough slide of denim on denim makes your chest flush red with arousal. Your legs snake together like they belong and his hand travels further up until he’s got a hold of your breast. The smell of his skin, the lingering taste of lunch, the way he takes his time with you… it pulls you apart where you lie until you’re a puddle.

When he finally lifts away, you’re left chasing your own breath. The world around you has gone slightly blurry now. He’s the only thing you can see with edges.

He props himself on one elbow and stays close enough that he blocks out the sun still. He studies the smoothed out lines around your eyes, the movement of your throat, the way your bottom lip disappears behind your teeth as you look back up at him. He brushes a stray curl from your forehead with the back of his fingers. 

A barely visible smile blooms in his expression. It’s as though he keeps expecting you to stop being real and is persistently surprised every time he realises you still are.

—

The day is already ceding by the time you’re on the road back home. The sun hangs lower in the sky and the late-afternoon chill starts to make itself even more known. Clouds of flies hum in clusters around the nearby trees, floating like a set of breathing lungs.

Joel rides beside you, eyes still scanning ahead but quietly pleased with what he’s left behind at the lake.

“I’m headin’ to Tommy’s tomorrow night for dinner,” he says after a stretch of silence. “Gonna fill him in on Dubois.”

You glance over at him. “Oh yeah? Thought you would’ve done that already.”

“Made more sense to wait ’til Sunday dinner. Have everyone there.”

You nod and focus back on the road then. Any sort of treks outside of the settlement, particularly ones that venture into new territories, are always reported back in-person. That’s just how Tommy likes it. 

“Hm, good luck with that one,” you say. “Don’t forget to mention all of the wonderful things you can buy down at The Pleasure Chest.”

Joel shifts uncomfortably in the saddle then, and not because of the joke, but because of the implication behind it. “You not comin’ along?”

It’s something you weren’t necessarily expecting him to question. You think on it for a second before replying.

“I don’t know… Might be best if I don’t. I thought maybe we should give it a bit of time before we start… y’know… being around Tommy together. Give him a chance to get used to the idea of it.”

That makes him pause in a way he never has before. It’s unclear whether he’s genuinely considering it or feeling some sort of guilt that his own fears have bled into how you think through these things too.

“No,” he murmurs eventually, shaking his head and looking back out in front of him. “I don’t want us to do that. We went to Dubois together so we go tomorrow together.”

A lump forms in your throat. Maybe he’s running on the high the day brought with it or maybe he’s truly changing. Even though some part of you is genuinely anxious about being around Tommy and allowing him to see you in this new light, it’s still peculiar to hear Joel push for it. Tommy’s a good friend to you and he was clear he had no issue with it, but the circumstances in which he found out still puts you on edge.

“You sure?” you ask quietly.

Based on the faraway look in his eyes, it’s evident he’s going through the exact same thought process you did and questions it one last time. Being sat around a table with you and his family should be the same as it has always been, but it won’t be this time. It could all feel a little to exposing. But Joel gave you his word. He said he was going to make this work.

After a moment, he sniffs and exhales when he lands on a decision. His posture straightens and he nods.

“Yeah.”

—

The ranch hands are long gone by the time you make it back. Lamplight pools in the stable corners and the horses start to settle into their evening with pleased huffs and the occasional flick of a hoof in hay. The two of you work through the routine of untacking and brushing down Dusty and Old Beardy and getting caught up in the comfortable domesticity of it.

When you straighten up and turn around, he’s already finished and leaning in the doorway with his hands tucked into his pockets, watching you patiently in a way he doesn’t bother trying to conceal.

You rinse your hands in the basin and towel them dry before joining him at the entrance. “Ready to go?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes your hand and pulls you back out into the cooling evening air and around to the back where the lamplight doesn’t reach. He places you against the wood and surveys every detail of your face before closing in and trapping your body against the planks with his. His mouth finds yours in the dark. He always starts soft. Moving your head with his, following the give and pull of it.

Not even a minute goes by before he’s migrating below your jaw and into your neck. He knows exactly where to go now. He’s learned your favourite spots and how to undo you without mercy. When you start vocalising what it’s doing to you, he just gets more laser-focused on drawing more sounds out of you. One hand cups your face, the other holds you by your waist. His knee slots between your thighs and when he starts to feel you squirm helplessly against him, it just makes him worse. He’s hell-bent.

Then you feel it against your hip. 

Firm and insistent through the denim, his cock presses into you. The moans have gotten to him. His hips roll carefully into you and his own breath starts to shift into a different register.

Your hand moves down and over the front of his jeans without deliberation, feeling the taut strain of him trying to break through. Within seconds, your other hand has his him unbuckled and unbuttoned. Your hand dives into his boxers and pulls his cock free. It’s warm and heavy in your palm and already slick at the tip.

The cool hits him and he pulls a sharp breath through his nose.

He groans into your mouth when start with long, purposeful pulls of his shaft. He breaks the kiss to look down briefly, as if just to confirm what’s happening, and then his lips are back on you. 

Lubricated with his own fluid, you add a slight twist of the wrist to your motions, and when you do, the kiss slows to a stop. His mouth stays pressed to yours but he goes still. Small, fractured breaths jet out every other second and his eyes remain shut. His brow furrows like he’s desperately trying to keep hold of his composure.

His forehead drops to your shoulder and his palms land flat against the stable wall on either side of your head. The sounds he makes against your neck are rough and untamed. You don’t let up. The pace builds into fuller strokes as the minutes pass. Eventually, his weight starts to increase against you and his hips pitch forward like he’s chasing the end.

“Are you getting close?” you murmur against his temple.

He nods, his head becoming even heavier on your shoulder. “Yeah… Keep goin’… Don’t stop…”

Now you’re determined. You work harder, maintaining your grip but allowing enough of a slip to move smoothly. “Yeah, that’s it…”

“Aw, fuck— Joey…” He makes a quiet, strangled sound and his palms ball into fists. “I’m gonna cum—”

His mouth slams back over yours to inhale you as he tips over the edge, spurting warmth through your fingers in hard pulses and spilling into the grass below. You slow gradually, easing him through orgasm and lightening your grip at the tip, wringing out the last of it until he’s jolting against you in oversensitive aftershocks. The shaking subsides slowly and his breath finds its way back.

Lazy kisses scatter across your neck and then up your jaw, his mouth not quite following a particular direction, just pressing wherever it lands while his cock twitches back to softness in your hand.

When he pulls back to look at you again, there’s very little left in him. Just traces of relief and longing. Nothing needs to be said. The dark holds the moment and the intimacy of it still carries the newness of this underneath. 

“I’ll get you a towel,” you say at last.

You slip around the corner and return a moment later. He cleans up in silence, buttons himself back up and sighs, his eyes not calming until they find yours again.

He leans against the wood now, reaching low for your hand and leading you back into his space. He settles his hands on your hips and keeps you there, observing your face like he discovers something new about it every time.

“Let me walk you home."

—

As you make your way back through the settlement, your instinct is to keep a sizeable distance between you. The cold is making that hard to adhere to though. The temperature has dropped enough that you’re hunched over with your hands buried in your pockets and trying not to brush up too close to Joel. 

The streets are oddly quiet for a Saturday evening. The Bison should have people coming and going by now or neighbours should be making their way between houses for weekend plans. Instead, there’s almost no one around. There’s just the quiet electrical hum of the streetlights overhead and the crunch of your boots on the gravel below. The cold snap must’ve convinced people that staying in was the better option.

Once you’ve moved through Main Street and are closer to the residential areas, you do a quick sweep in front and behind before slipping your hand into his. Straight away, you feel him freeze and almost pull away. He looks down at your joined hands and then also performs a quick scan of the surroundings.

“What’re you doin’?” he asks under his breath.

“My hands are cold,” you reply. A long moment of silence passes. “Is that okay?”

He exhales softly through his nose. “Yeah, just— we gotta be careful.”

“No one’s around. It’s fine.”

His hand stays loose in yours rather than closing tight around it, so you can’t even fully enjoy the warmth of him without feeling like you’ve caused him to be on alert again. Sure, it’s risky to show a public display of affection like this, especially for him. But after the day you’ve just shared together, it has left you embarrassingly needy and craving his closeness even more.

His hand slips from yours when you reach Jeremiah’s tiny front gate. He pushes it open with a soft screech and walks you the rest of the way up to his door where the small porch light barely reaches his face.

He takes you in one last time, checks the perimeter and then leans in and kisses you. It’s soft, but way too brief for your liking. He pulls back before you’re ready for it to be over and you almost follow his lips without realising.

A look passes between you that doesn’t need explaining. This is what it’s going to be for a while. Exhilarating highs behind closed doors and then the dull crash of checking over shoulders and standing apart when others are around. This isn’t what you want and he knows that. Switching between different versions of yourself to shield him from shame takes a toll even though you’re willing to pay it if it means you get to be his.

The apology lingers permanently in his eyes and you’re learning to get used to it. If you tell yourself this is only temporary enough times, maybe the sting will go away. 

“Thanks for today,” you say quietly. “I really enjoyed it.”

The smile he gives is just with his mouth, but it’s genuine. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Frustratingly, it only makes you need him more hearing his voice so quiet and delicate. 

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

Once you’re inside, you close the door gently behind you and press your forehead against it. You stand there in the quiet of Jeremiah’s hallway and listen until his footsteps reach the end of the garden path, the front gate screeches shut and the sound of him is gone entirely. 

AN: 🫠 Oh to have Joel Miller show up on your doorstep all needy and missing you...

I really hope you enjoyed Joely on a date <3 I love planting little easter eggs in this story by the way, iykyk!

May 27, 2024

Tommy stands on Joel’s porch with his fist raised in the cold, but he hesitates. He’s thinking it over, talking himself through if it’s right to interrupt.

Inside, your fingers are still in Joel’s hair as he kisses you with a sustained, hungry focus that makes it seem like he’s making up for lost time. His hand has found the strip of skin above your waist and the warmth of his touch makes your knees turn to jelly. You lean into him without meaning to and his arm cinches tighter around you, pulling you in closer than you thought possible. 

You can feel the thrum of his heartbeat through the layers of cotton where your chests meet. It’s like his own body is failing to hide what his mouth still struggles to say, how badly he wants this.

And when it ends, it ends slowly. Your foreheads are pressed together and you just breathe each other in. His arms keep you in place, letting you feel what it has done to him. Somehow, that’s the most intimate part of it all, knowing that he is as undone as you are.

The knock at the front door pulls you both out of that moment in a way that’s almost cruel. 

You stare at the door and then each other. His jaw is already working and your heart is now hammering inside your sternum for a completely different reason than it was a second ago. Nobody knocks at this hour, not without a good reason at least.

Joel’s arm falls away and his body immediately rearranges itself, going rigid with panic in a way you’ve learned to recognise. Every loose, open thing about him is sealed back up in an instant and he creates a wedge of space between you. You’re both aware of the irony of it. The confession that neither of you wanted distance is still fresh in the air.

Joel drags a hand down his face and then through his hair. You smooth the front of your flannel down where his hand had pushed it up and try to will the heat and colour out of your cheeks. It all feels wrong, but it has to be done.

You watch him clear his throat, straighten up and cross the room to answer. For a fleeting second, you wonder if you were supposed to find somewhere to hide. But it’s too late. The door swings open.

“Tommy.” It’s not exactly a greeting. It’s more just a fact.

Tommy? The most inconvenient person in all of Jackson for it to be. Your stomach drops through you to the floor. It doesn’t matter why he’s here so late, he’s going to want to know why you’re here so late.

“Joel.” Tommy’s voice is flat in a way that you’ve never heard it. “Sorry. I know it’s late. Saw the lights on. Hope I’m not disturbin’ anythin’.”

The pause before Joel speaks up is maybe two seconds too long.

“Uhh— No,” he says, his voice coming out in a way that Tommy now has every reason to wonder what’s going on. He hesitates for a moment before realising his brother is still outside and he’s blocking the doorway. “Come on in.”

The first thing Tommy’s eyes do when he steps into the hallway is land directly on you in the middle of the living room, like he already knew you were there somehow.

“Joey.” The surprise in his voice sounds like it was placed there on purpose, and it’s not convincing at all. “Didn’t expect to find you out so late. ‘Specially not here. Thought you’d be in bed by now seein’ as you two have patrol in the mornin’.”

“Uh, yeah.” A couple of seconds pass of you just trying to find something to say. You jam your hands into your back pockets to seem casual. “I just dropped by to… thank Joel for helping with some leaky pipes at Jeremiah’s. They’ve been giving us a lot of trouble, but he… fixed them for us.”

Tommy receives that information with a slow and single nod. Then he looks across the room to his brother, who is standing far enough away from you that it draws attention. Joel just holds Tommy’s pointed gaze without adding anything more to it.

“Hm.” He shifts his weight, settling onto his other hip now. “Seems like Joel’s been helpin’ you out quite a bit lately.” He let’s that make its way around the room. “Good to hear."

You ears start to prickle. He knows. And you don’t know how.

“Yeah, well, I was actually just about to leave,” you say, already starting to move towards the door. “Like you said, we’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“Hold up.” Tommy’s arm extends to make you stop mid-step. Not aggressive in any way, but enough to make your pulse spike. Joel’s shoulders go taut. “I’m actually glad you’re here. I need to have a word with you two.”

You look over at Joel. His jaw is locked solid now.

“I stopped by Jeremiah’s lookin’ for you,” Tommy continues, folding his arms now with a lopsided smile. “He said you were in Michelle’s. So I went to Michelle’s and she said you were probably here. Sounds like you’ve been gettin’ around today.”

“You know me,” you say nervously. “Always got somewhere to be. Off on my little adventures.”

“Apparently.” He lets that sink into the floorboards below then shifts gears. “Well, I’ve got a little adventure lined up for the two o’ you. I’m takin’ you both off patrols this week. I need you to ride out to Dubois instead for a supply run.”

“Dubois?” you repeat. “Where’s that?”

“About 60 miles east,” Tommy says. “Should take you around a day to get there and a day to get back, so you’ll need to camp out overnight somewhere.”

“And you’re droppin’ this on us last minute?” Joel asks, a twinge of restrained frustration in his voice.

“We got a list of essentials we need. It only got handed to me earlier today,” Tommy says, producing a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and holding it out. “We’ve cleared out most of the other towns nearby. This one’s our next best bet.”

Joel almost snatches it out of his hand and holds it back from his face to read, eyes squinted without his glasses and moving down the list. Medical supplies, stationary, tools, hardware… the miscellaneous things that hold the infrastructure of a settlement together and that the people can’t survive without.

Joel looks up at his brother then with an expression that communicates his thoughts without needing words. It’s a huge ask.

“Don’t worry,” Tommy says, pre-empting whatever Joel is about to say. “I’m givin’ you both the rest of the week and next week off patrols when you get back. Consider it a thank you from all of us. You’ll have earned it.”

“That’s not the point,” Joel says. “It could be dangerous. We don’t know what’s out that way.”

Tommy looks at you both. “Only one way to find out. And besides, you’ve got each other, and let me tell you somethin’, there’s nobody else on that roster I’d trust with a job like this. You two make one hell of a team.”

His gaze moves between the two of you at an agonisingly slow pace, like he’s watching for any change in your body language.

It’s hard to know whether that’s a compliment or a death sentence. Maybe Tommy himself isn’t sure if he’s being pragmatic or just banking on faith. Either way, the prospect of two days on the road with Joel, sleeping God knows where, after everything that has happened, feels complicated and overwhelming. The danger of what’s out there is almost the simplest part.

“So.” Tommy turns to you. “Whaddaya think? You up for it?”

You find Joel’s eyes across the room. There’s a whole conversation happening in that one look and none of it is about the task itself. A supply run is a supply run. You might make it back, you might not. It’s the journey there that is undetermined and how it could change things when things haven’t even been established. For now, all you know is that you can’t say no to Tommy. Not after everything.

You sigh eventually. “Yeah. I’m in.”

Tommy nods, but his expression is a new one for you. It’s not the broad, triumphant grin he usually wheels out when he’s managed to talk you into doing something for him. It’s smaller and more considered, like he knows what you were thinking about to reach that decision. 

“Alright,” he sniffs, giving your shoulder a firm pat. “Get yourself home and rest up. Big day tomorrow.”

With a small inhale, you move towards the door, eager to escape the weight of the air. You feel Joel’s gaze on the back of your head as you leave. At the threshold, you glance back at him, just briefly, enough to let him know you’ll see him tomorrow and good luck with the next however many minutes he’s got stuck with his brother.

The door clicks shut and neither of them moves or speaks for a moment. The house returns to complete silence around them as if no one was home.

Tommy turns to face his brother then, who’s now staring at something between the floor and emptiness, like he’d rather look anywhere else but in front of him.

“So…” Tommy’s hands find his hips again as he measures the man he thought he know inside out across from him. “Joey. Huh.”

Joel’s eyes come up slowly, trying to not appear accused. “What about him?”

It isn’t really an accusation at all. They both know that. Joel feels the smallness of the space pressing in acutely, he’s once again being cornered in his own hallway like the night you confronted him about the kiss.

“I saw you, Joel,” Tommy reveals quietly. No performance or cushioning in it. “The two o’ you. Through the window.”

The blood drains from Joel’s face so quickly that it’s very visible and his expression changes to one that Tommy hasn’t seen since they were young boys. Pure and undisguised fright. 

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” His voice shakes at the end.

“Joel—”

“I don’t know what you think you saw—”

“Hey,” Tommy interjects. No volume or force to it, just enough to silence him. “Stop. You don’t have to do all that. Not with me.”

Joel goes mute. His eyes are glassy now at the corners, glistening with something he is clearly fighting to contain. Tommy can see all of it laid out across his face. The fear, the old reflexes, the shame of being seen as someone he spent decades refusing to acknowledge for the sake of those around him.

“It’s okay,” Tommy says with a quiet patience. “You’re still my big brother. Doesn’t change a damn thing.”

Joel’s lip has a slight tremor to it. He can’t speak nor can he move. He’s completely paralysed from hearing something he never thought he needed to hear, and Tommy starts to realise that. He’s watched this man survive things that would’ve broken the toughest people, and yet here, in his own home, he looks completely defeated by something Tommy didn’t even know about.

“How long has this been goin’ on for?” Tommy asks.

Joel’s eyes drop to the floor. “This month. It started… this month.”

Tommy continues to study him and the way he holds himself with that diminished posture. It can only mean this is something he’s been grappling with for quite some time.

“Does Ellie know?”

Joel’s eyes snap up. “No.” The word comes out faster than anything he’s said tonight. “And she can’t know. No one can know. Not yet. I haven’t even— We haven’t even—” He stops and composes himself. “It’s new. That’s all.”

Tommy nods slowly, turning his thoughts over. In the quiet that follows, Joel stands in it and doesn’t find any comfort.

“Promise me, Tommy,” Joel says, barely above a whisper. “Promise you won’t tell anybody.”

Tommy holds his stare for a long, drawn out moment. “You have my word. Secret’s safe with me. Like I said before. To the grave.”

Even with his word, Joel doesn’t look completely satisfied. His shoulders don’t drop. His expression doesn’t soften to calmness. He just stares back like he’s looking for cracks in it somewhere.

“I just want you to be happy,” Tommy says, plainly and without any unnecessary decoration. “After everythin’. I think you deserve that much at least.”

Tommy begins to move to the door then, placing his hand on the frame. He stops and turns back again.

“Out of everybody in this town,” he says with a small huff that sounds almost like a laugh. “I never would’ve thought it’d be Joey.”

Another pause. “You two take care of each other out there.”

Then he’s gone. The door closes with a gentle click, leaving Joel alone in the hallway with a silence that didn’t feel as heavy as the one that filled his home only an hour ago.

—

May 28, 2024

You’re both bundled up and on the road before the sun has fully risen the next morning. The heavy fog lingers low across the plains, clinging to the grass while the sky decides what colour it wants to be today. 

Joel offered a quiet “mornin’” at the stables and not much else. It was blatantly obvious that the night was unkind to him. It came out through his voice and you’d recognised the sound of it immediately because you’d had the very same type of night.

The horses carry the extra supplies and ammunition dutifully but without any enthusiasm for it. It’s like they’re just as miffed about the early start and long journey ahead. Dusty’s stride has a sluggish quality to it, and you have no intention of pushing her too far today.

You wait until Jackson has shrunk far enough behind you before bringing up the one thing you’ve wanted to ask him all morning.

“How did it go last night? With Tommy.”

Joel keeps his eyes forward. “He knows. He saw us before he knocked. Through the window.”

The chill you feel from that has nothing to do with the temperature outside. You breathe out through your nose and stare out at the dense greyness. The cat wasn’t exactly out of the bag because it was never even in it in the first place. “What did he say?”

“Said it’s okay,” Joel says, his voice careful like he’s still not sure if he wants to believe it. “Said he just wants me to be happy.”

Objectively, that’s the ideal version of events. A part of you feels the warmth of it, but the other part of you reads Joel’s voice, the particular quietness in it, and realises that relief is noticeably absent.

“I made him promise not to tell anyone,” Joel adds. “Not until I’m ready.”

You look across at him. Dusty moves steadily beneath you, her breath coming out in small white puffs. “And? Do you think he’ll keep it?”

He meets your eyes briefly. “I don’t know. I know how it looks and I know I said I’m tryin’, but—”

“Joel.” You shake your head. “It’s okay. I get it. I mean, we haven’t even figured out what this is yet or what we’re doing. No one should know until we do.”

His eyes stay on you. His expression sits between gratitude and guilt. He’s living with the discomfort of knowing he’s being let off the hook when he shouldn’t be. 

“Well,” he says, his voice still rough around the edges. “What do you think this is?”

Dusty flicks her ears, as if she wants to hear your answer as much as Joel does. Old Beardy snorts. 

“No idea,” you reply honestly with a soft exhale. “But I don’t want it to stop.”

—

“We should set up somewhere around here,” Joel says, eyes moving through the branches overhead and noticing the light starting to fade. “It’s gettin’ dark.”

You’ve covered more ground than either of you expected. Less than half a day more and you’ll have reached Dubois — that is, assuming the road stays clear and the weather holds.

The trail bends off the main road into a clearing in the trees wide enough to work with. It’ll provide some cover and plenty of escape routes if needed. It’s perfect for what’s available.

Once the horses are fed and settled, the building ache in your lower back flares into something you can’t ignore any more. The camp comes together relatively easy. You have enough experience that the fire is going and the sleeping bags are out before the last of the light disappears entirely.

Joel drags a log closer to the fire and then lowers himself onto it. “I’ll take first watch.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” he says softly, his back also starting to go stiff. “Get some rest. You’re a lot more tired than I am.”

You’re not entirely convinced that’s true seeing as he looks just as wrecked as you feel, but your eyelids are already heavy and making the decision for you.

You shake out your sleeping bag and before climbing in, you cross to him on your hands and knees and press a thankful kiss to his mouth, hoping that he’ll allow it. He comes into it without hesitation, his hand curling around the back of your neck and holding you there. His nose is cold where it brushes yours but everything else about him is warm, generous and careful. 

When you finally pull back, you look at him closely, how his eyes track your lips and how you both carry this uncertainty about what the rest of the trip will bring. “I really hope we make it back,” you say softly.

“Course we will,” he replies, almost a whisper. “We got me.”

The tightness in your chest loosens a touch and you can’t help but smile and roll your eyes. “I always loved a man with confidence. Cockiness, on the other hand…”

A grin and low chuckle comes from him then, and you bank it just like the first time you witnessed it. These rare flashes of something other than hardness on him are like shooting stars, and you wish for another every single time.

He pulls you back in for one more, this time almost like he’s thanking you, before releasing you.

You burrow into your sleeping bad and lie there watching the fire through half-closed eyes. It isn’t exactly comfortable. The ground is uneven and the cold seeps through from below as well as above regardless of the layers. But you’ve slept in worse conditions for most of that month between Silver Lake and Jackson. Now you have Joel. Now you have purpose and a reason to get back. This should be manageable.

Despite the fire, the layers and whatever else, the temperature plummets further within half an hour. Your breath drifts up in pale, misty clouds and the shivering won’t stop no matter how tight you zip yourself up. It becomes so bad that it’s impossible for him to not notice.

“Hey.” Joel’s voice cuts the quiet. “C’mere.” He slides down off the log and settles his back against it, creating a space beside him.

You lift your head from your makeshift pillow and look at him before accepting the invite, manoeuvring yourself over and tucking in against his side with your head now against his chest. His arm comes around you and he starts to deliver long, steady strokes up and down yours until the shivering gradually starts to ease. 

At last, you finally start to feel yourself drift. The fire crackles softly and his breath ghosts lightly against the crown of your head. His chest moves with a soothing rhythm beneath your ear, and out through the dark spaces between the trees, he keeps watch, giving you permission to rest.

—

Consciousness comes back gradually, and then all at once. You don’t know why, but you’re awake. The sky above the tree branches has shifted from ink black to a bruised blue. It’s not dawn yet, but it’s on it’s way.

Then you realise you’re back on the ground and not laid up against Joel.

You sit yourself up way too fast and your neck and shoulders punish you for it. The fire is still going, your belongings are all still scattered around, but Joel is no where to be seen.

The trees stare back at you like they’re hiding something. It suddenly feels darker and more exposed than it did. Your pulse starts to pick up a little under your skin.

“Joel?”

At first, nothing to answer you as you scan the dark shapes around you.

But then behind you, you hear the snap of a twig and the rustling of footsteps. You spin around as fast as your body will allow.

He comes through the tree line looking completely unaware and unbothered, stepping over a low branch like you haven’t just spent several unpleasant seconds fearing the worst.

“Jesus Christ… there you are,” you say, letting the air out of your chest slowly. “Where the fuck did you go?”

“Was just checkin’ on the horses,” he says simply, nodding back in their direction. “Everythin’s okay.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” you groan, tipping your head to the side and trying to work out the knot forming in your neck. “It’s nearly morning.”

He resettles on the log and picks up the stick he’d been using to tend to the fire. “You needed the rest. Didn’t wanna disturb you.”

“That’s not how this is supposed to work,” you say impatiently, watching him prod at the embers. “You need sleep as much as I do. Lie down and get a few hours at least. We’ll just leave a bit later than planned.”

“I’m alright. We should get movin’ soon’—”

“Joel…” you say firmly, not a suggestion and not open for debate. “I need to be able to rely on you as much as you need to be able to rely on me. Sleep. Now.”

He stares at you, the fire popping and casting shadows on his face that highlight the tired lines. It’s not a long standoff. He’s too exhausted to make it one, and somewhere under his stubbornness, he knows you’re right. He pushes himself back off the log with an aged grunt and mutters something under his breath.

You shuffle and kick off your sleeping back and hand it over to him. “Here. Get in mine. It’s still warm.”

He takes it from you and folds himself onto the ground, pulling your sleeping bag around him. He moves in close against your side naturally and without thinking. Within minutes, the tension goes out of him completely and the soft snores come soon after.

You sit with your back against the log and tend to the fire, watching the dark for any movement. Your shoulder becomes heavy and warm where his head rests against it, and you don’t mind at all.

—

A couple of hours have passed and you’re still fighting off the stiff aches as you sit on the frozen ground with your back to the log and his warmth at your side. Joel had been restless for a while, shifting and turning in his sleep until he eventually became still with his head now resting on your lap. 

The woods have started to come to life around you as morning begins to break. Birds first and then the general murmur of insects and other creatures moving about in the undergrowth. It’s the only form of company and entertainment there is out here, so you welcome it.

As you take a swig of water from your flask, you start to feel the need to piss. Very, very carefully, you hold Joel’s head as you shift out from under him and place your backpack there for him to carry on sleeping. He doesn’t stir, so you get to your feet and stretch both arms overhead, your jaw cracking from a deep yawn.

You pick your way through the leafy litter below, stepping over branches and putting enough distance between you and the camp to find the most adequate tree. When you find one, you unzip and let the chilled air fill your lungs as you relieve yourself.

You’re zipping back up when the sound of movement somewhere out in the trees makes you freeze in place. 

A shape, indistinct and dark, moves slowly behind a tree. Enough size and movement that it is definitely something or someone, but not enough light to reveal who or what. Your hand is already on your gun before you decide what to do next.

“Joel.” You call his name. Not loud, but just enough to carry back to where he sleeps. There’s no sound of movement or acknowledgement behind you. You look back. He’s on his left side, facing away. Out for the count still.

“Joel!” you whisper, sharper this time. But still nothing.

Another rustle from the trees. You turn back and start to move inward, stepping over twigs methodically with your eyes cutting left to right at gun level, scanning for anything. The silence around you starts to feel less like nothing and more like something waiting.

Slowly, you move around the tree where the sound was coming from.

A deer stands there, chomping on whatever it could find on the forest bed. It looks at you with large, untroubled eyes and the expression of a creature that was just minding its own business and searching for a suitable breakfast.

Your foot snaps a branch below unintentionally and the deer bolts in the other direction. It’s gone in four graceful bounds, it’s white tail disappearing into the dark like it was never there in the first place.

You stay where you are for a minute, leaning forward with your hands on your knees, letting the fear drain out of you through the soles of your boots.

—

May 29, 2024

Joel wakes up like old machinery coming to life and it’s kind of fascinating to watch. It’s slow and in stages. He makes noises that sound like they should belong to a grizzly bear and not a man. The sun has climbed well above the tree line and is now in proper late morning territory. He squints up at it, pressing his knuckles into his eyes to rub the sleepiness out of them.

“Morning,” you say gently while leaning over to pluck a small twig out from his hair.

“Mornin’,” he says back. His voice is thick with sleep and has the texture of gravel. “How was it? Everythin’ alright?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, your gaze drifting back out to the trees. “Thought I heard something or someone moving around over there while I was peeing. Turned out it was just a deer.”

He lets out a long and thorough yawn before scrubbing a hand across his jaw.

“I tried to call you when I heard it but you didn’t hear,” you mention. “You must be a heavy sleeper.”

“I’m not,” he says. “Just deaf in my right ear. Must’ve been sleepin’ on my bad side.”

You give a small noise of acknowledgement. “Born that way, or…?” 

“No,” he shakes his head, looking at you now. “Gunshots.”

Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t need any further elaboration. You nod your head slowly and start to piece it all together. The way he keeps you on his left, the way he angles himself on patrols, always leads with his left side… A small, involuntary smile forms on your mouth before you can stop it. Every new part of him he lets you see just makes you want to see more.

He’s up and moving around the camp, repacking everything with a systematic efficiency like he's done this a million times. At one point, he walks over to you with his hand in his backpack and then pulls out an apple and hands it to you.

“Brought some coffee too. Want some?” he asks.

You look at him, your ears immediately perked up like a trained puppy. “You have coffee?” You knew you could smell it on him and it in his kitchen.

“Yeah,” he says with a little self-satisfied smirk. “Not much, but I figured we might need it. You like coffee?”

That alone gives you a boner.

“Coffee is one of my favourite things in the world,” you say. “I can’t remember the last time I had it and I can’t believe you’ve had some this entire time and still managed to be such a grouchy dick.”

He takes out his portable cafetière with a smirk and starts to prepare it like it’s some sort of ritual with a viewing audience. He knows he’s got you now. It’s just another thing to win you over with. 

You down the rest of your water like it’s useless and then hand him your flask. When he gives it back, you hold it in your hands, lift it to your nose and just inhale the bitter, smoky aroma steaming out of it. You go very quiet. You’re trying to fight off the urge to rush into it.

He watches you from the fire, quietly amused at how you savour and cherish it. He can’t help but smile like a fool.

The first sip is an event. Something in the core of your being just softens. Your senses sharpen and ease all at once. It tastes like life in New York before all of this. It tastes like Sunday mornings in Ireland waking up hungover with your friends. It tastes like Leo’s apartment when you’d sit with Bobo and stare out at the city.

You stand up, walk straight over to him and grab the back of his head to pull him into a kiss. It catches him slightly off-guard and is firm enough that he has to find his footing. He’s not awake enough yet for it.

“You have never,” you say, planting more kisses between each word, “been sexier than in this exact moment.”

He stares at you for a long moment, but then the confusion dissolves into a boyish, helpless smile. His cheeks turn a few shades warmer, mostly because he can’t remember the last time he was on the receiving end of a compliment like that.

—

By late afternoon, Dubois materialises through the windbreak of trees exactly the way you had hoped: deserted and frozen in time. It doesn’t make it any less unsettling however. Silence in the woods is natural. This is anything but.

Main Street is a strip of faded storefronts that tell the story of what happened here. A boutique with the windows smashed in. A diner where the chairs are still pulled out from the tables and dishes abandoned, like everyone simultaneously stood up mid-meal and ran. Rusted cars scattered everywhere and facing in random directions. 

Two decades of weather and opportunists have had their way with the place. Mother Nature has reclaimed the street in the most unapologetic way, leaving nothing but dust laid thick on every surface. You just hope there’s enough left behind to have made this trek worth it.

Thankfully, there was. The two of you made it through most of the list without wasting much time. With everything close by, it doesn’t take nearly as long as you’d dreaded to collect what you can. Antibiotics, bandages, stationery, nails and hardware, lighter fluid, salt, batteries, toiletries, sewing supplies… Not everything Tommy asked for, but there’s no way in hell he’ll be anything less than thrilled with this.

The sky has started to transform by the end of it. Shadows pull long across the streets and orange seeps into the blue overhead. Even the temperature has peaked and now starting its swift descent. It’s time to get the horses and find somewhere to set up camp again before you’re doing it in the dark.

You’re almost at the edge of town where Dusty and Old Beardy wait when something stops you.

A single-story concrete block building, painted maroon but now peeled from itself in long, dry strips. Above the tinted window, you read the sign, The Pleasure Chest, in what was had clearly once been pink neon, but now is just dark, dead glass tubing. Below the sign, in smaller print, it reads Adult Novelties + Lingerie — Must be 18+ to enter. A sun-bleached poster spitefully clings to the door, so faded that the image is barely recognisable, but the word “SALE” is still visible in red and white letters.

A chuckle bubbles up before you can stop it.

“Hey, Joel.” You tilt your head towards it. “Look.”

He follows your eyeline and you watch the change in his expression. That focused surveillance morphs in real time into something that can only be described as confusion and deep mortification.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

You’re already veering towards the entrance. “Come on.”

“We don’t have time for this, Joey,” he says, already irritated. “We gotta leave and find somewhere to camp before nightfall.”

“Just a few minutes,” you reply with an unhideable smirk that you can’t control. “It’s a bit of fun after a long day. What’s the worst that could happen?”

He exhales through his nose and his face flattens into a look that communicates several things at once, and none of them enthusiasm. With a heavy resignation knowing he has already lost, he follows after you.

Your boots crunch over broken glass and gravel as you approach the heavy metal door which has miraculously been left wedged open. The hinges announce your arrival with a loud, arthritic groan. A small bell above the door offers the most pathetic little jingle you’ve ever heard.

Once you’re inside, you just stop and wait, listening out for any movement or disturbance. All you find is the smell of stale dust, old latex and a trace of vanilla from an out of date air freshener that has somehow lingered and survived. No spores, so no need for a mask.

Joel comes in behind you. You don’t need to look at him to know what his face looks like right now. His discomfort is a third presence in the room. It radiates off of him without meaning to. There’s no doubt that he would find a room full of infected less daunting and confronting than this.

The tinted windows soften the remaining daylight to a dim, amber-tinged murk. Shelves run the lengths of both walls, still stocked with a surprising density. Places like this clearly were not the top of anyone’s priority list when looting began. Glass cabinets hold their contents undisturbed and there’s a large pegboard behind the checkout counter displaying a curation of items positioned for quick, discreet transaction.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel murmurs. He’s stationed himself by the entrance with a precise posture that communicates that has already seen enough.

You’re moving deeper into the store with escalating amusement at the variety of different products.

The lingerie rack is a carnival of colour that has somehow held onto its vibrancy. Just past it, the shelves of vibrators range from simple and straightforward to theatrical and downright hilarious. 

What grabs your attention most is the wall of DVDs. You skim the titles and start reading them out for Joel’s consideration as he starts to walk further in to the store to join you. 

“Wet and Wild Wyoming… Rocky Mountain Riders…” 

His expression goes through several interesting stages of disgust and incredulousness.

“Everything’s Bigger in Texas…” You hold it up to him and pop your eyebrow suggestively, watching him trying to conceal the blush forming on his cheeks and scratching the back of his head like he wants the ground to swallow him up.

“I take it you weren’t into this sort of stuff back in the day?” you say.

“Definitely not,” he replies, now staring at a mannequin in the corner wearing a leather ensemble and a ball gag. “I was always more of a magazine kinda guy.”

Something about that is incredibly hot for some reason. It’s old school.

Then you see another DVD title you can’t help but read out. “Get a Load of This Guy!”

That’s the one that breaks the two of you. He bursts out in a hearty chuckle where his eyes disappear and his hands are on his knees. It’s chesty and unrestrained. A laugh you’ve never heard from him before. You’re both swiping tears out of your eyes and holding on to each other trying to catch your breath after a minute. You haven’t laughed this hard in over twenty years.

It takes a while, but eventually you’ve regained composure and have fought off the last of the giddiness. You slot the DVDs back into their places in alphabetical order, as if it even matters.

You start to move again and push through a curtain at the back into another room. Joel follows along. Partially out of instinct and partially because he doesn’t want to be left alone with the mannequin standing in the corner.

As you step into the next room, you’re immediately greeted by something that makes your jaw drop to the floor.

A wall of dildos in every imaginable size and colour. At the base, freestanding with a presence an inanimate object shouldn’t have, is a comically large purple one. It has the dimensions of a traffic cone. Waist height. Probably taller. And a girth that makes you question how it would even be humanly possible.

You walk right over and pick it up with both arms, holding it like it’s a rescued animal. It’s way heavier than it has any right or need to be.

“The fucking size of this bad boy!” you say, mostly to yourself. “I think I’d have better chances of surviving against a bloater.”

Joel’s eyes go wide at the sight of it. He turns away, his hands planted on his hips and mutters something to himself like he needs a moment to process it. When he turns back, he’s shaking his head and chuckling. He has decided you’re completely beyond him and he can’t believe he’s stuck with you.

He approaches and nudges his shoulder into yours. “I thought you would’ve liked ‘em kinda big.”

You snort as you ease the beast of a thing back onto the floor. “Definitely not.”

“Well, you sure seemed fine with mine.”

You turn and give him the theatrical eye roll that that comment deserves. “What was it I said about cockiness?”

The smirk on his face only widens as he pulls you into him, both hands framing your face now as he kisses you with a thoroughness that makes you forget where you are. Your hands find the lapels of his jacket and then work their way up to his collar and then shoulders. He flicks your face to the side with his nose and starts on your jaw, all the way down your neck, and suddenly your brain vacates entirely. All you know that exists is the press of his lips, the graze of his facial hair and his arms keeping you upright.

When he draws back to look at you, you’re not fully assembled anymore. Your eyes have gone soft and heavy and your neck has gone splotchy and red from the rush of it. He studies you closely in a way that almost makes you feel exposed and self-conscious, like he’s mesmerising every detail because he wants to.

“I’m gonna make this work,” he says then, his voice barely audible. “I mean that.”

You hold his gaze without saying anything, just licking your lips and breathing out through your nose. You know what it took for him to say those words out loud. It feels like more than words because there’s a commitment behind them. He’s choosing to promise rather than retreat again.

You reach up and kiss him again. Once, then twice. Tender and with no urgency. It’s just your way of saying I hope so without having to actually say it.

You drift past him eventually, leaving him where he’s stood to give the shop one last sweep before something else snags your attention — rows of bottles of lube. Every kind and flavour you can think of, and even ones you’d never heard of before.

Joel’s attention stays stuck on the library of dildos for another minute. When he turns back to look for you, you’ve already shrugged your backpack off your shoulders and are cramming lube into whatever space you have left.

He watches with complete puzzlement.

“How much of that stuff do you think we’re gonna be usin’?” Joel asks, his brows pinched.

You glance back at him over your shoulder and offer a loose shrug. “Better to have plenty. Saves us having to come back anytime soon. This town gives me the creeps.”

He lets out a breath that turns into a crooked smile and drags a hand along the back of his neck. The kind of future planning that it hints at isn’t lost on him, even if you don’t say it outright.

“Alright,” he mutters. “I think we’ve seen enough. We really need to get movin’.”

You’re already making your way back to the front of the store with your backpack hauled over your shoulder. It’s heavier now and thudding lightly against your spine with every step.

Joel gets there ahead of you, yanking the door open and stepping clear to let you pass.

“Always the gentleman,” you murmur as you walk by, catching the softness in his features before it fades.

The doorframe barely clears your shoulder when a gunshot cracks through the air, slamming into the plaster beside your head, spitting chunks and stinging your cheek. Joel’s hand is on you just as fast, dragging you down low and hauling you to the rusted shell of a car parked out front.

Another bullet tears through the shop window. Glass bursts inward, scattering across the floor in a glittering spray.

“Stay down,” Joel shouts, already reaching for his rifle. “They’re on the roof. Down the street.”

You press yourself against the car, ears ringing and pulse hammering so loud that it drowns out everything else around you. When you look over, Joel’s already positioning and waiting. Then, he rises and fires.

The shot lands clean. A head snaps back somewhere out of your sight.

The silence that follows is anything but calm. Your breath is dragging out in rough pulls and your eyes squeeze shut as it all hits you. You were an inch from death. 

“Wait here, don’t move,” Joel says. “I’m gonna make sure it’s clear.”

He’s already moving off when you push yourself up after him, still trying to centre your senses. “Joel, wait—”

An arm hooks tight around your throat from behind before you get another word out. The grip pulls you back, crushing your windpipe. The metal of a gun jams into your temple.

Joel spins back around, rifle already up and eyes blown wide.

“Drop it or I’ll blow his fucking head off!” an unknown man snarls against your ear.

Joel doesn’t move or blink. He just stares.

“Joel—” you manage, your voice strangled on its way out.

“Shut the fuck up!” The gun presses harder and so does the chokehold. Your breath starts to give out.

Joel’s gaze holds yours. There’s a calculation happening there, but then he looks past you and over the attacker’s shoulder. Something takes his attention.

“Okay,” Joel says. “I’m droppin’ it.” 

He lowers his rifle to the ground and raises his hands slowly.

There’s a scrape of movement on metal behind you. The man twitches and turns at the sound.

A stalker, perched on top of the car, preparing to pounce.

It lunges at him before he has a chance to react, knocking him off of you. You’re on the ground and crawling away as it angrily pummels him with its arms, clawing at his face with that high, inhuman screech.

Instinctively, you snatch his gun from where he dropped it and bolt, legs moving before your head has even processed what happened. You just sprint for Joel.

Joel has already picked his rifle back up and takes a few steps forward and delivers one shot. The stalker’s head bursts and it’s body collapses in a heap beside the attcker.

The man barely gets a knee under himself before Joel’s boot brutally slams into his stomach, hard enough to fold him in half and send him crashing back down to the concrete. The air leaves him in a broken gasp and the dull crack could be a broken rib.

You approach, gun trained cautiously on him. He’s in all black with a hood and face-cover now torn away from where the stalker got at him. Long, mousey blonde hair clings damply to his head and his large nose juts out from his face which has now been raked with deep, angry scratches.

“You motherfuckers killed my friend!” he spits through brown teeth, clutching his sternum.

“Quiet,” Joel orders. “Who are you?”

“I’m not telling you shit!”

Joel doesn’t flinch a bit. “Tell me or you’ll be joinin’ him.”

Then you notice something dark and red spreading through the sleeve at his arm and is now pooling in the gravel below. “Joel…”

He sees it too and gives you a short nod to go and take a look.

You crouch next to him, keeping the gun steady as you grab his sleeve and shove it up. The fabric is stuck there for a second, wet with blood.

There it is. A fresh, already swelling bite high on his forearm and seeping. But it’s what you notice just below the bite mark that is more concerning. Branded and burned into his skin, a single letter. D.

You glance back at Joel. He looks back at you.

“What’s it mean?” Joel asks.

“Dicksuckers! Like the two of you!” The man lets out a ragged laugh and then hurls spit in Joel’s direction.

Joel loses his patience. “Hold him down.”

You look at Joel and then back at the man, but then follow the order. Once you’ve pressed him into the ground, Joel steps over and drives his boot straight into the bite wound, pinning the arm in place with his weight. The man howls in pain, his body trying to thrash around.

“Talk.”

He still refuses.

Joel shifts then and brings his heel down on the man’s hand several times, snapping and crunching his fingers as he goes.

The bloodcurdling screams rip out of him and cut straight into you. You’ve seen worse and have done some pretty awful things yourself to survive, but something about it gets to you.

“Okay! Okay! Fuck! I’ll talk!” he chokes.

Joel stops, but he keeps his boot on the man’s now mangled hand.

“It’s… It’s the mark of The Disciples.”

“Who are they? What do they want?” Joel presses.

The man’s breath stutters over itself. “I… I can’t say. He’ll kill us. All of us.”

Joel leans in, his voice dark and threatening. “There ain’t a damn thing he can do worse than what I’ll do to you. Who’s he?”

The man shakes his head with his lips clamped tight like he can hold it in if he just seals them hard enough. Joel adds pressure and grinds his boot back on his arm and then onto his broken fingers.

Another scream rips out of him

“David!” he shouts. “It’s David!”

You meet Joel’s eyes, exchanging words through the stare alone. Surely he doesn’t mean…

“David who?” you ask now.

The man looks up at you then, his mouth curving into something that is supposed to resemble a smile. “Oh… you know exactly who I’m talking about. I heard you know him very well. Our leader. Our saviour. Our shepherd. And we are his sheep.”

“What are you talking about? David’s dead!” you reply, your voices raised now.

He starts to laugh even more maniacally now, shaking his head in a frantic, disturbing way. “No… no, he’s not dead. He can’t die. He’s still with us… He’s here to save us. He—” He pulls in a breath and grins through gritted teeth. “He has never been more alive.”

It doesn’t make any sense. It’s simply not possible. You saw how Ellie left him in Todd’s Steakhouse before it burned to the ground. His face was minced into something unrecognisable, but it was him. There’s no version of events where he walked away that day and lived to tell the tale.

Joel doesn’t want to entertain it. “Where is he? Where can we find him?”

Before he can answer, a sound silences the three of you and sends a chilling tingle down your spine. 

Unmistakable, angry clicks. 

You look up and see shapes moving in your direction from the far end of the street in distorted, sickening motions. There’s at least ten of them. More than you and Joel could handle alone. They’ve been drawn out and unearthed by the commotion, emerging from whatever holes and shadowy hiding places they’ve been laying dormant in, and now they want blood.

“Come on, let’s go,” Joel says, grabbing your arm with a renewed urgency.

You pull back. “Wait, we can’t just leave him! He might be able to tell us m—”

“Joey, we gotta move. Now!” 

Joel’s grip tightens around your arm and he starts to drag you away with him.

The man desperately tries to scramble and get himself standing, but Joel turns back quick enough to fire one more shot. The bullet blows through the man’s knee, tearing it apart and dropping him to the ground again.

The sound he makes causes you to flinch. He clutches at what’s left of his leg as the clicking gets closer and hungrier.

Joel pulls you along and you follow because there’s no other choice.

You don’t turn back to watch them fall onto him and start feasting. Not only because you can’t bring yourself to do it, but because you hear every grizzly detail as his guzzling screams fade into the distance behind you.

—

It’s well into the night by the time you find an old farmhouse sitting alone on the roadside long forgotten. You both check it room by room before settling in one of the bedrooms upstairs. The place is cold with dampness creeping through the foundation. Every inch of it has been softened by years of rot, but it’s four walls with a roof, so it’ll do for tonight.

The two of you move quietly through the dark together, dragging a cabinet and positioning it across the bedroom door and wedging it in place. It’s enough to allow you to let your guards down while you sleep. The mattress gets hauled off the bedframe and dumped onto the floor and you roll out your sleeping bags side by side and climb in.

You lie facing away from him and he notices the distance instantly. He felt a change in you since the ambush. He lies there for a while, watching the back of your head, like he’s trying to read what’s going on in there. Eventually, he gives in and breaks the silence.

“You okay?” he asks quietly in the dark.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “I’m just… tired.”

He thinks about what to say next before speaking. “We did what we had to do.”

“I know,” you say. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

His mouth goes a little dry when he takes a quiet but deep inhale. The events of the day have rattled you more than he expected them to. 

“I just wanted to keep you safe.”

His words should comfort you, and to an extent they do, but you’ve now seen what that looks like when it plays out, and it’s as unsettling as it is comforting. Maybe you just never believed that someone would ever want to do something like that for you.

Carnage and brutality have become the norm in 2024, but Jackson has made you remember that they didn’t used to be. Not to this extent, at least. Places like Jackson keep the old world alive and not just in people’s memories. It gives them real tangible purpose and a chance to reclaim what we all lost. 

Maybe you’ll just have to learn to accept it, because you know you would do the same for him if given the opportunity.

“I know. I just can’t stop thinking about what he said,” you say into the dark. “About David.”

“David’s gone,” Joel answers softly, his breath flicking against your skin. “You saw what Ellie did to him. That guy was just a nut.”

The mattress sighs underneath you as you turn onto your back, your eyes tracing shapes on the ceiling now. “But how can we know for sure?”

“Because we do.” His voice is quiet but final, enough to stop before the spiral takes a hold of you. “I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you or Ellie. Get some rest.”

You exhale the thought and let the tension fall away, or try to at least. You turn onto your side again and curl up more, facing the wall on the other side of the room.

He reaches for you across the mattress, snaking his arm around your waist and pulling you back into him. His breath warms the back of your neck and his lips press gentle, absent-minded kisses behind your ear. 

The room remains as cold and as damp as it was when you found it, but it doesn’t reach you the same way now that you’re in his arms.

AN: I really loved writing this one and it was one of the chapters that took the longest to finish. This one sets up how the next act will play out from chapter 30 onward, so I hope you're as excited as I am! 🤩

I hope you're ready for buckets of Joely cuteness... 🫠

September 26, 1973

Joel Miller turns six years old today, though you’d never know it by the way he waits patiently by his father’s truck in the front yard holding his lunchbox like it’s any other school day. Asking for the day off for his birthday was something he wouldn’t dream of doing.

The air still carries some of the weight of the Texan summer, even this early in the morning as the neighbourhood starts to come to life with families starting their day. Mrs. Henderson’s lawn has just been mowed and is dispersing the sweet, sharp smell of cut grass over the chain-link fences. It’s the kind of neighbourhood where everyone’s lawn stay trimmed and everyone knows everyone’s business whether they like it or not.

Two houses down, Joel spots Danny Reeves. He's seventeen years old and wearing his maroon and white leather sleeved varsity jacket. Joel watches him tossing the ball to his younger brother with little to no effort like it’s nothing. His brother throws it back and Danny catches it, spins it in his hand and sends it back again. Over and over. It’s borderline hypnotic.

Something happens in Joel’s chest whenever he sees him. Danny looks like the boys you’d see on TV. He’s tall, athletic and every girl in the area adores him. His dark curls spring across his forehead when he moves, catching the sunlight in a way that demands Joel’s attention every time. He’s too young to understand or put language to why he can’t stop staring. All he knows is he can’t.

When Danny bursts out in laughter at something his younger brother says, the music of it carries two yards over, drowning out the other sounds of the neighbourhood around them. Suddenly, Joel doesn’t hear the vehicles passing by, neighbours greeting other neighbours, the drumming of his father’s boots coming up from behind him…

The smack comes so fast that it rips Joel right out of his daydream. One second he's standing there mesmerised, the next his right ear is ringing red hot and his lunch box has clattered to the pavement.

"The hell are you doin’?" his father’s voice says.

Joel looks up, eyes already wet as Javier Miller stands over him. All six-foot-three of him. His thick moustache twitches with irritation in that way that gives Joel nightmares. 

His uniform is crisp and pressed like it always is, the officer badge on his chest glinting in the morning light. 

Joel's mouth opens but nothing comes out.

"I asked you a question, boy."

"I was—" Joel's voice cracks. He's still holding his ear. The sting has started to radiate down his jaw. "I wasn't doin' anythin’. I swear.”

"You were gawkin'." Javier's eyes narrow and his jaw clenches. "Like an idiot. What have I told you about starin’?”

Joel bends down to pick up his lunch box, his hands now trembling from the aftershock of the hit. No matter how many times it happens, he never gets used to it. He doesn't look back at Danny's yard. He can't.

"Get in the truck," Javier says, already turning away and fishing the keys out of his pocket.

Joel shakily climbs into the passenger seat, buckles himself in, and stares at his knees the whole ride to school. His right ear burns for the duration of the day, and he has no concept of what he even did wrong to deserve it in the first place.

—

June 25, 1977

The summer heat has been brutal. It’s the kind of heat that makes the shimmering asphalt go soft and the neighbour’s dogs lie out flat in whatever shade they can find. Joel has been out in the yard since after lunch with Bobby Anderson and a few of the other boys from school. Bobby is his closest friend and has been since they met in second grade. They’re inseparable. Where one goes, the other follows.

Bobby lives three doors down. He's got freckles and a pronounced gap between his front teeth. He used to get bullied quite a bit for it. But then Joel came around. Joel is slightly taller and stronger and there was no way in hell he was going to allow other boys to target someone he cared about so dearly.

"C'mon, let’s go one more round," Bobby says, still catching his breath from the last one.

They're playing Red Rover. They have been for the better part of twenty minutes, running back and forth across the yard, trying to break through each other's clasped hands and are now covered in grass stains. It's the kind of game that burns off enough energy before dinner time.

"Red Rover, Red Rover, send Joel right over!" Bobby yells, positioning himself.

A grin splits across Joel’s face and he runs at full speed, crashing into his arms so hard that they both stumble back and tumble to the ground, leaving them laughing and breathless. Bobby is back on his feet first. He extends a hand and pulls Joel up to steady him. Joel doesn’t rush to let go of it. Bobby starts knocking grass off his t-shirt and straightening him up after the crash.

And that's when Joel sees movement in the living room window. His father is stood still behind the glass watching closely like a hawk hunting prey.

Joel's stomach drops and he lets go of Bobby’s hand so fast it's as though it suddenly became as hot as the sun overhead. He knows there’s about to be trouble.

The front door swings open and Javier steps out onto the porch, still in his undershirt and slacks from work with suspenders hanging loose at his sides. Instead of looking downright furious as anticipated, he looks eerily calm. That's somehow worse. He’s just as scary when quiet as he is when his voice booms through the house in his usual rage.

"Time for you all to head on home, kids,” Javier calls out, not threatening, just bone-chillingly even. "It’s getting late.”

Bobby blinks with confusion. He looks at Joel, then back over at Javier. "But we were just—"

“Home. Now.” There it is. That firm, authoritative tone that no kid would dare answer back to if they had a hint of a brain in their skulls.

Bobby throws one last concerned look over his shoulder to Joel and then starts to move towards the gate with the rest of the boys. "Alright, Mr. Miller. Bye, Joel."

Joel doesn't answer back. He’s too wrapped up in thinking about what’s coming as soon as his friends leave and he heads back in that house. He watches them filter out of the yard and disappear down the street, and suddenly he's alone with just his dad and the overbearing sun above.

"Inside," Javier says.

Joel's legs feel like they're made of stone, but he moves as fast as he physically can. He almost feels the need to shield himself as he walks past his father through the door and into the living room. The air conditioner hums in the window, but it doesn't do much to help with the stuffy temperature. Despite how quiet and empty it is, the house feels crowded and claustrophobic all at the same time.

Javier closes the front door behind them with a soft click that sounds even more foreboding than a slam would. For a split second, Joel contemplates making a run for his room and barricading the door to buy him enough time to try climb out through the window, but there’s a thousand different ways that that would end badly.

"What were you two doin' out there?"

Joel's throat goes dry. "We were just playin' Red Rover. Like we always do—"

“I’m not talkin’ about that.” Javier's voice remains calm and controlled, but there's an edge to it that makes Joel's pulse tick up. “What were you doin’ holdin' Bobby’s hand like that?”

“He was just helpin’ me get up. You have to hold hands to play the game. That’s how it—"

The backhand comes so fast that Joel didn’t even have time to properly brace himself. He knew it was going to come eventually, but the sting still sends searing pain through his body. It’s so hard and sudden that he doesn’t even feel the impact from hitting the tiled floor below.

"Don't give me no cheek, you fuckin’ pansy.”

Joel presses his hand to his face, fighting back tears and tasting the iron tanginess of blood on the inside of his cheek. His ears ring from the rattle of his head. ”I’m sorry—"

“Don’t talk back to me unless I ask you to." 

Javier crouches down and grabs Joel by the front of his shirt before hauling him upright. Joel’s legs are unreliable and his knees wobble from the first knock to his head and the fear of another blow. 

“Boys don't hold hands with other boys, ‘specially no boy of mine. I don't give a damn what kind of game it is. You understand me?"

Joel nods frantically, gasping for air.

"You want the neighbours thinkin' you're some kinda sissy, huh? You want 'em laughin' at you? Thinkin’ you’re weak?”

"N-no—"

"Then don’t let me catch you holdin’ no boy’s hand again. Ever." Javier shoves him back and Joel stumbles into the couch, barely catching himself. “I’m not havin’ you bring shame on this family. You hear me?"

Joel nods again, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes to prevent the tears from starting. Crying in front of his father would only make the situation worse. He just has to accept the feeling of his face being on fire and his chest aching from the misery of not knowing why his father treats him this way. He has seen girls holding other girls’ hands together when playing games. Why can’t he hold Bobby’s? Why would the neighbours laugh at him for it? 

Javier straightens up, adjusts his suspenders, and walks toward the kitchen like nothing ever happened. "Clean yourself up and go to your room,” he says over his shoulder. “No dinner for you tonight.”

Joel stays on the floor until his dad is out of sight. Then he drags himself up, goes to the bathroom, and looks at his reflection in the mirror. His cheek is already swelling and alarmingly red. He runs cold water over his hands and holds them to his face to try and soothe it, but it doesn't help much.

Joel loves his father. He loves him very much. He would never want to bring shame on his family. He hates seeing his father so angry more than anything. He hates the thought of Tommy ever having to go through the same things as he does, even though he’s had a hunch that Tommy is favoured over him for quite some time now. He’s not going to let it get any worse. Things are going to change.

He and Bobby drifted apart for years after that day. And even when they found their way back to each other, they were never as close as they once said they would always be when they were just two young boys.

—

May 18, 1985

Prom night smells like hairspray, the musk of rented fabric and the desperation of boys bathed in their father’s cologne to disguise the fact that they’re nervous. Joel, now eighteen years old, is standing outside the gymnasium, away from the overstimulating lights and saccharine pop songs thumping through the walls.

His date for the night, Stephanie Martinez is beside him, unaware of the storm that has been brewing in his mind for the weeks leading up to this day. Her dress is a dazzling bright pink and her chocolate brown hair has been sculpted in a way that looks like it must’ve taken hours. 

She’s very pretty. Joel knows that much at least. That’s why he asked if he could take her. She’s the type of beautiful that a few of the guys at school have voiced how jealous they are and wondering why he doesn’t look more thrilled about it.

He doesn’t have the answer to that. Well, he does. He just doesn’t want to confront it.

She did everything right. She got his father’s approval. She has a smile that lights up the room. She laughed at his conversation all through dinner. She held onto his arm when they walked in. She couldn’t be more perfect.

And yet he feels nothing romantically for her. 

She’s not even the kind of girl he would hang out with as friends. They don’t like any of the same things. They don’t have any mutual connections. It couldn’t be any more thrown together.

"This is nice, right?" she says, her voice soft and turning a little uncertain at the end. “Much better than bein’ in there with all that ruckus.”

Joel nods, hands shoved in his pockets. "Yeah. It's way too loud in there. Not really my kinda music neither.”

She moves a little closer to him now, purposefully letting her shoulder brush against his. She picked up on the change in his attitude not long after people started dancing. She put it down to nerves and the fact he’s always had this reserved, shy quality about him whenever she saw him around school. He was never like the other boys.

But she’s starting to feel like his lack of presence is taking away from her experience.

“I’m having a really good time tonight, Joel," she says, looking up at him with those big, brown, hopeful eyes, her lashes thick with mascara.

"Me too.” He doesn’t mean it and he knows she knows. He’s just smiling through the guilt that she put in so much effort and she could’ve gone with anyone else and had a much better time than what he can offer her.

The gymnasium door opens behind them then and his stomach drops when he looks over. 

Bobby Anderson steps out with his arm slung around his date and girlfriend, Joselyn Michaels. He’s never looked more handsome. He still has his freckles and the gap tooth that Joel always loved… He looks picture perfect with Joselyn. He looks happy. But Joel can’t help wondering what it would’ve been like if they existed in a world where they were leaving together with Bobby’s arm around him, laughing the way he laughs with her.

"Can I…" Stephanie hesitates, snapping Joel out of his thoughts. "Can I kiss you?"

Joel's stomach clenches. He's supposed to say yes. He's supposed to want this. That’s how this is supposed to work. He’s been constructing a version of himself for years now and has told himself that if he performs it convincingly enough, eventually it’ll become his true self.

"Yeah," he says.

Her face lights up, giving away that she wasn’t sure what the answer was going to be. It makes Joel’s chest ache more for her. She leans in closer. 

Her eyes flutter closed as she reaches up. He closes his too and dips his head down to her until their lips meet.

As expected, he feels nothing.

There’s no spark or rush. Nothing except the vague awareness that her mouth is warm and much wetter than his. It’s completely and irreparably wrong. He had hoped the contact would trigger something that would finally prove that he was overthinking things and that all this was just worry that he never needed to carry around with him in the first place.

He can’t keep up the act any longer so he pulls back — a little too fast. She stumbles slightly and her eyes fly open again in surprise. She immediately senses the physical and non-physical space he’s put between them.

“What’s wrong?"

He takes a step back, and then another. His hands start to shake and he can feel his legs urging him to sprint. Doesn’t matter the direction or for how long. He just needs to be away from here.

"I—" His voice cracks. "I'm sorry, Stephanie. I gotta go."

"Wait, what? What do you mean?” Her face crumples with confusion and hurt. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, you didn't—" He's already backing into the parking lot and towards his truck. "It's not you, I just—"

Instead of finishing that sentence and giving her the answer she deserves, he spins and walks briskly away from her. Behind him, he can hear her call his name, now alone and bewildered, the night girls like her dream about now spoiled.

She cups her hand over her mouth and smells her own breath. What Stephanie doesn’t realise is that no amount of bubblegum would have changed the outcome of the kiss.

His truck door shuts and he lets the immediate stillness and silence swallow his senses. He places his hands flat on his thighs to try and encourage them to stop shaking and then stares at the dashboard blankly until they finally do.

He was supposed to feel something. He was supposed to want to kiss her. Like all the other boys with their dates. Like his father would expect him to. 

But all he feels is a cold queasiness the lives in the lowest part of his gut and the desire to be here with somebody else.

He thinks about Danny Reeves from all those years ago. The varsity jacket, the dark curls, the laugh that froze him in place when he was six years old. Then he thinks about Bobby. His freckles, his gap tooth, the way his hand felt in his that afternoon before his father’s struck his face. He should be holding his hand again tonight. He should be leaving with Bobby.

The heaviness of grieving someone he never got to be and will never get to be becomes too much. Sweat starts to form on his upper lip and his eyes start to warm from the threat of oncoming tears. 

Boys don't hold hands with other boys.

Don’t let me ever catch you doin’ that shit again.

You want the neighbours thinkin' you're some kinda sissy? 

You want 'em laughin' at you? Thinkin’ you’re weak? 

I’m not havin’ you bring shame on this family.

His clammy palms find the steering wheel and visions of the way his father would look at him flood his mind. It was like he was looking for signs of weakness, proof that his cruelty was deserved. 

Javier could never accept the way his eldest son turned out. He couldn’t accept that he didn’t want to end up in the same line of work as him. He couldn’t accept that Joel made him feel guilty for raising him the way his father had raised him. He couldn’t accept that Joel loved music and playing guitar more than he loved girls and football. Joel was never going to be the son Javier wanted, even though Joel tried his best to be. 

He starts the engine and drives off, the prom and Stephanie’s pink dress shrinking in the rearview mirror until it eventually disappears. Not even the music on the radio can silence the chaos in his brain so he switches it off, opting to drive home in complete silence instead.

It doesn't matter how fast or how far he drives. He can't escape this.

—

May 8, 2024

Fifty-six years old. He still hasn’t managed to escape it.

Even now. He’s finally kissing him, the man who unknowingly uprooted everything Joel made himself believe since he was a young boy. Joey Byrne showed up in Jackson and seeped into the cracks of Joel’s fortress bit by bit, week by week, until he was consuming him from within. This man who he once saw as a threat, has become a saviour. Someone to show Joel the light and get him out of this place he locked himself in for all these years.

But he can’t have this. He can’t have him. Even if it’s as clear as day. Even though Joey appears to slot neatly into the gap Joel could never fill.  

That same fear that his father bestowed on him as a child has outlived his failed relationships, the death of his own daughter and the death of the entire world. It still lives and breathes on this couch in Jeremiah’s living room all these years later.

All of it surfaces at once and sets off a trigger in a way that’s automatic but ancient. He feels the phantom sting of his father’s hand spreading across his cheek and the constriction of his airways at the thought of letting down those that matter most to him.

Every cruel word. Every hit. He feels it all.

He can hear his father's voice still echoing in his head even though Javier Miller's been dead for almost thirty years. He can’t hurt him anymore, but the hurt is still there nonetheless.

Joel pulls away from the kiss abruptly, like he’s awaiting the consequences before they’ve even been decided. Joey looks at him, flushed, confused, his eyes still soft with need. 

Joel wanted this as much as Joey clearly did. He was desperate for it, even though he didn’t know how to show it. He’s wanted this since the day Joey saved his life. He only wanted it more when he saw the way Ellie slowly came back to life around Joey. He saw the roots of what could be the family he always wanted the day Joey baked a birthday cake with Ellie. He saw something worth protecting, worth dying for. 

For the first time since Tess, Joel felt like survival wasn’t solely his responsibility. He felt like he could finally take his hands off the wheel because someone else was there to grab it instead. Joey offloaded some of his burdens without even knowing he was doing it, and it made Joel feel something more than just appreciation. He wants to chase that feeling. He wants to make Joey his.

But Joel’s a coward. At least that’s what he’s convinced himself after weeks of finding reasons to be close to Joey but then letting the fear make the decisions for him. 

Joel had taught himself that sometimes it’s easier to let your instincts protect you rather than risk it for the sake of someone else. But he knows the walls he built to protect himself weren’t doing what they were intended for. Instead of protecting him and those around him, they were just keeping him contained.

He broke his own rule when he saved Ellie, and now he feels the same urge to break it again for Joey.

Instead, he gets to his feet and moves towards the front door of Jeremiah’s cabin, unable to let go and bring himself across the line.

“Wh—… Joel? Where’re you going?” 

The disorientation in Joey’s voice brings back the same sharp ache he felt all those years ago for Stephanie, but somehow even worse now because of how bad he actually wanted this. This kiss felt so right until he convinced himself it didn’t. It felt like Joey’s mouth belonged there, so why would he pull back? 

Joel stops and glances back at the man he left alone on the couch, his arms feeling weightless and useless by his side. “I—… I’m sorry.” He means it, but he knows it’ll do nothing to help.

And then he’s gone.

The chilled air hits him as he races out into the night and closes Jeremiah’s front door over, his chest already starting to seize with panic. His heart hammers like he can hear his father’s footsteps chasing him from beyond the grave. 

The cabin light faintly reaches across the grass behind him. Inside, Joey is probably still sat there on that couch, trying to figure out what he did wrong, wondering why Joel looked at him the way he did. He doesn’t deserve to be left like this, but like with most cowards, there’s a thick layer of selfishness generously spread on top. Joel could walk back in there and make it right, but he won’t.

He’s been tired of running from himself for the last fifty years, and even though he doesn’t want to run anymore, he doesn't know how to stop. Not yet at least.

May 27, 2024

For Elise’s second masterclass, she had settled on making oatmeal cookies. At every station, there are tubs of rolled oats, bowls of soft brown sugar and butter that was left to soften since this morning. You’d spent most of the morning at Elise’s side weighing portions out for each student pairing, and now you’re content to just hang back against the far counter and watch it all unfold.

Elise wraps up her introduction with a natural, welcoming ease as if she’s done this a million times. It’s like watching a nostalgic comfort cooking show. “Any questions before we get started?”

A hand goes up at the far left. Daniel, a fifteen year old, sitting forward in his stool.

She gestures for him to speak.

“Your oatmeal cookies are my favourite thing from the bakery,” he says. “My mom tried to make them once, but they turned out all crunchy and weird. How do you make them so chewy?”

The smile she makes could warm the room. “Years of practice and plenty of butter.” A few chuckles move through the room. “They were my husband’s favourite too, actually. I used to make a batch every single Sunday morning and they would be long gone before dinner time.”

Her gaze drifts out across the rows of students then. She suddenly appears to be a little unfocused. 

“I stopped making them for a while when my husband passed. They kept reminding me of him. But then I missed making them because that was the whole point. So I started again. And now I get to share all that love, all those memories with everyone. There’s nothing more important than sharing whatever love you’ve got with the people around you.”

Without realising, you stay stuck on that thought as she moves into the demonstration. Elise is a product of what Jackson offers people. She arrived here hollowed out and alone without much to have faith in. Tommy and Maria gave her solid ground to grieve on, helped her reclaim the passions she once had and allowed her to rebuild. There’s a profundity to it that pulls you so far inward that you lose track of time for a few minutes.

“Now, I’m gonna need somebody to volunteer to be my kitchen assistant to help with this next part,” she says.

Half of the room’s hands go up. Ellie’s arm shoots up so fast she almost knocks over one of her ingredient bowls.

Elise looks over the sea of raised hands and laughs, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, gosh. I can’t possibly choose. Joey, my dear, will you pick someone for me?”

You push off the counter and clear your throat like you’re giving it real consideration. Your eyes move slowly across the room. The students stare at you eagerly, but you already know who you’re choosing.

“Ellie.”

The grin that splits across her face is immediate and enormous. She’s off of her stool and weaving through to the front of the room before everyone’s hands are down.

You watch her track Elise’s every move with a level of attentiveness she only reserves for things she actually cares about. She follows every instruction given to her with a confidence she didn’t possess a couple of months ago. Something about it, something about her, makes your chest warm.

All you can do is watch from the back of the room, smiling privately to yourself.

—

By the time you’re walking up the small footpath to Jeremiah’s cabin door, the last light of the day is stretching with a golden glow across the overgrown grass. Between the morning prep, the masterclass itself and the demands for a third one, you’re already mentally horizontal and ready for an evening of absolutely nothing. 

You should be flattered and leaping at the opportunity for more work to keep you busy, but the thought of another morning gathering and measuring out ingredients fills you with a specific type of dread. That's a worry for another time. For now, the priority is tea and getting the pressure off your feet and lower back. Jeremiah’s front yard has never felt longer.

After pushing through the front door, you hang your jacket up and make your way to the kitchen, already imagining what it’s going to feel like collapsing into your bed later.

Jeremiah is pottering about near the stove, which is a sight that still brings on a small wave of relief every time you see it. He has his better days and his worse ones. There’s still an occasional hitched breath, still a carefulness in how he moves from one surface to the next, but he’s upright, alert and still managing to click the kettle on, which means he’s comfortable.

“Ah, Joey, my boy,” he says, turning at the sound of you. “How was the masterclass?”

You open your mouth to answer, but you see something at the corner of your eye that almost makes you jump out of your skin.

There’s a familiar pair of work boots sticking out from under the sink cabinet. An open toolbox beside them with a wrench resting on top. The figure shifts and Joel pulls himself out from underneath, looking straight at you with both hands braced on his thighs.

The silence it takes you to recover lasts long enough that it’s noticeable.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you ask.

He hears the hostility in it immediately. His jaw goes rigid before he lets out a quiet breath, his eyes breaking away from yours and then coming back. “Fixin’ the leaky pipes,” he says. “Like you asked me to.”

The problem is he’s not wrong. You did ask him to. A couple of weeks ago. Right before he kissed you. Before he left a bad taste in your mouth.

You’ve been returning the favour and carefully avoiding him over the last few days. Turning the other way when you were about to cross paths, leaving when he entered the space you were in, making sure you weren’t going to be alone with him. And now here he is, crouched under the sink in your home. This is a well-timed ambush dressed up as a pre-accepted favour. It’s forced proximity.

You chew the inside of your cheek and say nothing, which he reads perfectly well.

Jeremiah watches you both from beside the kettle as it starts to climb in temperature, taking in the weather of the room with a patient attention. He has seen enough disagreements between people to know when to stay out of it.

“Right,” you say finally. “Well, in that case, I’m gonna head back out for a while. I’ll come back later.” You turn to Jeremiah. “I’ll be at Michelle’s."

“My boy, don’t you want a cup of tea first?” 

But you’re already back in the hall, unhooking your jacket and closing the door behind you. You stand on the footpath for a second in the cooling evening air, not entirely sure what you’re doing with yourself.

The kettle finished its boil with a resolute click, steam curling from the spout into the silence left behind by your abrupt exit.

Jeremiah makes a low, ruminative sound. “Hm. Seems as though he’s more upset than he let on.”

Joel looks up from the floor. “Huh?”

“I know, Joel.” Jeremiah turns to the counter and begins preparing his tea. “I know what’s been going on between the two of you.”

The back of Joel’s neck prickles but his face remains stone still. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Oh, give it a rest,” Jeremiah tuts, but not unkindly. He tips the hot water into his mug carefully. “He didn’t mention any names, as such, but I’ve been around long enough to connect the dots without needing the lines drawn for me.”

Joel’s tongue goes bone dry. “What did he tell you?”

“He tells me most things.” Jeremiah prods his teabag with the back of his spoon, watching it bleed dark into the water. “We’ve become rather close, as you know. When you spend as much time laid up in bed as I do, it’s only natural to want to know what’s going on outside these walls. I always loved a gossip. I like to know what’s going on with him.”

“There’s nothin’ goin’ on between us.”

Jeremiah sets down his spoon. “Well, there certainly won’t be if you carry on this way.”

Joel says nothing. He lets his eyes drop to the floor, his hands still planted on his thighs.

“I’m no fool, Joel,” Jeremiah says with gentle authority. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d stop taking me for one.”

The room goes still for a moment. Joel breathes out through his nose and his shoulder sink. It isn’t quite defeat, but it’s close to it. His version of being cracked open.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says at last. “I tried to apologise. I’m tryin’ to show him that I… that I care. About him. I just don’t know how other people will take it.”

Jeremiah reaches for the milk, letting that hang in the air before speaking. “What I’m hearing is that you care a great deal more about what others might think than you do about what Joey feels.”

Joel’s face tightens. “No. That’s not—” He shakes his head. “That’s not true.”

“That,” Jeremiah says, tipping the milk in, “is precisely how it sounds. And, to be frank, I think that’s rather selfish. Don’t you?”

Quiet.

“You remind me a great deal of Jim,” Jeremiah says, throwing his mind back into his memory. “When we first met, he carried himself rather like a closed fist. It took him a long time to admit what he already knew.” He lifts his mug to his lips and blows across the surface, steam building against his glasses. “I was patient, but I’ll tell you this, there were days I nearly gave up waiting for him to loosen up and take my hand.”

He takes a sip, considers the thought and continues.

“And I can tell you from experience, whatever anyone thinks or says or does when they find out, it’s worth it. Every stare, every comment… every punch. Not a single day went by after he finally let go did he wish he chose the easier option. We lost years to caution and other people’s comfort. It would be a great shame if you lived out the rest of your days living that way. Nothing and no one should come between you and your happiness, or between you and someone else’s.”

Joel’s gaze drifts to the kitchen window. The evening has turned the glass into a dark mirror now.

“I see it,” Joel says, quieter now. “I see how he is with Ellie. With Tommy and Maria. It’s like he’s always been here. Or should’ve been here.” He pauses. “I want to let go and just let it happen. I just don’t know if I can.”

Jeremiah folds both hands around his mug, absorbing the warmth of it. “Of course you can. Jim did. I did. Joey did. There comes a point for all of us where we decide whether we choose to live as who we are, or let everything that’s waiting for us pass us by.”

He watches Joel grapple with his own thoughts like he’s reliving what he went through with Jim all those years ago.

“This world takes so much from people,” Jeremiah carries on, his voice dropping to something more careful. “There’s so much pain, so much loss… And yet here you are, feeling something entirely human and real. People would kill to be able to feel what you feel right now.” He pauses, placing his mug down again. “Joey is here for good. This is his home now, and it hopefully will be until his last day. This won’t go away. And I cannot think of anything sadder than pretending it will.”

It sinks into his cracks with a permanence he can’t deny. There’s no distance far enough, no task tricky enough to put between him and this.

“What should I do?"

Jeremiah’s expression warms with something almost triumphant behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes crinkling further at the corners. 

“Pull yourself together,” he says, “and do what you already know you should do.”

—

“Jesus, Joey,” Michelle says, sliding a freshly made grilled cheese sandwich across her kitchen counter to you. “You’re being a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

The look you give her could curdle milk. You just spent the last half hour laying everything that happened since the kiss out for her, and this is what you get. No outrage on your behalf. Not the solidarity you’d expect from a best friend. She’s standing there feeling sorry for Joel.

“He lied to Tommy’s face,” you remind her. “He stood right in front of us and tried to act like nothing happened that weekend.”

“Yeah, but—” She takes a bite of her own sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. “Calling him a closet case and a coward is a bit mean, no?”

“It’s accurate.”

“Joey…”

“What?” you pull the plate towards you. “That’s what he is.”

She swallows and chases it with a glug of water. “Look, I get where you’re coming from, and you have every right to be upset, don’t get me wrong. But what I’m hearing is he’s dealing with this part of himself, probably for the first time in his life, and you’re going straight for the jugular. I think you need to give him a chance.”

Her words make you pause mid-chew and blink with disbelief. “A chance? Michelle, the man is fifty-fucking-six years old. I had this shit figured out by the time I was 12.”

“You didn’t grow up in the south like he did though,” she says, levelling her gaze at you. “You’ve both lived very different lives. You’ve been through completely different things. You’re smart enough to know that without me having to say it. Cut the man some slack.”

You look away, tapping a finger repeatedly against the counter, starting to doubt yourself. Maybe you were a bit too harsh. Maybe you did take it further than he deserved. The image of his face after you kept putting him down hasn’t left you alone since and you hate it. You’d rather just be angry without the guilt nipping at your ankles.

“He’s gonna have to earn it.”

She tips her head at you, a strand of black hair escaping from where it was tucked behind her ear. “Based on what you just told me, it sounds like he’s very much aware of that and trying.” She takes another bite of her sandwich, collecting the cheese pulling from the edge. “And to be honest, I think it’s kind of adorable. Joel Miller, of all people.”

“Oh, don’t,” you say, rolling your eyes and trying to ignore the heat blooming up your neck despite your best efforts. “You’re gonna make me sick. I can’t believe you’re actually trying to make me feel bad for him.”

The corner of her mouth pulls up. 

“I think you already do feel bad for him,” she says. “You just want my permission to feel that way. You know I’ll support you no matter what, and I want you to be happy. And if Joel gets his shit together, I think he could make you very happy. But if he hurts you again, I will murder him.”

That gets a small, appreciative smile out of you. You let the silence sit for a second before a long sigh comes out of you like you’re deflating.

“What do you think I should do?”

“Go to his house.”

“Here we go,” you groan. “And say what?”

“Tell him where you’re at. Apologise for calling him a coward. Hear him out. And then, ideally, kiss and make up.” She says it like it’s a shopping list. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You’re so deeply unwell,” you say to her flatly. “And a full-blown enabler.”

“Maybe,” she says, shoving the last bite of the crust into her mouth. “But do you want him or not? Genuinely.”

A breath in. A breath out. She could probably answer that question for you. “Sadly, yes.”

She gestures her hands like the case is closed. “So what the fuck are you still doing in my kitchen?”

—

The crickets are the only sound as you come up onto Joel’s porch later that night. You knock and stand there, listening to your own heartbeat and feeling the nausea rising up your throat. It’s right then that you realise you didn’t even think about what you’re going to say on the walk over, which is clearly the perfect time to realise.

The door opens before you’re ready.

He looks the same as the last time you showed up at his door unannounced. Old blue t-shirt, pyjama bottoms and socks. Surprise moves across his face first, then a guarded concern, like he’s waiting to figure out what version of you he’s getting tonight. 

The air leaves your lungs. Any opening line you might’ve had erodes on your tongue.

“Hey,” he says, breaking the silence for you.

“Hi,” you eventually manage. “Can I… come in?”

His eyes search your face. “You’re not gonna yell at me, are you? Ellie’s asleep upstairs.”

You shake your head. “No.”

He steps aside and lets you pass through.

The house is quieter than you’ve ever heard it. The fire’s gone out, so there’s not even the comforting crackles to keep you company in the silence. There’s just a few lamps on in the living room as you step in, the ticking of the old clock on the mantlepiece and whatever warmth is leftover in the walls. You stop in the centre of the room and turn to face him.

“How did it go with the pipes?”

He sniffs and nods. “Should be all good now. Found a few other problems while I was there but… I took care of ‘em for you.”

It’s hard to even look at him. “Thanks,” you say, mostly to the floorboards. It comes out quieter than intended.

He observes you closely, reading into your body language and how you almost look like a puppy waiting to be scolded. “Why are you here?”

You release a breath and force yourself to look at him in the eye. “To say I’m sorry. For what I said. For calling you a coward.”

He tilts his head, quietly touched in a way he wasn’t expecting from you. “You don’t need to apologise,” he replies. “You were right. I am a coward. I just didn’t like hearin’ it.”

That somehow makes you feel worse. Your nose twitches and you dig a thumbnail into the side of your finger. 

“I’m not going to apologise for feeling hurt, though,” you say. “Not after what you did.” 

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He holds your gaze, his arms hanging loose by his side. “But I am tryin’. And I do wanna make it right.”

“I know you are.” Your eyes drop to the floor again. “I’m trying too. To understand you better."

He goes completely still for a moment, and you can sense him working through the idea of someone even bothering to try. To put in an effort to see him for who he is.

“I wish it was easy,” he says then, his voice remaining low. “I wish I didn’t feel like I had so much holdin’ me back. There’s just a lot goin’ on inside my head. There always has been. It just got worse when you came around.”

You wet your bottom lip and then bite down on it. “Well, tell me then. What’s going on in your head?”

His gaze remains fixed on the floor like he’s working out where to even begin.

“It’s just hard,” he manages eventually. “I was raised to be strong. For everyone. My whole life. And I’m tryin’ to be strong for Ellie, for Tommy, for the people here… But this, and the way I feel about you, because you’re a man… I don’t want people to think I’m weak.”

“You’re not weak—” 

“I know. I don’t feel that way or think that way, it’s just… I know some people do.” 

The admission crushes you. It’s disheartening seeing someone live like this after everything that has happened over the years. There’s no doubt this is his reality. You can see it living in every part of his body, even in the way his voice changes when he’s speaking to you.

“That’s what I’m trying to understand,” you say. “Why any of that matters. Why you care so much about what people might think.”

“That’s why I said I need time,” he says. “I don’t wanna be this way no more. I don’t wanna care about what anyone else thinks. Not if it costs me you.”

Silence. Just the steady ticking of the clock filling the emptiness between you.

Joel moves then, taking a step forward in your direction to close that space. “And I don’t want you to wait around for me. You shouldn’t have to. Your dignity’s worth more than that. I just—” His eyes land on yours again. “I just don’t want you to hate me for it.”

You shake your head. “I don’t hate you,” you say, your voice breaking at the end. “I hate that you kissed me before you were ready. I hate that you let me into your bed.”

“I know,” he says, standing close enough that you can hear the slow exhale through his nose. “I shouldn’t have done it. And I’m sorry. I just can’t stay away from you.”

You take that final step closer, now feeling the heat of his chest reaching out for you. “I don’t want you to stay away from me.”

Before you have time to talk yourself out of it, your hands move up to hold his face, pulling him down to you. He comes to you without resistance, his arms circling your lower back and pulling you flush against him like it’s where you were supposed to be this entire time. The kiss is charged and desperate, but more than anything, it’s bittersweet. Bitter because you know it’s wrong, sweet because it feels right anyway.

Outside, at the foot of Joel’s yard, Tommy stands frozen in place behind the low fence, under the streetlight and bundled in his jacket. 

Through the window, he takes in the full, clear picture. His big brother. You. The two of you passionately pressed together in the glow of the nearby lamp. There’s no mistaking it. It’s no illusion. The entire scaffolding of what he thought he understood about Joel rapidly collapses around him.

AN: Uh ohhhhhh... 👀🫣😨 Well, at least they're back in each other's arms I guess 😅 Just to make it known, I don't necessarily support Joey's decision here to let Joel back in but strictly for the sake of the plot, yay. There's something really twisted about knowing it's not a good idea but gambling on getting hurt again because it feels so good to be with them. Let's just hope Joel doesn't fuck this up again, huh... 😒

Also I'm just very glad I managed to get a chapter out this weekend at all. I really thought I was going to have to skip a week for the first time since I started posting because this week was particularly chaotic, but we made it! All my plans went really well and I'm just looking forward to vegging out for the rest of the weekend and recovering for next week 🥲

May 19, 2024

Ellie arrives home from Tommy’s close to midnight with a belly full of Maria’s cooking and one of Joel’s jackets draped over her arm. She lets herself in and shuts out the chorus of crickets and rabbiting of toads disguised in the dark. The quiet of the house wraps around her immediately.

She finds Joel on the couch with a book cracked open over his chest and lamplight catching the lenses of his reading glasses, which have migrated to the very tip of his nose. They make him look about a decade older than he’d like.

“‘Sup.”

He lifts his head and closes his book over. “Hey. How was dinner?”

“Good. You missed out on apple pie.”

He lets out a soft grunt as he shifts, swinging his legs down to the floor with a stiffness that reveals how his back started turning on him many years ago. He doesn’t say anything.

Ellie lingers in the doorway trying to read him. Something feels off with him tonight. She’s learned to pick up when something is on his mind. He’s always been a man of few words, but there are signs she knows to watch out for.

“Get up to much?” Ellie asks.

“Nothin’.” He pulls his glasses off and folds them one-handed. “Just been enjoyin’ the peace and quiet.”

“Uh-huh.” She pulls at a loose thread on her sleeve. “I passed Joey down the street just now. Weird for him to be out this way so late.”

Joel holds one lens up to the light and then rubs at it with the hem of his t-shirt. “Hm. Always seems to be doin’ somethin’.”

She waits but he offers nothing more. She holds up the jacket instead. “Tommy told me to bring this back with me. Said you left it at his place.”

“Oh. Thanks.” He barely glances at it. “Leave it on my chair if you’re headin’ upstairs.”

He settles back into the cushions and opens his book again. She takes that as a cue.

She heads upstairs, stifling a yawn against the back of her wrist. She steps into his room and drapes the jacket on the back of his chair as instructed. When she turns to leave, she notices something and stops.

Joel’s bed looks like a crime scene. Sheets dragged halfway across the mattress, pillows knocked sideways… It’s complete dignified chaos. She stares at it for a moment, genuinely baffled. Joel makes his bed every single morning without fail. He’s made a point of reminding her to make hers too since they got here. Multiple times and with zero patience.

Strange.

She heads back downstairs, not wanting to miss her opportunity to make a remark. 

“All that shit you give me about making my bed,” she announces, appearing in the doorway again, “and you leave yours like that?”

“Language,” Joel says reflexively, sitting up again and looking at her. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Your bed,” she says, jabbing her thumb back at the stairway. “It looks like a tornado went through it.”

Cold realisation moves across his face then but disappears before she can fully notice it. “Uhh… I had a nap earlier.”

Ellie raises an eyebrow, letting the momentary silence do the heavy lifting. “Must’ve been one hell of a nap.”

He levels a flat look at her, unamused and not willing to let her read into it further. 

“It’s late. Go to bed. You’ve school tomorrow.”

—

May 23, 2024

It’s a fresh Wednesday morning with the sky still pale above the rooftops as people start to move about the settlement with purpose. Yours is to head to Elise’s and drop off the final brief and attendance list you put together over the last few days for her second baking masterclass. 

It has been a manageable enough distraction to keep your head occupied for the most part, but it could only do so much. The quieter pockets of the days since Sunday have been unkind to you.

You haven’t seen much of Joel at all. You’ve been telling yourself that you’ve both just been busy, which works until it doesn’t, which is usually in the early hours of the morning when you start replaying everything. What if he’s avoiding you again? What if that level of intimacy with you scared him off for good? What if he decided this was all indeed a mistake after you left his house on Sunday?

You did catch a glimpse of him yesterday when he was coming back from patrol on Old Beardy, trotting in the opposite direction. You could've sworn he gave you that small nod of his, but he could just as easily have been jolted by the horse moving beneath him. Annoyingly hard to say.

Still, you’d expect more from the man you let inside of you after a heart-to-heart less than four days ago.

Just as you talk yourself out of another anxious spiral, you round the corner to main street and spot the back of him. Those broad shoulders and greying curls you’d recognise anywhere. He’s angling towards Tommy who spots you a second later and raises a hand to gesture you over.

“Joey!” Tommy yells. “Just the guy I wanted to see. C’mere a second, will ya?”

Great. 

You cross the street to join them. Joel doesn’t appear to be trying to get away. He just goes still and watches you approach and then offers a quiet “hey” when you get close enough. There’s nothing in it. It’s just neutral.

“Perfect timin’,” Tommy says, beaming at you both. “How are you two doin’? Get up to anythin’ over the weekend?”

You glance sideways at Joel.

“I was actually over at Joel's—”

“Nothin’—”

He cuts straight across you and snips the end of your sentence without hesitation.

The overlap sends the three of you into an unbearably awkward silence which goes on for longer than it needs to. Tommy’s gaze moves between the two of you, picking up on some unspoken tension that’s trying to keep its lid on. He waits for one of you to speak, but neither of you do.

“Somethin’ the matter?” Tommy asks.

“Nope.” Joel’s voice is colourless and unwelcoming to any further comment.

You decide to say nothing at all.

Although Tommy senses something, he chooses to shift gears slightly to dig from another angle. His hands go to his hips. 

“You know, now that I have you two here — Maria mentioned that Joey stopped by to bring back her casserole dish. Said you’d brought him round some. I thought you said that was for Ellie?”

Joel moves uncomfortably where he stands. The life recedes from his face by a few degrees and something behind his eyes recalibrates.

“Uhh, she wasn’t hungry,” he says. “Didn’t want it go to waste. Thought Joey might take it instead.”

Tommy stares at his brother and his brow creases. “So… you walked all the way over to Joey’s to see if he wanted some casserole?”

Joel somehow goes even more still. “Yeah. I don’t like wastin’ good food. Dropped it off and left.”

Tommy looks to you then, almost as if for confirmation. You swallow whatever’s collecting at the back of your throat and give him a nod.

“Hm.” Tommy seems to, at least on the surface, let it pass. “Awfully kind of you, brother.”

Joel’s eyes find yours then. There’s guilt carved into every feature of his face. It’s like a wordless apology. Meaningless. You look back at him without warmth or much of anything and let him sit with it.

The lie itself is one thing, but what hurts more is how swift and easy it came out of him. The way he deliberately reduced you to unwanted leftovers he dropped off. The implication that nothing worth mentioning happened that night or after. Not even the dignity of yeah, we hung out. Just pure erasure. It’s not like Tommy needs to know the full nature of what happened, but apparently he can’t even know you shared any time alone together outside of duty.

“Anyway,” Tommy says, pivoting to you with a breeziness that says he has things to do and places to be, “the reason I called you over, we’ve had some last minute changes to patrols. Few folks have rejoined now that things have quietened down a bit so Joel has updated the roster. Head down to the board and take note when you get a chance, alright?”

“Yeah, no problem,” you say, because it’s all you’ve got right now.

Tommy may be oblivious to the subtle changes in your body language and mood, but Joel certainly is not. He knows what you’re thinking. It’s written all over his face.

With a shoulder clap and a toothy grin, Tommy heads off. Joel starts to move too, but hesitates and hangs back long enough to take a last look at you, one more attempt to search for forgiveness in your face. You hold his gaze for half a second before stepping around him and walking off without a word.

—

The drop-off at Elise’s takes less than two minutes. Before she has the chance to pull you into a conversation, you hand over the brief and attendance list, exchange a few words neither of you will remember and leave. The sick feeling of humiliation in your stomach makes the idea of exchanging pleasantries unbearable.

On your way to the community hall, you try to fold and store it away. There’s plenty of other things on your plate to be worried about right now. There always is. But the thing about hurt is that it doesn’t wait its turn. It will always shoulder its way to the front of the queue every single time.

You’d let yourself think, maybe foolishly, that Sunday meant something to him. That you might one day have meant something to him. You let him in, and now he’s there, whether you like it or not.

The community hall is already bustling when you push through the main entrance. Clusters of people gathered in simple conversation, the low drone of a town running its business. Nobody registers or even acknowledges you as you cross the room to the noticeboard.

The updated roster has a substantial amount of familiar names added that disappeared after Kai and Archie’s heads came home in sacks. A few weeks of relative calmness has apparently been enough to coax them back to duty. It’s no wonder Tommy was in such good form. With this many bodies on rotation, no one person will be getting stretched too thin.

You skim down the sheet to find your name.

When you do, something snags in your chest because of the name added next to it. Joel.

He’s switched himself back as your partner.

You know what this was supposed to be. The version of you three days ago would have felt butterflies in your stomach and that embarrassingly warm tingle you get in your chest when you’ve been chosen by someone you want. It would have felt like he was saying something without words in that way only he does.

Instead, you just stand there with a flat, leaden feeling spreading behind your sternum. He ruined the gesture before it had a chance to mean anything. The sweetness of it has already curdled.

The first shift with him is tomorrow, and the last thing you want right now is to be alone with him. 

—

May 24, 2024

The sky is still that bruised, pre-dawn colour when you arrive at the stables the next morning. The rest of town isn’t even awake yet. You’d consciously left early, earlier than Joel would typically leave to ensure you wouldn’t have to occupy the same uncomfortable silence at adjacent stalls. All this effort to avoid giving him the opportunity to try and talk to you.

Even Dusty is a little agitated from being disturbed at this hour.

By the time Joel comes into view with Old Beardy in tow, you’re already standing by the front gates long enough that the cold has worked its way into your bones. He walks like he spent the night rehearsing what he should say and how he should act. The guilt from yesterday still sits plainly on his face despite the effort he’s making to hide it. He knows today is his penance.

“Hey,” he says with a brief glance when he gets close enough, his voice rough at the edges and quieter than usual. It’s the undeniable sound of a bad night’s sleep.

“Ready?” you reply plainly, speaking more to Old Beardy than to him. 

You pull yourself up into Dusty’s saddle before he can try say anything more. He reads it immediately and knows how it is. He just gives a single nod that functions as his full range of small-talk for the morning.

With that, you look up to the guard in the watchtower and give the signal. The gates start to grind open, disrupting the morning peace as the world outside comes into view, a clash of colour and grey. The plains stretch out vastly around you with the wind cutting low across the land. 

Neither of you speak a single word. Just the rhythm of hooves, the creak of leather and the occasional snort from one of the horses. It holds like that all the way through to the tree line, the trail narrowing as the canopy closes overhead. You don’t mind the silence at all. You’re glad it’s there. It almost makes you forget he’s a few feet behind you. Almost.

It’s only when the trees open out again onto the clearing by the riverbank that Joel says something.

“Look.” He points a finger at the familiar mast rising at the water’s edge. “It’s that osprey again. Chicks must’ve hatched by now.”

You let your eyes drift over long enough to confirm it’s there. It stands with that same imperious stillness like it owns the whole bend of the river. You make a vague sound of acknowledgment and look back to the trail, nudging Dusty forward a little.

“Are you plannin’ on ignorin’ me all day?” he asks.

“I’m not ignoring you.”

“Well, you’re not talkin’ to me either.”

“What is there to talk about?”

“Anythin’,” he says. “I know what you’re doin’ and I don’t like it.”

“Oh, do you not?” you say. “Well, that’s unfortunate, isn't it?”

He exhales hard through his nose and you hear Old Beardy’s pace pick up behind you until he draws level with you, close enough that you can feel him looking at the side of your face.

“Look, I’m sorry about yesterday, okay? That was wrong of me. I’m just— I’m still tryna figure all this out.”

“Figure what out?” You finally turn and look at him properly now. “It’s not even just about yesterday, Joel. You also lied to Maria. Covered your tracks over a fucking casserole. Why are you trying to hide the fact you’ve spent time with me?”

“I’m not tryna hide— I’m—…” He stops and starts again. “It’s complicated.”

“What’s so complicated about it? That you kissed me? That you fucked me? In your bed?” you say, letting it sit for a second. “You’re gay. So what? You’re acting like it’s a big deal.”

“I’m not gay—…” He breaks off again. “I don’t know what I am. All I know is I want you around. And I wanna be around you. It’s just… harder when there’s other people there. When other people know. Nobody needs to know what happened.”

“So, you want me around only when it’s convenient for you? And then what? You want me to tuck myself away when Tommy and Maria come by?” You shake your head. 

“I’m not a secret you get to keep, Joel. I know no one needs to know what we did, but are they not allowed to know I was with you at all? I’m not going to let you sneak around behind people’s backs or treat me differently when someone’s around. I’m not doing that.”

“I’m not askin’ you to do that,” Joel says. “I would never—”

“It sure sounds like you are.”

He falls silent. You press on. 

“You know, I hoped guys like you died out with the old world,” you say. “The last thing I want to be dealing with right now is a fucking closet case.”

Joel’s jaw visibly tightens and there’s a flash of something hot behind his eyes. “You’re bein’ a goddamned dick right now. You know that?”

“Am I?” you say, not even attempting to sound the least bit concerned. “Well now you know how it felt. I’d rather be a dick than a coward anyways.”

You pull ahead on Dusty, widening the space between you. The quiet at your back feels raw. It landed right where you aimed it, and you definitely drew blood.

Maybe you went too far. Maybe. But he’s spent the better part of the last four months making you feel small and unwelcome, like a problem that needed to be eradicated rather than a person to be known. All you expected was for him to at least be comfortable enough to tell his brother that he gave you the time of day, that he actually chose to be in your company. That shouldn’t cost anything.

—

The rest of the route passes without a word between you. Joel falls back and stays there, giving you the lead without needing to ask for it.

The checkpoint emerges into view eventually and you dismount first, looping Dusty’s reins around the tree at the base of the steps. Joel pulls up alongside a moment later and ties Old Beardy next to her. You’re already moving towards the door before he’s finished.

It’s at the door you stop, patting your jacket, your pockets, front and back.

“Fuck,” you say under your breath. “I forgot the keys.”

Behind you, Joel follows up the steps. A second of silence passes and then you hear the metallic clatter of keys being pulled out of his jacket. He knew you’d forget.

You turn to find him holding them, not with any particular smugness or satisfaction about it, just standing there being as dependable as he always is. His reliability is deeply irritating, particularly in this very moment.

He brushes past you, unlocks the door, pushes it open and steps aside to let you in first. No eye contact or comment. This is just duty.

“Go sign us in,” you order, already starting to move off into the hallway. “I’ll do the walkthrough.”

He doesn’t push back or question it. His chin dips slightly and he turns for the stairs, making his way up with a quiet compliance knowing he's not in a position to argue. 

Meanwhile, you move through each room with the dull, methodical focus of routine, checking windows, locks, the usual, hoping it’ll hold you together for a little while longer until you can leave.

—

The checks are done within fifteen minutes. You head upstairs and find the report room door ajar. Joel is at the desk with his back to you, slumped over the logbook with the pen moving slowly across the page. 

“Nothing to report,” you say from the doorway.

He glances back over his shoulder, then jots down that last piece of information to finish the entry and sets the pen on the table.

“Ready to go?” you ask.

He twists around in the seat now to face you. “You don’t wanna eat somethin’ first?”

He bends down for his backpack, unzips it and roots around inside, producing two wrapped cloth parcels from it and holding one out to you. “Brought you a cheese sandwich.”

You stare at it, then at him. The thoughtfulness should warm you, but it just twists the knife. You can’t help but think about how different today would’ve gone if yesterday hadn’t happened. 

The same man who neatly excised you is the same one that thought to pack you a sandwich this morning and carried it four fucking miles on horseback. You almost wish he was consistently terrible across the board. It’d make all this easier.

“I’m not hungry,” you reply, your voice coming out drier than you intended.

Joel drops the sandwich on the table and stands, planting his hands on his hips. The patience on his face is wearing visibly thin.

“Come on, Joey,” he pleads. “I said I’m sorry.”

“And I heard you,” you say. “That’s all well and good, but an apology isn’t a rewind. It doesn’t change the fact that even after how you made me feel since I got here, all the shit you made me put up with, I still wanted you. I still let you in. And then still, you couldn’t even bare the idea of someone knowing that you’d spent any time with me of your own will.”

“It’s not about y—” He stops and curses quietly at the floor. “It’s got nothin’ to do with you, okay? It’s me. I’m just… I’m not ready for people to know about my business before I do.”

For a moment, the heat cools a fraction. You look at him and some part of you aches for him even through the anger. But that ache and that anger are occupying the same space and you can’t cleanly separate them. 

“I'm still trying to understand you, but I don’t,” you say, as gently as you can. “No one cares about that stuff any more, Joel. The old world’s gone. We’re past all that. We’ve been past it for twenty years. We’re all just trying to survive.”

“That’s easy to say for people like you,” he says, his tone careful and even.

“What do you mean people like me?”

He exhales roughly. “Before all this, this was normal for you. Easy. You had your life. You had your boyfriend. Lived in a big city. Had a family that loved you. Not all of us got to have that. Not where I come from.”

His words hit you hard in a place that’s soft, and for a moment, you don’t have anything to say back. You hadn’t considered how far down it could root. You’d assumed the world ending and the passage of time would’ve dissolved all that, but apparently for some, it just buried deeper and calcified.

He comes towards you in slow steps then, approaching you like something he might frighten off if he’s not careful. “I just need time. That’s all I’m askin’ for.”

“Time?” you say, still clutching to your right to feel hurt. “You’ve had decades, Joel.”

“I don’t know what else you want me to say, Joey.” His voice cracks open just slightly as his composure starts to come apart at the seams. He comes even closer, right into your space, his eyes moving over your face with something almost desperate in them, searching for the slightest give.

He looks down and his fingers reach for yours, brushing the edge of your hand. “Please,” he whispers. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, fighting the urge to give in. It shouldn’t be this difficult. The two of you were strangers to each other a matter of months ago, and now there’s some sort of pull between you that makes it impossible to stay away. Your thoughts were completely consumed by him long before the kiss and before the sex. Joel Miller has hooked himself into you so deeply and you don’t know how to shake him off. Even if you did, you don’t know if you would.

And here he is, pleading for you to let him back in with his disarming, dark caramel eyes, working overtime trying to soften your edges so he can hold you again.

Regardless of his explanation, you’re hurting and you’re confused. Taking on Joel would mean more than just forgiving and forgetting. Is this something you can really endure?

You pull your hand back before his can close around it. 

“I’m the one who needs time,” you say, taking a step back and putting the doorway between you. 

His face drops and his hand lingers where it was reaching for yours.

“And I want to go home. Sign us out.”

AN: Damn, Joey... 🥲 Idk, do you guys think he's overreacting or was he justified in being pissed and hurt? Leave a comment and let me know!

Also, a little heads up, I have a pretty insane week ahead of me yet again. Outside of work, I have two dates with two gorgeous guys, I'm filming for a TV show and I have my best friend's wedding, so I don't know if or when I'll have time to post the next chapter. I might post 24 right after this or at some stage this week if I get a chance -- I haven't decided yet. The next couple of chapters are DELICIOUS, so I'm very much looking forward to hearing what you think.

May 17, 2024

The Wyoming weather can’t make up its mind in this transitional phase before summer. Some mornings, the sky is split open and pale blue, but by afternoon, dark clouds have rolled in to taunt everyone. It reminds you of Ireland in ways. It’s weather that you can’t plan around. Getting dressed before every outing feels like a gamble.

Before your shift at the school, you make your way to Tommy and Maria’s to return the casserole dish. It’s been propped on the draining board since Wednesday and it’s the first thing you see every time you step into the kitchen. It triggers a replay of that look on Joel’s face after he kissed you. That microsecond where something curdled behind his eyes before he abruptly got up and left without an explanation.

Unlike the weather, Joel has not been hard to read. He’s made his position quite clear.

You haven’t spoken to him since. You’ve seen him, but he’s been doing a really poor job of hiding the fact that he’s deliberately avoiding you at every opportunity. 

You’d nearly crossed paths with him on main street, but he awkwardly froze like a malfunctioning robot as soon as he saw you coming his way and turned like he’d forgotten something at home. The other night, he abandoned his drink and walked out of The Tipsy Bison when you arrived for the darts tournament with Michelle and Carol. He even swapped out of every patrol shift you two were scheduled together for. That one in particular hurt.

It all stings more than you care to admit, but you’ve made a reasonable effort to not sit with it for too long. Keeping yourself busy with work, taking care of Jeremiah and being downright exhausted has helped, but your mind fills in the blanks on its own, mostly late at night when there’s nothing left to drown it out. 

The two of you let something happen after months of trying to figure each other out, and his immediate reaction was apparently to put as much distance between you as the town’s geography would allow. It’s left you feeling physically sick.

The dish has overstayed it’s welcome. It has to go today.

Maria is out in the front lawn when you round the corner onto their street, crouched over some shrubs with one hand braced on her lower back and the other pulling at something in the soil. Her bump makes the whole procedure look a little too precarious. The morning light suits her, though. She seems to inhabit this quiet, tranquil Friday morning in the most natural way.

She looks up as you approach, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Ah, Joey! How are you doing?”

“Not too bad, thanks. Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to drop this back in case you needed it.” You hold up the dish.

She straightens, takes it from you and looks at it with a confused frown. “My casserole dish. How’d it end up with you?”

“Uhh, Joel brought it round last Wednesday… He said you saved me some casserole.”

The expression she gives you is something between bemused and mystified. “Huh. That’s funny. He told me that was for Ellie.”

For Ellie? Your brain snags on that for a moment before you make the conscious decision not to pull the thread and unravel. It doesn’t need legs.

“Hm, weird! Must’ve been a miscommunication,” you say, waving it off with a smile. “Either way, it was incredible. Honestly one of the best things I’ve ever eaten, including pre-outbreak. And that’s not a low bar.”

Maria’s face beams with a thankful, delighted grin. One hand goes to her bump almost without thinking. “I’m so glad you think so! You know you’re always welcome. Any time.”

—

You’re ravenous by the time break rolls around, and not the manageable kind of hungry, but the kind that makes it difficult to concentrate on anything else. You find Michelle at the teacher’s table and drop into the bench across from her with your tray and a huff.

Your appetite has finally started to return from having consistent meals at the community hall. It has made a drastic difference in how you look and feel compared to the state you were in when you arrived. Your hair’s got more weight to it, your skin doesn’t have that dull, grey tone and you’ve stopped hitting a wall around 3pm where your legs feel like they’re filled with sand. Now, when you face yourself in the mirror, you no longer see someone whose soul and stomach have been hollowed out. You just see Joey.

Meat still sits outside the boundary of what you can manage. It’s a line your body has drawn and for now, you’re fine with not crossing it. The fact that you can even sit in the company of someone while they feast on the stuff feels like progress enough.

Michelle has really picked up on the absence of it on your lunch trays without ever really making it a big deal. No questions, no judgemental looks, no well-meaning comments about how important protein is anymore. Instead, she just started showing up with suitable protein-rich snacks for you that she prepared at home. Hardboiled eggs or her homemade trail mix consisting of sunflower seeds, dried beans and pine nuts she obtained through trades have been your personal favourites.

It’s a level of kindness and generosity that you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to repay, and you’re not sure if you’ve ever had a friendship that worked quite like this.

“Is everything okay?” Michelle asks, sensing the energy radiating off of you as soon as your butt hits the bench.

“Yeah, just… long week.” You chuck a few chunks of fruit into your mouth and don’t quite meet her eye.

She squints and points her apple slice at you. “Hmm. I don’t think so, mister. There’s something going on. You’ve been acting weird since last week.”

“Everything’s fine, don’t worry.”

Michelle stops mid-chew and gives you a look that makes it very clear she is not doing this with you today and you’ll need to cut the bullshit and talk.

You roll your eyes and drop your own apple slice back onto your plate. “Alright, fine. I’m in a bit of a pissy mood.”

“Okay,” she says, carrying on with her mouthful now. “And why is that?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

You look at her for a long moment, weighing up whether it’s a good idea to share what’s been going on. Even though you trust her more than most, you know how unhinged it sounds. 

Then you glance around the canteen, checking the nearest tables to ensure no one is within earshot and lean in.

“You have to promise me you won’t tell a single soul. Okay?”

She blinks at the sudden intensity. “Alright, Jesus… You didn’t murder someone, did you?”

“No,” you tut, taking in a deep breath and trying to think of the best way to word it. “I, uhh… Joel… invited me over to his place, back in March, after the hearing… and uhh, he apologised for… y’know, being a huge prick to me since I got here.”

“Joel?” Michelle asks flatly. “As in, Joel Miller?”

“Yes!” you whisper. “But that’s not—… Something else happened.”

She crosses her arms and is already looking at you like you’ve just told her the sky is brown, but she lets you continue.

“Last Wednesday, he showed up at Jeremiah’s cabin and he brought me dinner. Because I was so busy all week moving in and cleaning up the place and stuff—”

“I’m sorry, what?” she interrupts, putting her fork down. “What do you mean he brought you dinner? Joey, I get that he vouched for you and all, but there’s no way that sour sack brought you d—”

You groan. “You know what? Never mind. I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“No, no, no!” She flicks her hand at you. “I’m sorry. I’ll shut up. Keep going."

You readjust on the bench and take one more sweeping glance of the room to ensure only she can hear the next part. “We had dinner. Then we were just talking on the couch and…”

The end of that sentence hangs on to the tip of your tongue like its life depends on it.

“And?” Michelle says, both eyebrows raised.

“He kissed me.”

You can’t look at her. The noise of the canteen fills the silence between you, other people’s conversations, the scratch of chairs, someone laughing three tables over. It goes on for what feels like several minutes.

When you do finally look up, she’s just gawking at you. Then, she loses it. A wheeze of disbelief that splits into full, helpless laughter. She grabs at her sternum and tips forward, cackling loud enough that it draws attention from people at nearby tables. It carries on significantly longer than you’d like.

Eventually, she looks back at you, her eyes wet from tears. She finds you glaring at her with the flattest, most unimpressed expression she’s probably ever seen on a human face. The laughter dies down.

“Oh…” she says softly, wiping her waterline with her sleeve. “You’re being serious."

Your jaw grinds. “You think I’m joking? You think I’d make that up?”

She drags her teeth across her bottom lip, studying you closely.

“Joey,” she says, both forearms coming down on the table. “I’m gonna ask you something and I want you to be dead honest with me. Okay?”

You wait.

“Are you on drugs?”

Your palm slides down the full length of your face. “Oh my God. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’m sorry!” She holds her hands up in defence. “It’s just— no offence, but you sound genuinely insane right now.”

“I know!” you hiss, dropping your voice again. “I’m aware it sounds insane, but it happened.”

Another beat of stillness and quiet. She idly pokes at what’s left on her plate, processing the information.

“Okay, so, why are you so upset about it?” she asks, in a tone that suggests she’s trying to be as helpful as possible. “Is he a bad kisser or something?”

“No, it’s not—,” you say, pressing a knuckle to your forehead. “He’s just been avoiding me like the plague ever since and it’s fucking with my head. You remember how he got up and left when we went to The Bison the other night? He’s swapped out of all our patrol shifts too. He doesn’t want to be near me.”

She grins to herself. “Maybe you’re the bad kisser.”

Under different circumstances, you’d have given her that one. Right now though, you don’t have it in you to find the humour in any of this.

“You don’t have feelings for him, do you?” she asks, quieter this time.

At first, you’re not sure what the answer is, but then you think about the way your mind drifts to him when he’s not around and the way your body reacts when he is. You think about how it felt sitting next to him on that couch, how it feels to patrol alongside him, his face right before the kiss.

“I don’t know, maybe…?” you mumble. “I just don’t know where he stands. I might actually be insane.”

She reaches across the table and gives your forearm a squeeze. “No! Good for you! I mean, he’s a handsome guy, right? Yeah, he’s a miserable, rude, cuntfaced, twatgoblin, but I’m sure a lot of people here would love to have a man like that giving them attention.”

“Well, like I said, he doesn’t want to give me any attention right now. He’s going out of his way to do the opposite, so…” You throw another piece of fruit into your mouth. “I just want to know why. Why go through all the effort of apologising to me, being so thoughtful, kissing me and then leave me to just… question everything.”

“Go to his house,” Michelle says matter-of-factly, like it’s the most obvious next step.

“What?”

“Go to his house,” she repeats, clearer this time. “Just show up. Ask him. You deserve some answers at least, right?”

“I can’t just show up at his house, Michelle.”

“Why not?” she shrugs. “What’s he gonna do, move to another settlement? Huh, if only. The worst that could happen is he closes the door in your face, but then at least you’ll know for sure where you stand with him.”

It’s irritatingly sensible. You sit with the thought of it, running through the different ways it could go, what you’d say, how you’d hold yourself depending on how he answered… Then, the bell cuts across everything loudly, bringing the lunch hour to a close.

Michelle starts gathering her rubbish onto her tray. “Arron is going to be absolutely devastated,” she says. “He’s been convinced this whole time that you had a thing for him.”

“I didn’t know he was into guys,” you reply.

“I don’t think he is,” Michelle says. “But then again, no one would’ve guessed Joel Miller was either.”

—

May 19, 2024

The sun started to set by the time Jeremiah was put to bed and you’d eventually plucked up the courage to drag yourself over to Joel’s. You’d spent most of Friday evening and all of Saturday catastrophising and running through every version of how this could go badly. Michelle was right though. The only way you were going to get any answers was to just show up.

A week and a half without him around impacted you way more than you’d anticipated. It didn’t register with you how much space he’d taken up in your day-to-day until he was gone. 

Even Ellie has been scarce lately. She’s been more absorbed in her homework than usual or disappearing down to the animal shelter for hours. Whether that was her own choice or whether Joel had an influence in it, you don’t know. Either way, their absence was getting to you.

Every step down his street feels like it had some extra slog in it. Something in you wants to stall, think of an excuse not to go and turn back. You could go back to Jeremiah’s cabin, sleep on it and try again another day. 

No. Keep going.

As you reach the end of his yard, you remember it’s Sunday. He could be at Tommy and Maria’s for their routine family dinner. There’s a gentle, domestic glow coming from behind one window though. Someone must be home.

You knock three times, measuring the force of each one so it doesn’t sound too demanding or hostile.

Familiar footsteps come rumbling towards the door from inside and your gut sinks with panic. Even if you ran now, he’d still see you. This is it.

The lock turns and the door swings open.

Joel’s face drops the moment he lays eyes on you. It’s the same expression he would wear if he answered the door to find you holding a gun to his face. He stands there in a grey t-shirt, plaid pyjama bottoms and socks. He looks oddly reduced somehow, like a smaller version of himself.

“H-Hey.” The greeting comes out coarser than you’d intended. “Sorry, I— uhh… just wanted to stop by. To talk.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He just stands there gripping the door like it’s a shield with the colour drained from his face.

You fill the silence for him.

“Can I come in?”

He nods before dropping his gaze to the floor and stepping aside to let you through. As you walk past him, you feel a twinge of guilt. You’re clearly interrupting what was a quiet, peaceful evening for him. The last time he looked this fearful was right after the infected attack outside Wilson Elementary.

“Is Ellie home?” 

You step into the middle of his living room and shrug your jacket off. The fire is going, everything else is exactly as you’d expect it to be. Nothing out of place and nothing to read into.

“No.” His voice is as rough as sandpaper like his throat is drying up. “She’s at Tommy’s. Won’t be back ’til late.”

“How come you’re not there?”

“Didn’t feel like bein’ around anyone tonight.”

That kills you a little. Choosing isolation, especially in this world, is never a good sign.

There’s no point wasting any more time with small-talk. You’re already inside his house. There’s no real graceful way to ease into what you want to say so you just take a deep breath and throw it out.

“Alright… What happened at Jeremiah’s?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. What was that all about?”

His jaw shifts. At some point in the last thirty seconds, his own home became a corner he’s been backed into. He stands completely still with his hands hanging loosely at his sides, the firelight casting golden warmth across his face like it doesn’t know or care about anything either of you might say tonight.

He exhales through his nose. “It was… nothin’. It was the whiskey, I shouldn’t’ve been drinkin’—”

“Bullshit.” The word cuts through him curtly before he can finish that made-up excuse. “Don’t give me that. You barely had one glass.”

He looks at you helplessly and loses the ability to speak for a moment. There isn’t really another angle on this he can try and sell you, and he knows that.

“I don’t know…” he says finally, quieter now. “It just… happened.”

“Things like that don’t just happen, Joel. Was it a mistake? Do you regret it? Is that what it is?”

He turns to the fire now as it continues to crackle softly in the background. Then he shakes his head, almost to himself. “No…”

“Then why have you been avoiding me? Why did you swap patrol partners?”

“I— I don’t—…” He presses his mouth shut and then opens it again. Nothing coherent is coming out. He’s sifting for something to give you but ends up with nothing substantial to offer. “I don’t know.”

You let the silence do its work for a second before you carry on. 

“Look, if you want to pretend like it never happened so we can just move on, I’m willing to do that for you. But it did happen. And as much as I hate to admit it, I was actually enjoying spending time with you. And not just because of Ellie.”

He can’t bring himself to look at you, but he’s listening. You can tell by the tension in his features.

“I was even starting to look forward to our patrols. Even though there’s about a million things out there that could kill me, I stopped feeling scared. I stopped caring. Because I knew being out there with you, I was gonna be safe. I knew I wouldn’t have to worry the way I always do.”

He swallows whatever he’s feeling, not even blinking as he keeps his eyes fixed on the flames.

“I’m sorry.” It comes out low and feeble. “I didn’t wanna avoid you. I… don’t know what’s goin’ on inside my head.”

His breath rattles, like he’s willing himself to say what he desperately wants to say. You hold your ground, letting him have the space to keep talking.

“I just… I can’t stop thinkin’ about you.”

The words land with a pain and desperation that don’t fit the sentiment. Your heart kicks behind your ribs and a warm tingle spreads to your extremities nonetheless. His admission seems to surprise him more than it does you.

“I haven’t been able to for a while now,” he continues. “And it scares the hell outta me.”

There’s nothing you could say that would match the weight of it. Nothing articulate, anyways. 

For the relatively short amount of time you’ve known him, one thing about Joel was always clear: vulnerability was where he fell short. 

He’s courageous in ways, pathetic in others. He’s a man that’s moulded by the things that have happened to him and those he loves. And standing here before you, is a man that’s terrified of his own natural instincts. You’re catching a glimpse of a version of him that he may never have allowed anyone close enough to see.

He waits for you to respond stood still as stone.

“I can’t stop thinking about you either,” you say before you think, barely above a breath.

His eyes come up then, wet at the edges and glistening in the dim light. Something behind them changes. There’s a relief and disbelief in them. It seems as though he wasn’t anticipating it. 

The fire continues to burn and the room holds its breath waiting for one of you to do or say something.

You start to close the distance slowly. One step, then another, and another, until you’re right in front of him. He doesn’t move back or withdraw. He just watches you enter his space and chooses to let you stay in it. But there’s a war in his mind. He’s grappling with the question of whether he’s allowing himself this, whether he’s capable of it without letting something break somewhere down the line.

Your eyes drop and you trace the backs of your fingers up his forearms at a languid pace, feeling for any hesitance, but there is none. Your hands travel up to his shoulders and then his neck until they’re cupped against either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing just beneath his ears. His skin emanates the warmth you’ve craved since you last felt it. 

Somewhere in the inch between you, he sways forward slightly like a magnetic pull is bringing you together. You gently guide him the rest of the way, bringing his face to yours. 

The kiss starts careful at first, just like last time, but before long, the carnal need takes over. His hands find your hips and they haul you into him until there’s no gap left. Your knees dissolve slightly and your legs almost buckle from the sudden euphoria coursing through you, but he anchors you in place to keep you upright.

It’s uncoordinated and a little graceless at first with the both of you scrambling to find a rhythm. He moves as you do, like two people who haven’t been able to be like this with someone in far too long. It’s like you’re both learning it all over again — teeth gnashing, controlling your breath and letting go of whatever holds you back so you can give yourself fully to each other fearlessly.

You take clumps of soft, greying curls at the back of his head and feel him push further into you with a low sound from his chest like you hit a switch. 

He starts turning you around, walking you backwards until your shoulders find a place against the wall so he’s got you trapped there. All of his broadness and weight stationed against you leaves no room to move. Not that you’d want to.

His hands cradle your face now, holding you together while yours drop to grab the hem of his t-shirt. You notice the absence of whiskey on his tongue as it finds yours. Instead, there’s an irresistibly fresh yet muted scent of vanilla, pepper and something woody on his skin. He must’ve showered not long before you showed up and used something created by the local soap-maker on the east side of the settlement. He was pampering himself tonight.

He nudges your chin sideways with the bridge of his nose to expose your neck before digging beneath your jaw with warm, wet kisses that dismantle you even more. The graze of his moustache against your pulse point followed the pull of his mouth has you grasping at his chest just to stay vertical. 

You’re making little sounds you can’t remember ever making and it seems to just spur him on more. It gets to the point where his arousal becomes more pronounced and is pressed against your leg making it impossible to ignore. His knee slots perfectly between your thighs to give you support and something to roll against as your body starts to move not of its own accord.

When you try to angle your head away to buy yourself a moment’s reprieve, he shifts with you, easily finding another spot to attack like you’ve offered it to him as a gift. It’s relentless enough that it’s maddening, but you let him do it anyway because nothing has ever felt this good.

He eventually eases off slowly after a few minutes, giving you a chance to reassemble and manage your surging heart rate. His mouth traces your jaw and returns to yours, softer now with the urgency dialled down a notch.

You rest your palms flat on his chest then. Beneath them, his heart hammers just as wildly. Something about actually feeling it like it’s evidence hits more profoundly than anything that was said tonight.

He pulls back just enough to take in your flushed face and dizzied, wrecked state. It makes him become more heedful when he examines and realises he’s responsible for it.

“Was that too much?” he mumbles with his voice low and tender.

You shake your head, still not quite back in your body yet. “Joel?” His name comes out on a thin breath. It’s suddenly too much to look at him directly, so your eyes fixate on his mouth until you manage to ask the question. “Can you… take me upstairs?”

He’s still got you pinned against the wall, but his breathing starts to slow. He’s thinking. You can feel it in the way his chest moves under your touch. Letting you in this much and giving in to his desire has already taken a mental and emotional toll. This is asking for considerably more, possibly too much. But he sees the same need he has in your eyes and hears it in your voice.

He studies you deeply for one more long moment before swallowing and nodding. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Okay.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He just finds your hand and leads you to the foot of the stairs before stepping back to let you go ahead of him first.

That momentary separation as you start to climb does something unexpected. Clarity comes rushing in uninvited. What are you doing? This is a mistake. You’ll end up regretting this.

It floods your mind for exactly a second before you forcefully flush it out. You’ve wanted him since the day you first laid eyes on him, even if you hadn’t realised it yet. Over these last few months, you broke through his exterior and found fragments of what was buried beneath. 

And now there’s just the two of you and the libidinous hunger you’ve both finally realised you have for each other. Whatever this is or whatever it’s about to be, it’s been coming for a long time and now it finally belongs to you both.

He directs you towards an open door at the end of the landing and pushes through it ahead of you.

You step in after him and go still. His bedroom.

Streetlight bleeds through the windows, casting shadows across his blue-green walls. There are cluttered surfaces everywhere, but it’s somehow not untidy. It’s the organised chaos of someone who makes and fixes things. Wooden desks and cabinets line every wall. Shelving units hold small toolboxes, ornaments and carvings of different animals in various stages of completion.

Then you see a horse you recognise.

It stands proudly on the desk in the corner like it was recently finished. It’s powerful and carved with an incredible levels of detail. You drift over to it without thinking. Up close, you register that this is unmistakably an immortalised sculpture of Old Beardy. It has the same scars running along his flank, rendered in careful cuts. The fact it even exists makes your heart swell. There’s no doubt a lot of time and care was put into it. It’s exactly what Old Beardy deserves.

Behind you, Joel moves somewhat anxiously around his room, pulling flannels off the back of a chair, turning on lamps, drawing the curtains closed. He’s tidying up. Making the room presentable for you now that you’re in it. It somehow feels more intimate than the kiss.

When you turn around, he’s at the foot of his bed watching you again.

He crosses the room to you as you toe off your boots, losing an inch of height in the process so now he’s just slightly taller than you. As you stare up into his face, you see a particular tension in his forehead, like there’s something holding him back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.” He pauses. “I just… haven’t done this before. With another man, I mean.”

Maybe that should be obvious, but it still surprises you for some reason that he’s thinking about that. You turn the thought over for a second, then wet your lips to speak. “If it makes you feel any better, it’s been so long that it might as well be new for me too.”

He nods, not quite cracking a smile, but still holding something stringent in his chest. You can see it in the clasp of his fists.

“It can be slow,” you say gently. “It can be just for us. We can stop at any time.”

Something in him releases then. It’s subtle but visible in how his shoulders drop half an inch and the weight in his brow loosens. You’d never thought you’d see Joel Miller look like he might crumble. You want to gather him up and be the thing that makes him feel as safe here as he makes you feel beyond the walls of Jackson. 

His eyes fall shut when you reach up and push a curl back from his forehead. Then you take his face in your hands and pull him back down to you where he belongs.

The kiss deepens by degrees after a minute. His hands move to the front of your flannel and he fumbles with the buttons as he works his way down. You shrug it off before pulling your t-shirt over your head. He’s already removed his by the time you surface. The first press of his hot, bare skin against yours pulls a needy gasp from your chest. It’s like first time experiencing comfort in your life. Everything clicks into place.

He walks you around to the side of the bed now and lowers you down, his arms tucked beneath you like he’s carrying something valuable, something that matters to him. Then he settles over you. It should feel stranger than it does to have him on you, but it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

His weight sinks you into his mattress, your legs curl into his waist and your arms loop around his neck to keep his mouth on you. He starts dragging his lips down your jaw and throat, pressing a string of soft, half-open kisses that makes the front of your jeans throb.

He starts moving lower, his mouth now on your chest, then your ribs, every kiss astonishingly attentive. His facial hair grazes the scar on your stomach on the way to your navel and your whole body flinches with an involuntary jerk. Your hands fly down to his head to grab his hair with no real intention of stopping him.

He rises up onto his knees and looks down at you, taking a breath for himself. He steps back off the bed entirely, shoving his pyjama bottoms to the floor and kicking them away. He reaches for your belt buckle then, swiftly undoing it, unbuttoning your jeans and working them down your legs. You kick them the rest of the way off. He picks them up and folds them neatly before draping them over his chair.

By the time he turns back, you’ve already pulled off your boxers. He goes completely still at the sight.

He’s not staring at your body necessarily, he’s just staring at you, the whole of you, rearranging any idea of you he had in his head before tonight. His throat moves as he swallows. The reality of it seems to be resolving all at once. You’re here, on his bed, no longer confined to his imagination.

He exhales through his nose and pulls down his own boxers. They take a thin, gleaming thread of precum with them as he steps free, kicking them away without caring where they land.

Now there’s nothing left to hide behind. You’re both completely exposed, figuratively and literally.

Unlike him, you ogle him without apology at first. He’s always had a physical authority about him, but this is way different. Then, the poignancy and sensitivity layers over it. Whatever fear you harboured for him when you first arrived is long gone. You just see him as the man he is. The man you sensed was beneath the armour this entire time.

Stripped down and standing in his own lamplight, you can’t deny that he’s one hell of a beautiful specimen. His posture, the breadth of him, his tanned skin, the dark eyes still fixed on you — it’s enamouring. His cock is full and glossy, commanding in how it takes up the space between his thighs. It makes your mouth water and leaves you silent, but not out of shyness.

He slowly climbs back onto the bed, crawling over you again and picking up where he left off, kissing you like he’s been thinking about doing it long before tonight. You feel him wet against your thigh, his precum warm and coating wherever he drags against you. You return the favour. Within a minute, you’ve left a similarly sticky veneer between your stomachs.

For you, this feels like finally doing something you’ve deprioritised for the last twenty years because there was always something else to handle. For him, it’s more complicated. It’s a lifetime of repression that’s unwilling to stay buried any longer. But in both of your cases, this is only happening because you both feel safe enough to let it.

When the opportunity presents itself, you manoeuvre your legs to roll him over. It takes him off guard. That brief, boyish flash of surprise crossing his face as he ends up on his back and finds you above him instead. You look at each other. The same thing passes between you that passed downstairs earlier, that hushed, total transfer of trust. You want him to really feel it.

Starting at his ribs, you drag your mouth down his side, making him jolt from each kiss. Small but rough heaves catch in his throat. You shift your body down between his legs and settle there, your palms smoothing up and down the planes of his body, learning his shape.

The scent changes the closer you get. It’s richer, muskier and more primal. His cock twitches impatiently at your jaw, flushed and waiting for you. He watches you with his lips parted and his palms pressed flat like he’s grounding and preparing himself.

A combination of kisses to his inner thigh opens his legs a fraction. Then you take his shaft in hand and notice how much more warm and rigid it is compared to the rest of him.

More precum bubbles at the tip as your hand starts to move, but you bypass it for now and move lower instead. When your mouth finds and bathes his balls, he loses any composure he was holding on to. His head snaps back into the mattress, eyes wide and fixed on the ceiling.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he rasps, his throat turning red and corded from it. His hand grasps your shoulder and squeezes tight.

You take him in at last, your lips closing around his swollen head. The groan that comes out of him is raw and instantaneous. There’s no performance in it at all. One of his hands seizes a fistful of sheets, the other takes your hair and grips, his knuckles pressing hard into your scalp and his back bowing up off the mattress before he forces it back down.

From below, you watch his chest rising and crashing with each breath. He’s quivering already and his legs draw up the sheets on either side of you and then fall back like he can’t decide what to do with himself. You keep your mouth moving at an irritatingly lax pace, taking far too much pleasure in watching him writhe and come apart with unstoppable tremors.

It’s starting to get to you too. The heat and taste of him. The salty and tangy warmth keeps you chasing more. His sounds don’t help. Each one pulls you a little further into it, making you want to give him more just to hear what comes next.

“Fuck, Joey,” he mutters, your name sounding like a frayed plea now.

You come up for air, breathing harder than you thought you would be. “Is that good?”

His eyes find yours. “Yeah,” he pants, and there’s nothing casual about how he says it.

All of this starts to get under your skin. A man like Joel Miller, someone with a reputation, has been reduced to a moaning mess for you. He really does want you.

“I wanna try on you,” he says then, starting to prop himself up. “Lay back.”

Following the order, you release him and reposition yourself in the middle of the bed. He sits up too fast, blinking hard like he’s seeing stars and still reeling from pleasure. Then he makes his way down between your legs and stares up at you, quiet and a little uncertain but trying not to show it.

He starts with his mouth at your thighs. Soft, patient, careful kisses that make your fingers curl into his hair before you’ve consciously decided to put them there. Your legs are already shifting and shaking from the gentleness of his lips.

He copies what you’d done beat for beat. His tongue flat and dragging carefully against your sack, an attentive grip on your shaft and enough effort to send hot electric through your entire body. His other arm hooks under your leg and his palm lays flat on your stomach. When you reach for his hand with yours, he takes it, lacing your fingers together and squeezing back to let you know he’s got you.

Then he takes you into his mouth without preamble and immediately registers the new taste.

Your spine rises off the mattress and the sound you make is unplanned. He makes another of his own, messy and guttural against you as he finds his rhythm with your length pulling back and disappearing again with each movement of his head. 

He watches everything. Every hitch in your breathing, every time your hips move up into him, every time your grip tightens around his fingers. He’s really trying. He’s learning this and you as he goes.

You’re barely coherent and shivering from ecstasy by the time he stops minutes later. Blissfully spent, panting and damp at your hairline and lower back. He climbs back up your body and finds you waiting for him, and something in his expression eases at the sight of the state you’re left in.

He combs the wet tips of hair away from your forehead with his fingers, studying your face in the low light with a lingering thoroughness.

“How’s that?”

“Incredible,” you manage, still half-gone. You pull his body flush against yours again.

The smile that forms on his face is sheepish but grateful. He turns a knuckle and gently strokes it slowly down your cheek, continuing to stare. No words. Just intense intimacy.

“Do you want to keep going?” you ask. “Like, further?”

He reads your expression carefully, looking for any doubt behind the yearning. He seems to find what he needs, because when his eyes land on yours again, the tension in them has shifted.

“Yeah,” he murmurs quietly.

His mouth finds your chest again, then your throat, then the soft skin just under your ear. He shifts his weight and eases your legs apart with his knees. When he rises over you again, he stops. A small crease appears between his brows.

“Uhh…” He glances between you. “How’s this gonna work?”

You sit up on your elbows again and it hits you as you look around the room, as if a solution might be sat on top of one of his shelves. The only lubricant you see is an old slightly rusted can of WD-40. The two of you arrived at this point on momentum and need alone. Too entangled in each other for practical considerations.

“I suppose we just use what we’ve got. Spit.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but you can see his problem-solving dials turning. “I got vegetable oil in the kitchen. That any good?”

You huff a small laugh and wince at the idea. “Probably not. I don’t think it’s— no. Spit’ll do.”

He lowers himself and starts to place kisses against your forehead. “I don’t want it to hurt you.”

The thoughtfulness and instinct only makes you want him more. You nuzzle your face into his, pressing a couple of loose kisses to his chin in return. “It won’t. Don’t worry. We just go slow, remember? Start with fingers. I’ll be fine.”

He lets the last of his resistance out in a breath against your cheek and watches as you settle back down against the mattress. Behind his eyes, there’s something silently resolute telling you he means it. He wants to handle you with care because that’s just how he operates. He wants to get this right.

Between the two of you, you gather enough saliva to manage for now. It’s not graceful in the slightest, but there’s no way for it to be. If your past experiences pre-outbreak have taught you anything, it’s relaxation is key. Even more so when you’re working with no lubricant and someone who hasn’t done this before.

You let your eyes close and consciously try to let the tension dissipate out of every muscle until you feel light under him. The pad of his finger finds your rim and circles slowly at first and you feel the attention in every movement. He’s learning the language of what your body does when it’s touched like this, cataloguing every change and reaction with that concentrated look on his face.

Then the pressure begins. Your breath snags and you start talking yourself through it internally: relax, breathe, relax, breathe. The tip of his finger eases in and an unintentional but honest sound slips out of you. He continues steadily until his knuckle rests at the threshold and he’s watching your breathing go shallow.

“How’s that?”

“Fine. It’s good,” you say hoarsely, eyes still squeezed shut and chewing on your bottom lip, trying to sound convincing. It’s like you forgot how meaty his hands and fingers were.

He’s not sure if he believes you, but he starts to move in and out with a rhythm that’s slow enough that it doesn’t ask too much of you. He’s realising in real-time what kind of tightness he’s working with.

Then you feel the first give of loosening, the initial surrender of tissue beginning to yield, giving up the tautness in increments. The sounds you start making are small and are almost words. He feels the moments your hips shift closer to him, a wordless invite for more.

When he works a second finger in alongside the first, the stretch tests you further, even with more spit and care applied with it. It’s a slow negotiation of the limit. Your hand finds his sheets again and your knuckles burn white from the grip. He sees it and dips down to press his lips to your sternum, then your collarbone, then your throat. A slothful stream of kisses as his fingers keep pumping in and out of you.

And then he curls them slightly.

The noise you make isn’t one you’ve heard yourself make before. “F-fuck!”

“Yeah? Like that?” He keeps the angle. Keeps pumping slowly.

All you can manage is a nod and weak whimper. Each kiss he presses to your mouth doing its own work in relaxing you further into a blissful stupor. Gradually, he begins to move more freely and your breathing pattern becomes less restrained. He’s managed it. 

“I think I’m ready for more,” you say, low and almost lazy with want.

His eyes scan yours again and sees the ease and comfort in them. One more worshipping kiss pressed to the centre of your chest before he pushes himself upright and settles back between your legs. He still has traces of uncertainty about his own ability in his face, but he pushes through it.

He props your leg up on his shoulder and you watch as he coats himself with one last palmful of spit, measuring and turning the next move over in his head. Then he shuffles in closer to you, his thighs resting against the back of your legs, one hand holding them apart and the other gripping the base of his shaft and guiding his tip into position.

He looks up, letting you know it’s coming.

Your voice cracks a little when you speak. “Slow. Okay?”

Relax, breathe, relax, breathe.

The warmth of him arrives first before the force, and then it builds until there’s no ignoring it. Joel holds himself still, barely breathing, maintaining just enough to keep you working against the resistance. When his tip breaches, the sting is sharp and splitting, making you clamp your eyes shut and grind your teeth to keep the noise inside.

“S’that hurt?”

“No.” The lie hisses through your teeth. “It’s fine.”

He reads into it, pulling back and adding more spit to try again. He gets in a little further this time. Minutes slip by and barely any progress is made. The room goes quiet around the two of you, just breath and effort, the stubborn work of it. He grunts with frustration when he leans in harder but can’t seem to pass through more.

“Jesus, it’s so fucking tight.”

“Twenty something years’ll do that.” The attempt at diffusing the strain with humour does absolutely nothing for either of you.

He’s determined and keeps at it, enough that your eyes snap open with the shock of it when it feels like it’s about to work. Your hand goes searching for his and you clasp your fingers around his thumb when you find it, squeezing hard and puffing air out through pursed lips.

And at last — finally — he sinks all the way in, his pubic hair pressing against your skin and that feeling of fullness making you gasp. You let out a string of small, helpless sounds as you feel the pulse of him inside of you and your body starts to adjust around him. Your forehead and chest shine with the sweaty result of every muscle in your body getting you through it.

“There we go…” His voice goes soft again. His hands planted either side of you. “How’s that feel?”

“Good…” A breath. “Really good.” You exhale slowly, taking the silence that follows to let yourself settle around him. “You know, for someone who’s never done this before, you did a great job.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. His chocolate brown eyes melt for you even more. It’s funny, even a little ridiculous, but it clearly means something to him regardless.

He waits for you to level out and then his hips start to roll. The friction burns at first. He sees it in your face and dials it back, waiting, giving your body time to catch up and meet him. His focus is entirely on you.

“Feels so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, watching himself disappear inside of you.

It's not quite there for you yet, but the heat is building and your head goes back firmly against the mattress. It’s enough that it feels good for him.

He sees the exposed line of your throat, the red flush rising up your neck, and he folds himself down into you, his mouth finding your skin again, pressing delicately against your Adam’s apple and then towards your shoulder. His moustache grazes and it dissolves you entirely. Every muscle fizzles at once and your whole body turns to liquid underneath him.

He feels the ease of how he slides in and out of you now. “Yeah, that’s it,” he breathes against your ear, building a pace that starts to make the room blur and spin.

He begins to thrust a little faster and with your body fully relaxed, his girth starts to work for you rather than against you. It’s a type of pleasure you’d long forgotten. It takes the air out of your lungs and makes your legs shake as they try desperately to hold on to him.

The headboard is now rattling against the wall in an unapologetic way. His face is pressed against your clavicle and the things coming out of his mouth get filthier and less coherent the deeper he gets into it and into you. 

You take a fistful of the hair at the back of his head again as the sounds barrelling from your throat change from shy whimpers to something unbound, each one interrupted by the force of his thrusts.

He’s sweat-slick and scorching to the touch, the aroma of his labour at full intensity. You reach a hand between your bodies and take hold of your own cock and feel your first, clean shot of uncomplicated pleasure as you start to tug.

You don’t get the chance to do much with it though. His moans suddenly morph into something hoarser and urgent, the pace quickening as he starts to lose the thread of control. He grunts unselfconsciously against your neck like he’s past the point of holding back.

And then it happens.

Unannounced, he seizes with a full, shuddering convulsion as he cums, his cock pulsing deep inside as warmth spreads through you. His thrusts lose their strength one by one until he slows to a stop. 

You hold him through it, one arm around his back and the other in his hair, keeping his face close to yours and steadying him through the aftershocks as they ripple through him. He shakes vigorously against you as everything drains out of him entirely. He goes heavy against your chest, his cock still twitching inside of you while his breath remains ragged and warm against your neck.

“Fuck… holy shit,” he pants.

You weren’t ready for it to be over just yet, but you hold on to him because you’re not sure what else to do. By the time he pushes himself up and looks at you, you haven’t got your face together to disguise what’s going on in your head.

He finds something he was afraid of finding and you watch it register with him in layers. Shame first, then the embarrassment of the clumsily early finish, the rawness of being this exposed, and then the same expression that broke you after the first kiss. The immediate fear followed by the urge to put the walls back up. He looks like he knows he can’t undo what he just did. He fights it, trying to stay present and out of his head. You can see it happening right in front of you.

“‘M sorry,” he says quietly and slightly panicked.

“For what?” You keep your voice even and gentle. Not just to protect him, but you as well. “That was great.”

He looks at you like you’re being kind rather than truthful and swallows. The doubt sits plainly in his face and he doesn’t try to hide it, which is almost worse. Joel has nowhere to retreat to. He’s in his own home, his own bed. He starts pulling away, out of you, out of the bed, before you can say anything else. He looks around his room like he’s searching for the nearest escape route.

“Gonna go clean up,” he says, already stumbling loose-legged towards the en-suite.

You listen to the water running, to him clearing his throat once, twice… the ordinary sounds of someone trying to collect themselves. Your own mind starts to kick up in the quiet, retracing those last few moments and looking for the point where he snapped back, whether it was inevitable, whether you could’ve done something to prevent it. 

Just as you’ve worked yourself into a state of low-grade dread, he reappears in the doorway.

You climb out of his bed and meet him halfway across the room, pressing a kiss to his mouth that’s barely returned. His eyes remain open for it.

“Be right back,” you say, slowly slipping past him and into the bathroom.

The clean up is brief and rushed, but you grip the edges of his sink and pause a minute to stare at yourself in the mirror once you’ve taken care of the bodily fluids leaking out of you, which included a small trickle of your own blood. 

The marks of passion cover your body, but your eyes have a consternation about them. He’s going to wound you again. He’s going to withdraw into himself for days, maybe weeks, maybe forever. This could be the last time you ever have any sort of contact with him. You can’t let him do it to you. Not again.

He’s back in bed when you return, on his back with his forearm draped over his forehead. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling with a particular blankness in them, like has been arguing with himself for the last several minutes. You hover in the doorway and watch him for a moment before speaking up.

“I think I’m gonna go.”

It seems like the fairest, most sensible thing to do. Give him the privacy to spiral in peace and deal with whatever has a hold on him. Keep yourself distant and out of his way and try to find something else to keep your mind preoccupied until the hurt goes away.

But his arm comes down and his head turns. The look on his face is immediate and undefended, like he’s stricken by it. “Huh?… you’re leavin’?”

You don’t know what to make of it.

“Yeah. Jeremiah’s home alone. I need to check on him. And Ellie could come back any minute.”

He sits up like he might need to get out of the bed to stop you. “No, n-no. She won’t—” He stops and gathers himself. “Stay for a while.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Joel.”

“Please—” His voice is dry with desperation and his longing eyes hold you in place across the room. “Even just for an hour.”

Two contradictory things happen in your chest at once. Your heart breaks a little for him because of the particular vulnerability it takes for him to ask out loud like this. But it also warms at the fact he’s asking at all. He hasn’t retreated yet or gone cold like his history would lead you to expect. He’s sitting there with it written all over his face and he’s letting you see it. For someone like Joel Miller, this might be one of the bravest things he’s ever done.

“Okay,” you nod. The word comes out soft and shapeless. “An hour."

You lumber back to the bed and climb in beside him. He lays back down and watches you settle and pull the sheets up over you. Some of the tension leaves his face now that you’re there next to him.

Then, without a word, he turns over, faces out towards the room and shifts back against you. You understand straight away. He wants to be held by you. You move in closer, chest to his back and your arm sliding under his. Your lips find his shoulder and then the warm, thick skin at the back of his neck. His hand comes down over yours and closes around it. He exhales slowly and lets himself go heavy in your arms, sinking back into you like he’s finally found serenity. 

Silence and stillness befalls the room. There’s nothing but the sound of the two of you breathing yourselves into a haze of calm.

For that one hour, nothing else exists except his warmth. The suffering of the last two decades, the threat of what the future holds — none of it matters here in his bed.

All there is is this.

And that’s enough.

October 14, 1993

Sarah’s temper tantrums have become the morning soundtrack this week again. They blare through the house as everyone scrambles to get her ready for another day of pre-K. She’s been more stubborn about it lately. She’s told her parents that the boys keep pushing her around and pulling her hair.

Clothes, both worn and unworn, lie strewn across the floor in what feels like every room of Joel and Dani’s Austin rental. Toys remain where they were abandoned in dangerous heaps like they’re waiting to cause the next accident. The place has slipped into a kind of domestic wreckage that no one seems to have any control over. Nothing is where it’s supposed to be.

In the living room, Sarah sits cross-legged on the rug by the couch, half-dressed and crying hard enough that her neck is red and damp with tears. Across the way in the kitchen, Dani moves frantically around the stove, stepping over those little plastic hazards that certainly should not be on the kitchen floor. 

“Baby, please, enough crying. Your breakfast is almost ready and then we gotta go,” she pleads. Her voice is fragile with urgency and stress.

Sarah keeps on crying.

“C’mere, baby,” Joel says from the couch, hunched over as he pulls on his old, worn-out work boots. He reaches out and gathers his daughter into his lap. “What’s goin’ on? You don’t wanna go school today?”

Sarah scrubs at her eyes and shakes her head with her lip stuck out with stubbornness.

“Tell you what,” Joel says. “You’re gonna listen to your mama, eat your breakfast and go to school. If you do, I’ll take you out for a milkshake this weekend. Deal?”

She doesn’t respond. She just sits there with her arms folded firmly and her face soured. The crying, however, has subsided. That’s good enough for the time being.

Joel notices something then when he sniffs the air.

“Dani… somethin’s burnin’.”

“Oh, fuck!” she spits, dropping her cup of water and her pills on the counter.

She spins around to the stove just in time to catch the scrambled eggs blackening in the pan. She was totally distracted watching Joel calm their daughter with that effortless patience he seems to have, even though he’s hardly ever home.

Joel works long days as a very hands-on contractor with his younger brother. Most shifts run late into the night when he gets involved. With the residential housing market booming the way it is in Austin now, there’s always more work waiting to be done and not enough skilled people to do it.

Joel has taken whatever jobs outside of his actual responsibilities he can get his hands on. Weekend roofing… emergency plumbing calls… concrete pours that need to be done before the next day… And any time someone calls in sick or gets injured on site, Joel sees it as an opportunity to take over unfinished contracts and do it himself.

There’s no shortage of it outside of Austin either. It’s just money waiting to be made if you’re fit and driven enough to chase it — or in need of a distraction from what’s going on inside your head or at home. 

Joel’s plan is to stick at it for another year and save enough money to get his young family out of this rental and into a proper home. Somewhere better suited for a young family who haven’t a clue what they’re doing.

Despite Dani’s perfectly silk-pressed hair, fresh manicure and brand-new blouse from the best boutique in town, it’s all for show. Her sunken eyes are evidence that she’s hanging on by a thread. It would be an understatement to say it has been a long week this week because it’s just been a continuous long four years since Sarah came along.

Joel presses a kiss to the top of Sarah’s head and sets her down on the couch next to him before standing with a ready sigh. 

“I’ll see you later then,” he says to Dani while already drifting towards the door.

“Wait—”

Joel stops in the living room doorway.

“I love you,” Dani says, forcing a smile onto her face.

Joel glances between her and Sarah.

“You too.”

—

A pattern had formed over a number of weeks. Joel began leaving for work earlier than he had to while taking on extra side jobs wherever he could fit them in, which meant he came home later and later into the night.

At first, Dani tried to wait up for him. 

She’d sit in the living room long after Sarah went to bed with the television murmuring to itself or she’d lie awake listening for the sound of his truck pulling into the driveway. Eventually, she gave up. She became too exhausted and when she pushed through, it was just pointless. They felt like two tired husks of people passing each other like ships in the night before collapsing into bed.

One night in particular, though, Dani made the effort again just to try.

She lay awake under the covers, listening to the quiet in the house until she heard the growl of his engine and his tyres crackling over the driveway. The headlights glowed behind the curtains, filling their bedroom with temporary shadows. The truck door closed, the front door opened, and Joel stumbled into the bedroom not long after, offering little more than a vacant “hey” and a quick rundown of how stacked his day had been.

His hair was chalky with sawdust and little wood splinters, so he disappeared into the bathroom, showered and then came back out and clicked the light off before climbing into bed with a long, weary sigh.

Dani had doused herself with her favourite perfume earlier and was wearing a brand-new lingerie set she’d bought that afternoon especially for tonight.

Lingerie had never been her thing at all. The fabric felt uncomfortable and itchy on her skin. Standing in the mirror earlier and staring at herself had made her feel ridiculous and like this was all a huge mistake. She even felt a hint of relief when Joel switched the lights off. At least he wouldn’t have to see it.

After a moment of pure silence, she moved across the mattress and carefully mounted him, bracing her legs on either side of his waist. She leaned down and scattered soft, unreturned kisses along the corner of his mouth and the edge of his jaw.

“What’re you doin’?” Joel muttered.

Dani lifted her head, peering down at him through the dark.

“Uh… I dunno,” she said, suddenly wounded and unsure of herself. “I thought we could… y’know. It’s been a long week. I missed you.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, the sound edged with frustration and regret.

“Not tonight, Dani,” he said. “I’m tired.”

Her mouth dried up instantly. A cold chill washed over her shoulders as she sat there, more naked and exposed now than she felt before.

She slid off him in defeat without a word and rolled onto her side, facing the dark stretch of the room, knowing she wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight. At least she tried.

— 

October 19, 1993

“How about pancakes? You want pancakes instead?” Dani asks, frantically flicking through cupboards and pulling out the ends of a bag of flour.

Sarah sits slumped at the kitchen table and whines over a bowl of cereal she rejected minutes ago.

“No! I don’t want breakfast! I don’t wanna go school!”

“Cut it out,” Joel says firmly as he enters the room from behind her. He moves fast preparing to leave for another long shift. He leans over the back of Sarah’s chair and presses a kiss into her hair. “Listen to your mama. You gotta eat somethin’.”

“I’m not hungry, dad…” Sarah whines. “I wanna go to work with you instead.”

“You can’t, baby girl. S’too dangerous.” Joel rubs the back of her head to soothe her. “I’ll be home later and we can watch a movie or somethin’, okay? I promise.”

Dani glances over her shoulder from the stove. “I thought you were finishing early today so you could head out for that repair job later tonight?”

Joel pauses. She’s right.

He agreed to it last week and told Dani in advance. The plan was to get this smaller job done this morning, do the school run and pick up Sarah to give Dani a break, then drive out west of town for another job later in the evening. He wasn’t going to be home until the early hours of the morning.

“Oh, yeah… Shit. Sorry. Forgot.” He scratches the back of his head, realising he can’t even keep up with his own schedule anymore. “I better get goin’.”

Dani watches him reach for the front door. “Why would you leave now?” she says. “You don’t have to be there for another hour.”

Joel freezes for a beat and looks up at her, hiding the guilt in his expression.

“I know… Just wanna get everythin’ set up for the boys. Makes it easier for everybody.”

Her jaw shifts and she crosses her arms, now leaning back against the countertop. There was a time when she would’ve pressed harder for a clearer explanation. Lately, she doesn’t bother exploring the holes in his reasoning anymore.

“I’ll see you later, okay? Love you,” Joel says before turning for the door once more.

“Oh, do you?” Dani fires back with eyebrows raised.

Joel stops again when he catches the tone in her voice. He turns back. “What?”

“It’s just funny hearing you say that all by yourself,” she says. “Can’t remember the last time you did.”

Joel furrows his brow. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about!” Her voice suddenly jumps to a much higher volume, making both him and Sarah jolt a little. “It’s like you don’t even see me anymore. You won’t touch me. You haven’t since Sarah was born! You run off to work as fast as you can and don’t come home until god knows what time. What are you hiding from exactly? Are you trying to stay away from me?”

Joel takes a deep breath, drops his jacket on the couch and plants himself in the middle of the living room now, his hands resting on his hips. He knows this is a conversation that is long overdue but he doesn’t want to have it right now.

“I’m not hidin’ from nobody,” he says. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“To sleep for a couple of hours. That’s about it.” Dani applies even more venom in her tone. “I’m here all day every day keeping this place going and you just blow in whenever it suits you, take her out for milkshakes and walk away looking like the fucking hero. Do you know how much that pisses me off? Knowing my own daughter would rather spend time with her father who’s never here?”

He sees the ache in her eyes. He knows all too well that Dani feels rejected by both of them.

The baby blues never really lifted after Sarah was born. Dani shrank into herself and into the bleakness of lonely motherhood. Her friends drifted away. She stopped doing the things she used to love doing. These days, the only real communication she has with the outside world is with her mother and older sister who visit every now and again. Without resources in place for a new mother, her head went underwater fast.

“So, what? You tryna tell me I’m a bad father?” Joel asks.

“No.” Dani says, exasperated now. “Of course not. I know you love Sarah more than anything in this world. I just feel like you don’t love me.”

Joel can’t and doesn’t respond to that. The truth remains locked deep inside where he never lets anyone in. It’s a secret he’d rather take to the grave with him. 

Joel and Dani met five years ago at a bar. Two separate groups of friends and too many drinks. The night ended in Joel’s apartment with both of them collapsing into his bed with drunken giddiness. They somehow managed to fuck before passing out, but neither remember much of it. The next morning came with the most brutal hangover and the shared understanding that it was never meant to happen.

It was supposed to end there. It was supposed to be something they’d laugh about if they ever bumped into each other again someday at that same bar. Joel wasn’t prepared when Dani showed up at his apartment a little over a month later, scared out of her mind to tell him that she was pregnant with his baby and her family were not pleased.

He remembers staring at her for a long moment as his entire life shifted in that very minute. He couldn’t bring himself to push her away or admit that it was all a mistake and there were no feelings there. He wasn’t raised to be that guy. He was raised to work and provide for his family. He was raised to be a father. Selfishly, being a dad was the one thing he wanted most so he could raise a kid much better than his own father raised him. He had to at least try to make it work.

Even though he knew it wasn’t right, even though he knew he’d be building their life on a lie, leaving Dani stranded to raise his child alone seemed way worse. It would’ve eaten him alive every day for as long as he lived. Knowing his child would’ve grown up without him was simply unthinkable. He devoted himself to her and the new life they were bringing into the world that day.

That same woman who showed up at his door stands here now in their kitchen, eyes glossed with tears and voice shaking with insecurity. 

Neither of them are willing to admit it. They are just two young people that were forced into a situation before they were ready. No one could win because the system was not set up that way. One stays out of guilt, the other stays out of hope. Both want it to work but know that it doesn’t and never will.

“You look at me like I’m a chore, Joel,” Dani says, her tone more vulnerable now. “Like I’m an inconvenience or just another mouth to feed. Meanwhile, I’m the one making sure the chores are done and I’m the one making sure our daughter is fed. You chose this!”

“That’s not fair,” Joel fires back. “You know damn well I’m bustin’ my ass to keep this roof over our heads. I’m workin’ longer than I want to just to make sure we have what we need. And you’re off spendin’ our money at the damn salon.”

“Because I want you to fucking look at me!” she shouts. “I want you to want me as much as I want you!”

Sarah begins to cry, frightened by the sound of her parents arguing and the suffocation from the tension flooding the entire house.

Joel glances towards Sarah and is even more frustrated now that she’s having to witness this. He lowers his voice. “I’m doin’ my best. For both of you.”

“Yeah, right,” Dani says, her tone cold and dismissive now. “Well, it’s not good enough anymore. Go on. Go see your boys. You’re probably screwing one of them, that’s why you always wanna be there.”

Joel rolls his eyes now that the conversation has soured past the point of sense. Something about the suggestion gives him a deep sense of discomfort though. It a nerve somewhere.

He snatches up his jacket and keys and a moment later, the front door shuts. 

Dani stands quiet in the kitchen, now left alone with Sarah who continues to sob softly at the dining table.

—

Later that afternoon, the crew drifts towards Joel’s truck as the job site winds down for the first half of his day. Even without the threat of summer heat, it’s easy to work up a sweat with the sheer amount of labour to be done.

Joel pushes the driver door shut with his hip while being careful with his left hand. His thumb sticks out stiff inside a thick wrap of gauze, swollen from where he accidentally smashed it with a hammer earlier. He’d been distracted all morning with his mind stuck back at the house and his thumb paid the price.

“You gonna take some time off now to let that heal up?” Itchy Ritchy asks, nodding at his bandage.

They call him Itchy Ritchy because of how he scratches his head with that dumb look on his face whenever someone tasks him with something. He’s pitifully bad at following instructions and often needs things explained to him two or three times before it starts to make sense. Why Joel lets him continue to work on sites like this is a mystery to the whole group.

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” Joel mutters. “Don’t exactly have time for time off.”

Arnie, another one of the guys, leans against the tailgate, watching him and notices how distant he seems. “What’s goin’ on with you?” he asks. “You been actin’ real weird lately.”

Joel continues to stuff tools into the bed of his truck. “Nothin’… Just home stuff.”

Ritchy snorts. “We know what that means, fellas.” He jerks a thumb towards Joel. “Dani’s on his ass again.”

A few of them let out a long, teasing ooh and another bumps Arnie with his elbow, grinning at the suggestion.

“Women are fuckin’ crazy,” Ritchy goes on. “That’s why I stay single. Y’all remember my ex Melissa, don’t ya? That woman was a fuckin’ psycho. Certified stalker.”

The entire group knows that’s not at all why Ritchy remains single — and furthermore, none of them remember a Melissa or have seen any evidence of this so-called “stalking” he claims to have endured.

Joel cuts him a sideways look, not appreciating the subject being broadcast to everyone present.

“It’s not—,” he says, already reaching for the door again. “It’s nothin’. I gotta go pick up my girl.”

He yanks the door open, climbs into the driver’s seat and pulls it shut with a solid thud.

The sound leaves the rest of them standing there beside the truck in a brief, uncomfortable quiet before Joel’s truck’s engine rumbles and he takes off away from the site.

—

The bell rings outside and the front doors burst open. Children spill out across the pavement while teachers stand nearby, trying to keep some loose sense of order. Parents call out names and little shoes slap against concrete as the whole place floods with the sound of shrill voices and families peeling away to return to their vehicles.

Sarah lingers near the back of the pack, scanning the crowd. When she spots Joel by the gate, her whole face brightens and she sprints across the pavement in his direction.

“Hey, kiddo,” Joel says as she barrels into his legs with her arms clamped around him. “How was your day?”

“Good,” Sarah says, handing Joel her backpack and grabbing his hand as they turn to walk back to his truck.

“Mommy was really sad this morning when she said goodbye,” she adds, looking down at the ground.

Joel exhales and glances around to make sure no one is within earshot. “I know, baby girl. Everythin’s gonna be okay. You don’t need to worry about none of that.”

“She was crying in the car.”

Joel looks off into the distance as the guilt and shame sinks its teeth into him again. Sarah shouldn’t be aware of any animosity between her parents. She shouldn’t feel like something is wrong.

“I said don’t worry. I’ll talk to her when we get home,” he says. “How about we cheer her up together? S’that sound like a good idea?”

She doesn’t answer. Her gaze remains stuck on the ground beneath her like something else is on her mind. 

“Those boys weren’t botherin’ you again today, were they?” Joel asks.

“No. They left me alone.” She shrugs. “I was on my own all day. I liked it.”

Joel stops walking and drops down to his hunkers so they’re eye to eye. “Alright. Well, listen to me,” he says gently. “If anyone pushes you around or pulls your hair again, you come’n tell me right away. Understand?”

Sarah nods, a small grin creeping across her face. “Dad? Can we get ice-cream?”

Joel chuckles quietly. “You know what? That ain’t a bad idea. C’mon, kiddo.”

—

Half an hour later, Joel pulls up outside the house. 

Sarah hops out first, her fingers still sticky from melted ice cream. Joel reaches across the seat and picks up the small bunch of flowers he grabbed at the gas station too. The petals are already starting to wilt, but they were the last bunch left so he grabbed them anyways.

He takes a breath, steadying himself for the apology he’s been rehearsing all day in his head. Sarah skips ahead happily to the porch while Joel wrestles the keys one-handed and finally gets the front door open.

“Mommy! Mommy! We have a surprise for you!” Sarah shouts as she gallops inside, heading straight for the kitchen.

Joel kicks off his boots and drops his keys into the bowl on the old cabinet in the hallway. Immediately, he senses something is off. Joel always hated how accurate his instinct was. The house is quiet. Too quiet. Dani’s coat isn’t hanging on the hook where it always sits. The framed photo with her mother and sister is gone from the wall.

“Mommy! Where are you?” Sarah calls out, racing through the lower level before thundering upstairs.

Joel moves into the kitchen slowly. At first, the room looks the same as it always does, but at a closer glance, something about it feels hollow, like pieces have been silently lifted away without making it obvious. There’s gaps on the counters where things used to be and a general absence of homeliness.

“Dani?” he calls. His voice ricochets off the walls throughout the house. Nothing.

He steps back into the hallway and lingers by the foot of the stairs, looking up.

“Sarah, she up there?” he asks.

Sarah’s head pokes around the banisters at the top. 

“Nope. She’s not up here. I can’t find her.”

Joel’s eyes narrow, wondering where on earth she could possibly be. Is she out for a walk? Was the place burgled while she’s been gone?

He heads upstairs anyways, searching for some sort of clue.

The bathroom door creaks open. Her makeup bag is gone from the counter.

Then he tries their bedroom.

The bed sits rumpled and disordered. Unusual. She always makes the bed. 

Clothes are scattered across the floor, but not like they normally are. The wardrobe door hangs open and he can tell right away there are clothes missing. In fact, almost all of her clothes are gone.

Then he notices something sitting on her bedside table. A yellow sticky note.

He picks it up to read it quietly to himself.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. Don’t try and look for me.”

AN: 🥲😬🫣 So... yeah. This was my take on what happened between Joel and Sarah's mom. It's loosely inspired by a woman I worked with who did something very similar to her own daughter. She upped and left while her daughter was in school and now we don't really know where she ended up. It stuck with me for all these years because it's so rare for the mother to do it, so yeah 😔

May 5, 2024

Dawn breaks through the hospital windows, chalky from the film of dust. You’ve hardly slept, just drifted in and out beneath the humming fluorescent lights, your body angled into a plastic chair in the waiting room, counting the hours by the worsening ache in your neck.

No one has come to tell you anything. Staff move in quiet currents with shoes gliding over tile. Someone laughs a little too loud at the far end of a corridor and then immediately adjusts their volume when they remember where they are. Workers pass you without acknowledging you. You’re invisible to them.

Finally, not long before ten, Wendy is suddenly there, lowering herself into the chair beside you. A clipboard settles on her knee with a soft slap. She looks as wrung out as you, grey around her edges, but there’s something else in her expression. An awareness that what she’s about to say will crush you.

“W-well? Is he going to be okay?” you ask, the question scrapes on the way out.

Her warm hand comes to rest on your lap.

“I’m really sorry,” she begins. The words thrust into your chest before she says anything else. “It looks like we’re dealing with something outside of our means.”

You straighten up a little. “Outside of our means? What are you talking about?”

“We ran blood work and imaging,” she says, flipping through the pages of her clipboard. “Given the hemoptysis, the weight loss, the chronic cough…”

She hands you the x-ray.

“…and this.”

You hold it up to the light. There it is. A dark mass in the right lung. Completely undeniable. Aggressively present. You search the shadows for a mistake, a smudge, anything that could be blamed on bad film.

“It’s almost certainly lung cancer.”

The words are like an anchor, dragging every bit of hope and joy you started to reclaim to the bottom of the ocean with them. You stare at the black blob until your eyes ache, willing it to disappear from the sheet.

“There has to be something you can do.” Your voice barely carries.

Wendy shakes her head sympathetically. “I wish there was. I really do. But it’s progressed too far. Even if we had the equipment. Even if we had the drugs. This is it.”

You lean forward, elbows on your knees and fingers digging into your brow as though you can squeeze an alternate reality out of them. Anger flares inside with no direction. Why didn’t he come and get seen sooner? Why did no one drag him here? Why is there nothing that can be done?

“How long?” you finally manage, keeping your eyes fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor.

Wendy hesitates. “A few weeks, maybe. Months, if we’re lucky. It depends how quickly his lungs give out.”

Air leaves you in a sharp exhale and you drag a hand over your face. “Fuck… How is he now? Can I see him?

“He’s resting. We’ve stabilised him. Oxygen, pain medication… He’s had a rough night.” She studies you briefly. “You look like you’ve had one too. You should go home and sleep.”

“I can’t. Not until I see him.” You shake your head. “I’ll wait until he wakes up. I sent someone for Tommy. Once he gets here and I’ve seen Jeremiah, then I’ll go.”

She gives a small, tired smile, and your leg a gentle squeeze before rising and disappearing down the corridor, swallowed by the hospital’s quiet bustle.

You sit there after she’s gone, the silence pressing in. It all just feels wrong. You’d noticed his fragility, the way he coughed. Everyone did. Everyone let it slide and let his stubbornness win out. Now it’s real and entirely unfixable.

There’s a cruel poetry to it. He outlasted the outbreak and all the mayhem that followed for years after, only to be claimed by something old and ordinary. You’ve grown so desensitised to deaths that came fast and unexpected — the infected, gun shots, cults eating their own followers… Not knowing when someone was going to die was the new normal. This almost feels intimate and indecent.

Sleep drags you under without warning for what feels like a minute when two pairs of boots come thudding into the waiting room, jarring you back awake. You lift your head too fast and your neck punishes you with a sharp twinge. Tommy and Joel cross the floor to you, sunlight angling higher through the windows now. It’s nearly afternoon.

“Joey,” Tommy says, voice low and already prepared. “What the fuck happened?”

You pull yourself upright, rubbing a hand down across your neck. “I stopped by Jeremiah’s last night. On my way home.” Your voice is thick with lack of sleep. “Found him in his armchair coughing up blood all over himself. I carted him here as fast as I could.”

Joel and Tommy share a look and a stance, both with hands on hips and jaws tight.

“Has he been seen to yet? What’d they say?” Joel asks, watching the way you sway sleepily on your feet.

You nod once. “It’s lung cancer,” you say quietly. “He’s not got much time left.”

Silence drops between the three of you. It’s dense enough to feel.

You don’t mean to break. It just happens. A soft sob tears out of you, wrecked and unrestrained. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes as if you can stop it in its tracks. Tommy pulls you into his side without hesitation.

“I’m real sorry,” he mutters against your temple. “I know you care about him a lot.”

Your shoulders hitch and you let it spill for a second, your face buried in Tommy’s shirt with your breath stuttering. You throw your arms around him because you need it. You need to feel it all freely and you’re thankful Tommy is allowing you to.

Wendy emerges from one of the corridors then. “He’s just woken up,” she says gently. “You can come and see him now if you want.”

You lift your head from Tommy’s shoulder, eyes burning and glancing between her and Tommy. You realise you’re not in a state you want to present yourself in.

“I’ll go in there first,” Tommy says. “Give yourself a minute, get yourself together and then follow me in. Alright?”

He follows off after Wendy to the ward, leaving you sniffling alone with Joel. He watches you for a moment before stepping a little closer.

“You okay?”

You exhale and shake your head, staring off out of the window where the day carries on like nothing’s wrong. Tears begin to stream again hot and fast and you feel yourself start to lose control of your breath and slip into an anxious spiral. You try to brush them away with your sleeve, but more just follow. It all starts coming back all at once. The loss, the pain… the grief you haven’t even had a secure moment to process properly yet. It has followed you like a persistent shadow, and now it’s just reminding you it’s still there, waiting.

Joel sees the signs so his palm lands on your shoulder with a grounding squeeze. 

“Look at me,” he says, softer now than he’s ever spoken. “Breathe. Breathe for me. Just like this.”

You do as he says. In through your nose, out through your mouth, watching and matching the slow rise of his chest. Gradually, the shaking eases off. The world stops warping for a moment. Surprisingly, it works.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he says, more like an order than a reassurance.

Although your eyes are still hot and puffy, you nod. “I’m fine.”

Together, you head down the corridor to the ward. The smell of disinfectant bites at your nose. Machines hum behind closed doors. Every sound feels amplified. You would’ve thought your senses would be numb to the harshness after being here for a few hours, but they’re most definitely not.

You turn the corner into the ward and there he is. The sight of him almost makes your knees buckle and undoes you on the spot.

Jeremiah looks swallowed by the bed, blankets tucked high around his narrow frame. He’s always been thin, but this is another level. He’s diminished. It’s like the sheets are too heavy for him. The cannula rests beneath his nose, feeding him oxygen with a soft, persistent hiss.

Tommy shifts from the chair closest to Jeremiah without a word, giving you the space instead. You sink into it and slide your hand over Jeremiah’s. The cold of it startles you. You close your fingers around his anyways, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles to encourage some warmth back into them. Joel lingers at the foot of the bed, his arms loose at his sides.

“Ah, Joey, my boy,” he croaks, his voice thin and raspy. “You came back.”

“I never left,” you reply, suppressing the tears behind your smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Like death, to be frank,” Jeremiah says, attempting humour, but another cough comes rattling through his dry lips. “I assume they told you.”

All you can muster is a small nod. Your throat feels tight. Speaking feels unnecessary.

“It seems as though,” he continues, pausing to take a breath, “our time together is coming to an end.”

“Not just yet,” you reply, squeezing his hand again. “We’ve still got a good few teabags to get through.”

A faint smile ghosts across his mouth. You mirror it, even though your chest aches.

The quiet that follows feels like it could snap.

“Jeremiah,” you begin carefully, “I know you didn’t love the idea before, but I’d really like to move into your cabin. I want to get it all sorted before you get discharged so you have something cozy to come back to.”

“My boy,” he wheezes softly. “There’s no need. I won’t be going back for very long, surely.”

“Of course you will,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “Wendy said you’ve got loads of time left. I want it to be perfect for you. I’ll be able to make sure you’re comfortable and looked after.”

He studies you for a moment, his eyes clouded with fatigue.

“I suppose,” he rasps, his beard flickering with his own breath, “I’m not exactly in a position to argue.” He lets out a weak exhale that might be a laugh. “Very well, my boy.”

You smile, grateful for even just that, pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

“And Thomas,” Jeremiah says, lifting a trembling finger towards Tommy. “I’m glad you’re here so you can hear this…”

He gathers another breath with effort.

“When I’m gone… the cabin… and everything in it… is to go to Joey.”

—

May 8, 2024

With an exhausted grunt, you collapse onto Jeremiah’s armchair, the old furniture sighing under a weight it’s not used to. Every room has been tidied and refreshed. It’s been a while since you’ve seen so much grime and dust, but seeing the outcome is worth it now it’s all done. The sun sets shyly behind the trees in the distance and you haven’t even thought about feeding yourself.

Wendy had hoped Jeremiah would be home within a couple of nights, but that was three nights ago now. He’s still there, kept in for monitoring. You, Tommy, Maria and Joel have been rotating in and out of the ward, keeping him company in shifts so he doesn’t lose his mind in the quiet whiteness.

The old man has accepted what’s coming, but you still struggle to. It’s almost unsettling how deeply he’s lodged himself in you within these three months. That’s how things go though these days. In isolated, traumatised communities, bonds form fast and fiery. In some ways, it’s salvation. In others, it’s a cruel curse waiting to take its pound of flesh when the inevitable happens.

Your eyes just start to close as you choose sleep over fussing for food when a light knock sounds at the front door.

You drag yourself upright and flick the lamp on in the hallway, filling it with soft amber. When you pull the door open, Joel’s standing there. For a split second, your stomach drops. What happened?

“Hey,” he says, catching the spooked look on your face. He lifts some sort of square object wrapped in cloth. “Uh, sorry… Just wanted to stop by and check in on ya. See if you’d eaten already.”

Relief settles in your shoulders. “Oh… No, I haven’t. Didn’t really get a chance to make anything. I was actually just going to hit the hay early.”

“You need to eat somethin’,” he replies, holding up the dish again. “I brought casserole.”

“Pfft, you made casserole?” you chuckle, leaning against the doorframe with an eyebrow raised.

He shifts, almost sheepish. “Well, uh. No… I asked Maria to save you some. Seein’ as you’ve been so busy lately.”

A smile starts to tug at your mouth before you can stop it. Idiot. “That’s… nice of you. You wanna come inside?”

“Huh?” he blinks, like he misheard you.

You gesture over your shoulder. “Wanna come in and eat? I’ve got the fire burning. Or have you eaten already?”

“Oh.” He exhales, as if clearing his head. “Uh, yeah. Alright…”

You move aside and let him slip past, close enough that the warmth of him and the smell of outside air lingers in the narrow hallway after he’s gone.

In the kitchen, you peel back the cloth and empty the casserole into one of Jeremiah’s old pots. The metal clinks softly against the hob as you set it down. You swirl a wooden spoon through the thick tomato sauce. It’s another rich, vegetarian creation with beans and root vegetables. Within minutes, it begins to steam with delicate bubbles breaking at the surface.

Behind you, Joel’s boots sound soft against the wooden floor as he drifts through the living room. You picture him noticing the cleared shelves, folded throws and revived colours.

His footsteps slow and stop at the fireplace.

His gaze fixes on the painting of Jim and Jeremiah above it, shoulder to shoulder and caught mid-laugh. The affection and easiness between them is unmistakable and it still floors you how someone managed to capture it with brush strokes.

“It’s beautiful, isn't it?” you say, watching him from the kitchen doorway as you grab some bowls and cutlery.

“Yeah.” He stays where he is, hands on hips before glancing around at the rest of the room again. “You, uh… did a real good job in here.”

“It’s much better than what it was,” you reply, setting the table under the dim light above. “I just want him to be comfortable before… you know. He deserves it. This is his home.”

Joel turns then. He looks at you instead of the surroundings, watching you finish plating up. His jaw shifts, like he’s grounding down words he thinks about saying out loud.

A moment later, he slides into one of the kitchen chairs. You set a fragrantly steaming bowl down in front of him and then take your own seat across the table.

You both hover over your meal, closing your eyes lightly before taking that first spoonful. The heat instantly spreads down your throat to your chest.

“Mm,” you hum, just now realising how hungry you actually were. “Maria’s food is something else.”

“Yeah,” Joel mutters around another hot mouthful, “Sure helps when they get all the best ingredients.”

You tilt your head, smirking at the bitter undertone. “Whatever you need to tell yourself. Some people are just really good cooks.”

His eyes flick up to you. “My cooking wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“No, no…” you concede with a shrug. “A little bland, maybe… but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

He shakes his head, letting out a rough chuckle.

And then it hits you. That was the first time you ever saw Joel Miller laugh or smile.

It looks almost foreign on him, but you welcome it. It takes years off his face for a fleeting second. You catalogue it instinctively, worried you may never get to see it again.

“I’m good at a lotta things,” he mumbles staring down at his bowl. “But cookin’ ain’t one of ‘em.”

“Are you any good at plumbing?” you ask lightly. “Found some leaky pipes under both of Jeremiah’s sinks while I was clearing out. I’m useless with that sort of stuff.”

He leans back in his seat, huffing through his nose. “Well I’ll be damned. Finally found somethin’ you can’t do.”

Heat creeps up your neck at his teasing and you pray that you’re not visibly blushing. It feels dangerous and downright wrong to engage in the casualness of it.

“Maybe,” you say, pushing your spoon through the liquid. “I could actually use the help, though. And besides… you owe me.”

He squints at you. “Owe you? For what?”

“For saving your life?” you remind him.

He laughs again, fuller this time. “The fuck’re you talkin’ about? I brought you dinner, didn’t I? Made sure Maria didn’t put any meat in your food… Vouched for you and voted for you to stay… Debt’s settled.”

For some reason, his southern drawl comes out more pronounced. Maybe it’s something he just does when he’s relaxed enough to quip back. 

You duck your head, grinning at your bowl.

“Fair…” you murmur. “It was worth a try.”

He lets a few seconds of silence pass, his jaw slanted and his eyes shamelessly looking you up and down.

“I’ll take a look at it for you.”

You smile without looking back at him, but you’re aware he’s watching you glow under his attention. The warmth that rises inside of you has little to do with Maria's casserole and everything to do with the man sitting across Jeremiah’s table.

—

Some time later, the kitchen is cleaned and tidied. Maria’s casserole dish sits ready for Joel to take back with him. He’s crouched by the fireplace, nudging a log into place so the flames don’t gutter out.

The sly need for sleep starts to return now that you have a full belly. Your hips complain from all the bending and turning. There’s no indication Joel’s ready to leave yet though.

Behind you, you hear him rummaging, opening and closing cupboard doors.

“What are you looking for?” you ask.

“Nothin’,” he replies. “Just seein’ if you’re short on anythin’. Me and Ellie have more’n we need back home.”

You lean against a counter and observe, trying to make sense of his continued thoughtfulness. The switch up would nearly give you whiplash. You simply can’t picture any of this happening a mere few weeks ago.

Another door swings and then he pauses. He pulls out one of Jeremiah’s bottles of whiskey, squints at the label like he’s weighing it, then lifts it slightly. “Want some?”

You haven’t even answered before he’s already reaching for two glasses, pouring some out and taking them into the living room.

You follow after him. He sets your glass down on the coffee table in front of the couch, not by the armchairs, and lowers himself down with a low, aged sound. He takes a sip and looks back up at the portrait on the wall above the fire.

Taking your glass, you choose to sit next to him, close enough on the small couch that your knees and shoulders almost brush. The minimal space between you feels supercharged already, but he just stays fixed on Jim and Jeremiah’s painting.

“It’s crazy,” you say. “Jeremiah told me the story of how they met probably three times now, and every time, it hits me like it’s the first. It gives me some sort of hope that he found a reason to live so late in life… after everything.”

Joel takes another wordless sip of whiskey.

“Still,” you continue. “It just feels cruel that after surviving the outbreak, the conflicts… he finds someone that makes him feel safe and happy and… it all gets ripped away.”

“Ol’ man’s probably lookin’ forward to it,” Joel says. “Dyin’, I mean. Gets to see Jim again. Gets to leave all this behind.”

You hum, nodding and taking a sip from your own glass. It scorches down your throat in a way that feels cleansing.

“You know,” you say, glancing at him before returning to the portrait. “I’ve never actually been in love.”

“What about your boyfriend?” Joel asks, turning to look at you now. “The one in Brooklyn?”

You shake your head. “Nah. I don’t think we were ever in love. I couldn’t really let myself fall for him fully, because I knew he didn’t love me. Something in me just… wouldn’t let it happen until I knew he’d be there to catch me.”

He studies you. Being this open with him still feels wildly unfamiliar. It’s like stepping out onto a frozen lake and trusting it won’t crack. But inexplicably, his presence calms something within you. Even if the ice shattered right now, you're sure he’d pull you back out.

“Feels kind of stupid to even think about nowadays… the idea of being in love,” you say, a faint mocking in your tone. “There’s so much other shit to worry about. But for some reason I still wonder, y’know, what it feels like.”

“It’s hard,” Joel says gruffly. “It ain’t easy, carryin’ around someone’s heart in your hands every single day. If anythin’ happens, it’s all on you.”

“You’ve been in love?” you ask, trying not to look at him too openly. The slope of his nose, the line of his jaw, the way the firelight casts the most perfect shadows over him… It’s spellbinding.

“It’s complicated,” he says, his gaze dropping to the glass on his lap now. “Not really somethin’ I ever talk about.”

You let out a breath. “Well, even if it’s hard, I’m still holding out hope I’ll get to feel it someday. Even if it’s just once.”

The stillness that follows feels loaded. The fire carries on crackling, the only sound brave enough to fill the space. It’s almost domestic, but it feels dishonest given the way things started between you. You just can’t figure him out.

Breaking your thought, you feel him shift closer on the couch. His eyes meet yours for a split second before darting away, as if he’s chickening out. He looks almost irritated with himself, like he’s trying to force courage. Then he looks again, holding it this time.

The heat is immediate. He has the same look in his eyes that he had when he pinned you against the tree. It steals the air from your lungs and freezes you in place, completely disarming you. Even if you knew what to say, your throat constricts you into silence.

Then he angles slightly and leans towards you, slowly enough that you could stop him if you wanted to, but you don’t want to. For a moment, you try to convince yourself it’s your imagination, until the space on the couch between you dips beneath his weight and he crowds your space.

Now he’s close enough that there’s no mistaking it. Your lips part without permission, your eyes fixed on his mouth. He pauses just shy of contact, reading you carefully, checking for resistance, for doubt.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, his breath spiced with whiskey and warm against your mouth.

You can’t manage words. You just nod, suspended in the intensity of him, scared that any sudden movement might break the spell and make him retreat.

He closes the distance. His lips finally press to yours, cautious and tentative as he tests the shape of your mouth against his. He pulls back just enough to breathe, then returns, once, twice, each kiss a little surer. Your noses brush lightly and the whiskey fumes linger between you, inviting and urging you closer into him.

His hand cups your jaw now, thumb grazing your cheek to steady you as he deepens into it. He handles you like you’re something he doesn’t quite trust himself with, something breakable but treasured.

His touch causes your body to go slack, unravelling you faster than you were prepared for. An involuntary noise escapes between the soft pops of your lips, embarrassingly honest. Your body is humming with a sensation you’d long forgotten to the point it may as well be new.

Needing something solid to hold, you grip on to his forearm to stop you melting into the space between the cushions below. The scrape of his facial hair against your skin sends a dizzying rush through you, causing the front of your jeans to tighten to an almost painful degree.

And then — he stops.

He withdraws, leaving you breathless and disconnected, like you’re stuck in the moment. He takes in your flushed skin, the desperate wanting look, your swollen lips. Your gaze flickers shamelessly between his eyes and mouth, unable to pretend you didn’t want more.

Something unsettled flickers across his face. He looks at you like he can’t believe what he’s just done. Regret edges in, leaving your stomach in a desperate knot.

He stands suddenly, places his glass on the table with a muted clink and strides towards the hallway like it’ll make him travel back in time and undo whatever just happened.

“Wh—… Joel? Where’re you going?” You turn in place on the couch to watch him.

He stops at the threshold and glances back at you. Even though the firelight paints a sorrowful gleam of panic in his eyes, he looks a shade or two paler, like he’s seen a ghost.

“I—… I’m sorry.” His voice shakes with a fear you don’t quite recognise.

And then he’s just… gone. His boots echo down the hallway to the front door, opening and shutting it with a finality that leaves you feeling like you’re the one locked out in the cold.

May 4, 2024

By May, the snowy chokehold Jackson had endured all winter finally started to loosen. April ushered in the sludge of mud season and the river bloated with runoff. Dirty patches of sleet still clung to the shadows like a memory of the last few months, refusing to admit winter had passed.

With the shift to crisper mornings and afternoons that didn’t bite as hard, the town started to blossom with more life than you’d seen since arriving. More and more people moved about and reclaimed the streets later into the evenings just because they could.

A lot had happened since Ellie’s birthday. 

Jeremiah’s health was on a downward slide, a slow erosion he met with a frustrating amount of pride and defiance. He still vigorously refused to let you move into his cabin to help, choosing his solitude over the indignity of being monitored and cared for all day every day. After almost two decades of Jim making the decisions for him, he wanted his last run to be his and his alone.

Elise’s baking masterclass went down so well that there were immediate demands for another in the near future. Watching Ellie’s confidence grow since that morning baking with her was a treat in itself. Tommy mentioned she had brought the leftovers of her birthday cake to Sunday dinner the following night and no one left a single crumb. Ellie had apparently dedicated around fifteen minutes of the evening just to singing your praises in front of everyone.

Now you’re in the process of teaching her the bow. How to stand. How to control your breath. How to draw with calm. She has taken to it fast, quicker than you’d expected (or liked). She was unfortunately a natural, plain and simple. She possesses that same intuitive knack for survival you discovered you had years ago when you had no other option. 

The day she finally thudded an arrow into the centre of her target, Joel happened to be there, watching from the periphery like a ghost. When you looked over to the fence at him, you exchanged that same look of concern masked by subtle pride. 

Seeing her posture change and that grin spread across her face didn’t offer the same warmth as baking with her did. Instead, it felt like a cold boulder sitting in your gut. Baking is just a hobby. It’s safe and innocent. This is a prelude to what her experience could be outside the walls that were built to protect people like her. You desperately wanted to give in and share her joy, but it felt like she had unlocked a door you wish she had lost the key to.

Today marks another patrol with Joel. Dusty and Old Beardy plod side by side along the trail, which has gone soft from meltwater. The woods feel somewhat crowded today. There’s a territorial drone of insects, the rustle of birds overhead moving between branches and the distant crash of the river overflowing with trout that have reemerged. Even the air smells fresher somehow. Life has returned with Spring.

Between his habitual scans of the trees, Joel nudges his chin towards a patch of thawed earth where a pair of robins wrestle over a worm. “Soil’s near soft enough to dig,” he mutters. 

Further along, where the trail opens at the riverbank, something catches your eye. A broad winged shape poised next to a nest on a mast. “Joel. Look. What’s that?”

He squints into the glare of the sun, palm braced against his brow. “An osprey. Watch.”

Right on cue, the bird dips into the water, clean as a blade, rising again with a trout thrashing in its grip. Within a couple of flaps, it’s back to its nest.

You smile wide without thinking. There’s something indecently beautiful about watching nature at work. Joel notices. He sees how the colour has returned to your cheeks and the way your eyes don’t seem so dulled out anymore. When you catch him, he snaps his attention away, too quick for it to be casual.

He even acknowledged and made a comment the morning you showed up to patrol after receiving your first haircut at Mario’s. “S’good.” That’s all it was. In true Joel fashion, it was just one and a half words, but it might as well have been an entire poem. That’s how it felt to hear it, at least.

It feels entirely different being around him now. It’s easier. You don’t feel the need to protect yourself from him as well as whatever might be lurking out here in the woods. It would be a stretch to say you’re friends. Maybe allies at best. But certainly not enemies anymore.

The two of you have been coordinating as smooth as silk, adjusting pace and reading the land without needing to exchange any words. He doesn’t give instructions anymore. He doesn’t need to. You’re already doing whatever is needed to be done. That seed of trust you unknowingly planted the day you saved him outside Wilson Elementary is starting to sprout through the thawing muck.

The checkpoint comes into view, and with it, so does something that doesn’t quite belong. Something that immediately pulls you out of the state of calm.

Infected. A pile of them stacked in a deliberate mound, tangled together like dirty laundry on a bedroom floor. Ten of them at least, maybe more. 

You rein in instinctively to slow, causing Dusty to toss her head impatiently. Joel has already swung down by the time you slide off of your saddle and reach for your rifle.

The mud sucks at your boots as you approach and the smell reaches you before the full picture does. Each one has been beheaded.

“What the fuck,” you breathe, the words barely making it through your teeth.

“Stay near me,” Joel says quietly. “Watch the trees.”

He circles the pile, searching for some sort of explanation while you keep your focus on your surroundings. No drag marks, shell casings… nothing.

It isn’t exactly unheard of for patrols to discover one or two slain infected. But this many? On Jackson territory? There’s also the fact they’ve been arranged and left like a spectacle waiting to be discovered. This couldn’t have simply been a couple of people passing through.

Your gaze combs the trees, trying to catch a flicker of motion or a culprit. It’s as though the soundtrack of the woods goes silent, like the wildlife is helping you listen out. Twigs snap underfoot as you rotate around.

Then you see it.

Carved into the bark of a pine behind Joel and the heap is a single letter. D.

Before you can even alert him to it, Joel senses the change in your expression and tracks your line of sight, stilling when he spots it.

“What do you think it means?” you ask, careful with your volume.

He studies the cut a moment longer. “Don’t know,” he mumbles, dragging his fingers across it. “But it happened recently. Sap’s still wet.”

Without needing to say it aloud, you both think the same thing. It’s some sort of claim. A warning. Undoubtably the same people who have been circling Jackson, the ones who ambushed. They’re testing the fence line. They’re letting you know they’re still here.

Your anxiety starts to spike, hard enough that your fingertips tingle. The stillness surrounding you feels loaded now. You feel a phantom itch at the back of your neck, the kind of prickling sensation that you get when you can sense you’re being watched. Kai and Archie’s brutal end flares into memory uninvited.

“You good?” he asks, watching the way you start to shrink into yourself as the fear gets the best of you.

You tighten your grip on your rifle and swallow, almost expecting a gunshot to ring out any second now. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Let’s get to the checkpoint, then we head straight back,” Joel says. His eyes don’t settle on anything for long. “We should drop by Tommy’s tonight and tell him. I’ll let him know you’re comin’ by.”

All you can manage is a short nod, your throat becoming more dry by the second, before you’re both mounting back up, unable to escape the feeling that someone’s watching and the woods are closing in around you.

—

The patrol was completed and you rode back to Jackson without further incident. The gates closed behind you like nothing had happened out there. Still, the unease followed you in and was stuck to you like gum on the bottom of your boot.

The sky has gone dark by the time you reach Tommy’s house later that evening. Joel answers the door almost immediately, like he was waiting by the door for you to knock. He greets you under his breath and moves aside to let you in. The crease in his brow hasn’t eased since the discovery. He’s clearly been as engrossed as you’ve been.

The fire’s going strong inside, pushing heat throughout the house. Ellie’s already at the table, chair tipped back slightly on two legs until she notices Joel giving her that warning look.

“Ah, Joey. Good to see you, brother.” Tommy comes out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a dishcloth, Maria following closely behind him. There’s a smell of something roasting, herbs thick in the air. They’ve both got that disheveled, half-occupied look of two people fussing to get dinner ready in time.

“I hear you two had an eventful patrol today,” Tommy says, his eyes moving between you and Joel, reading what he can.

Maria rests a hand on his shoulder, steering him gently back towards the kitchen. “Let’s get food on the table first and then we can get into it.”

You drop into the seat next to Ellie, your knees knocking lightly against the table leg as she gives you a rundown of her week. Joel takes the seat directly opposite you, settling back and cupping a glass of whiskey in his palm.

“Oh! I made you something,” Ellie says, digging into the pocket of her jeans. “Here.” 

She drops a small bundle into your hand and waits for your reaction.

It’s a bracelet. Handmade with blue beads threaded through embroidery floss. The multiple shades of blue shift with the firelight like water under the sun. The knot is already starting to fuzz where it’s tied, proving effort in its creation.

“What’s this?” you ask, examining it up close.

“It’s for you, obviously,” she smiles. “I heard Ms. Zhang was making a bunch of these with her students, so I dropped by after class the other day so she could show me how to make one. You’re supposed to give it to someone you appreciate.”

Speechless, you turn to look to her, your heart expanding out of nowhere from the hit of it.

“Corniest shit ever, I know—”

“Language,” Joel interjects.

“—but I figured I owe you something,” she continues, ignoring Joel entirely. “Y’know… for everything.”

“Ellie… that’s— thank you,” you murmur, almost unable to get the words out. 

You slip it onto your wrist, turning it so she can inspect the snug fit. Her grin widens with satisfaction.

Across the table, Joel watches the exchange over the rim of his glass. He sees more than just Ellie gifting you a token of appreciation and accepting you as part of her circle. He sees a flicker of the girl she might’ve been if things hadn’t happened the way they did, if the world had just been kind to her. 

He tips his whiskey back, swallowing more than just the burn.

Dinner lands on the table moments later. Maria lowers herself into her chair carefully, one hand pressed to the small of her back. Her bump is more visible now under her flannel and she moves like someone still getting used to the new limitations of her body.

An assortment of vegetables steam on your plate in a neat pile. Carrots glossed in butter, potatoes flecked with herbs and green beans fresh from a pan. You’d prepared yourself for the discomfort of seeing some slab of meat, but there’s none to be found on your plate this time. 

When you look up at him, Joel is already watching you, waiting for you to notice. He gives a quick, almost dismissible sniff, then starts on his food.

He gave them a heads up. He asked ahead of time to make sure you could eat comfortably with them. Your ears warm from the gesture and you wonder if he has any clue how much it means.

Stupid. Ugh. Whatever.

“So,” Tommy says with a mouthful of potato. “Out with it. What happened out there?”

Joel shifts in his seat and takes another look at you before speaking up. “Near the checkpoint. Someone left a pile of infected on the trail. Thirteen of ‘em. All the heads removed.”

Maria slows mid-mouthful. She and Tommy exchange a look that says more than words need to. “Did you see anyone?” she asks, turning to you. “Did they leave anything behind?”

You shake your head. “Nothing. No real tracks, no sign of a struggle. Just… the letter ‘D’ carved into a tree next to the bodies.”

“The letter ‘D’?” Tommy frowns. “Like, with a knife?”

“Probably. Looked pretty fresh,” Joel says. “Can only assume whoever did it left the bodies there too.”

The scrape of forks fills the silence while everyone considers the information.

“Sounds like someone’s staking a claim,” Maria says.

“It’s another warnin’,” Joel replies. “They’re watchin’ us. They knew that was part of our route. They left ‘em right in the middle of the trail for us to find.”

Maria turns to her husband now. “Maybe we should hold off on patrols for the next while. Or at least change the route so they don’t notice a pattern.”

“No,” Tommy answers immediately. “We increase patrols. Get more people out there. We need to find out who these fuckers are. Draw ‘em out so we can take ‘em out.”

“And what if there’s more of them then there are of us?” Joel counters. “They were able to take out thirteen infected and leave ‘em there for us to find. These aren’t folks just passin’ through.”

“That’s why we show strength and not fear,” Tommy says, pointing his knife out towards him.

Joel exhales through his nose. “Good luck findin’ more people willin’ to go out there. We barely have enough as it is.”

“I’ll go,” Ellie pipes up, her smile bright and reckless, temporarily easing the heat of the discussion.

The adults let her offer fall flat, not even giving air to it. No encouragement, no acknowledgement. Just the steady return to the scrape of forks and the crackle of fire.

—

After dinner and under the lamplight, you head down the street on your journey back to the hotel, your boots scuffling lightly against the gravel. The air cools your cheeks nicely. You were almost too hot from the fire inside. Dinner sits comfortably in your gut, coaxing a yawn from you in that pleasant way that makes sleep feel close.

Joel’s goodbye just now won’t leave you alone. It replays in your head like it meant more than it did, to the point it almost feels like he’s walking you home. The signature short nod. The soft “g’night”. The way his jaw rolled as he looked you over once more before turning away with Ellie. The way you almost forgot to say bye to the hosts because you were so distracted by the glint in his eyes under Tommy’s porch light.

Don’t. Enough.

Laughter echoes from somewhere further in the settlement, probably folks leaving the Tipsy Bison similarly ready to head home to bed. Even Snake River gushes somewhere beyond the dark.

You’re passing Jeremiah’s when you notice something you wouldn’t normally see.

His lights are on.

You slow to a stop, your hands shoved in your pockets. It wouldn’t be out of place if it wasn’t so outside of his routine. He’s always in bed not long after sundown. Lately, he barely makes it from bed to couch during the day. It’s almost midnight now. Strange.

Without a second thought, you detour to investigate. No harm checking in.

His porch creaks under your boots as you approach and knock on his door. When you hear no sign of movement inside, you try to let yourself in. Locked. He hasn’t locked his door in a while.

“Jeremiah?” you call, pressing your ear to the wood and holding your breath to remain completely silent. Then you hear what sounds like faint wheezing coming from somewhere inside.

Within a split second, your pulse hammers and you move to the front window to peek through the narrow gap in the curtains.

Your eyes widen at what you see.

Under the weak glow of his reading lamp, Jeremiah is sat folded forward in his armchair. Dark splotches of blood have stained down his white beard. His body jerks unnaturally with a violent cough that seems to be brutally splitting his frail body in two. One hand clutches at his chest like he’s trying to keep his lungs inside of his body.

As if in auto-pilot, you’re suddenly slamming your shoulder into the door until it bursts open, the frame finally splintering on the third hit. The door flies inward, cracking against the wall as you sprint in the direction of his living room.

“Jeremiah!” Panic heightens in your voice as you drop to his side, your hand already checking him over and your eyes moving around the room wildly for something that could help.

His eyes roll and don’t seem to be able to find you. Another ugly, thick cough tears through him, spiking fright in you. He makes motions and noises that a kind, gentle old man should not be making. 

“My boy…” he croaks, his bony fingers now grasping your forearm tight. “Help me.”

March 29, 2024

“Do you actually know how to bake?” Ellie asks from the windowsill in Mr. Richards’ classroom, where she’s been folded up and mindlessly tossing a tennis ball at the wall for the last hour while you work away. 

She’s been orbiting you again this week. Even though the other students have long since gone home, she chooses to stay back and be bored in your company while you plan out an upcoming baking-for-beginners class for the older students hosted by Elise.

“Kinda,” you answer, finishing checking off the attendance list with your pencil. “What about you?”

“Nope. Never baked a thing.” Ellie’s ball bounces off the inner column of the windowsill again and again, landing back flat in her palm each time. “Maria said baking is a science. No idea what she meant by that, but I want to be good at it.”

A quiet huff pops out of you. “Then aren’t you lucky I managed to get the best baker in Jackson to come and give you guys a masterclass?”

She slows the pace of the ball and studies you briefly. “Can you help me bake something before the class?” She sits more upright now, interest peaking in her voice. “I want to at least know the basics so I don’t feel like a total idiot.”

Mild irritation prickles on your scalp. As much as you enjoy her presence, you have enough on your plate and adding babysitter to your list of duties might push you over the edge. “Can’t Maria practice with you? She’s spending more time at home now, right? She might enjoy the company.”

Ellie rolls her eyes so hard it’s almost theatrical and then hops down from the ledge. “She’s always sick or too tired. Come on. It’s not like you’ve got anywhere else to be.”

You scoff at the audacity. Cheeky little shit. You can’t help but admire her bravery to say such a thing when she knows your weeks are consumed by patrolling and working at the school.

You drag a hand down the front of your face and let out a breath that feels older than you are. “You know, tomorrow was supposed to be my first actual day off in weeks,” you say, looking down at her. “But fine, I’ll go speak to Elise and see what recipes she has spare. I’ll be at the bakery 9am tomorrow morning. I do actually have plans in the afternoon so be there, or you’ll miss your chance.”

A bright, triumphant grin lights up her face, the kind that can’t be controlled. Then she’s off, sneakers squeaking sharply as she heads down the hallway. The classroom suddenly feels empty and far too quiet without the sound of the ball thudding against the wall.

March 30, 2024

The next morning, you swung by Elise’s early to deliver some material for the masterclass. The bakery windows fogged against the cold as she prepared to stack the shelves for her usual morning rush, the air filled with the smell of yeast and hot sugar. When you mentioned Ellie’s request, Elise was only delighted to offer a recipe, hoping that teaching her to bake would “stop her from stealing cupcakes”.

She handed you two round tins and a grease-stained recipe for a simple Victoria sponge cake, the corners softened from years in her possession. “This should be easy enough,” she suggested. 

By the time you’re ready to leave, she’s packed everything for you in a backpack. Flour, sugar, butter… all measured out and ready to use. She even included a dark, glossy jar of jam made from the local chokecherries, preserved from last summer’s harvest. The only thing missing is eggs. She needs the ones she has, so you’ll have to fetch your own from the communal coop. On top of that, her kitchen is too cramped and too busy, so you’ll need to find an oven somewhere.

Ellie shows up just as you step back out into the brittle morning air, the cold stinging your cheeks compared to the welcoming heat inside the bakery.

“Ah, there you are, you made it,” you say, breath misting while juggling the bag with the ingredients. “We’ve gotta go pick up some eggs. Elise is running low.”

“Ugh,” Ellie groans, her nose flushed pink. “I literally walked by the chicken coop on my way here.”

“Well,” you reply, handing her the tattered recipe. “We can’t make cake without them, so let’s go.” 

You start striding off back in the direction she came without waiting for a remark. She lingers for a half a second to scan the page before scurrying after you to catch up.

“Victoria Sponge?” she mumbles under her breath. “Who’s Victoria?”

—

“Looks like there’s only one pair of gloves,” you say, rummaging through the equipment trunk next to the coop door. “Here, take ‘em.”

Ellie looks up at you as you place the thick leather gloves in her hands. “Wait, you’re making me go in there?”

You click your tongue and pick up a woven basket left there to be used. “Relax, I’m coming in with you obviously. I’m just gonna show you how to collect eggs. The gloves are just in case you get pecked.”

Her brows lift slightly at that, concerned and in no way reassured. 

“You’re not scared of chickens, are you?” you ask, a grin already tugging at your mouth.

“No,” she says, firm and stubborn. 

You tilt your head. “Wait… If you’re scared of chickens, that would make you a chicken, so are you scared of yourself?”

“I said I’m not scared,” she snaps, bristling enough to make you bite back a laugh.

The lock on the coop door resists, stiff with rust and frost. You wriggle it loose and ease the door open. Inside, feathers rustle in the dark. Low, disturbed clucks sound through the cramped space as the hens register the intrusion.

“Come on,” you murmur, ducking your head through the doorway to beckon her in. 

Even in the morning light, the coop is murky with light leaking through the patched boards in crooked slats. The smell of sour straw and droppings baked into the floor ambushes you. The air is thick with residual heat from the birds inside and the lack of insulation.

“Gah, it fucking stinks in here,” Ellie blurts a little too loudly, her voice bouncing off the wood as she lifts her forearm to her nose.

“Shh,” you whisper. “Nice and quiet. We don’t want to freak them out. No sudden movements, no loud noises.”

She responds by zipping her fingers across her lips and then nudges the door shut behind her with extra care.

“Whoa,” she breathes, her attention snagged by the rows of straw-lined boxes tucked against the wall. “So… what now?”

“Over here.” You edge towards an unoccupied nest. “See in there? Reach in and grab any eggs you can find. Make sure there’s no cracks and give them a gentle shake. If there’s a loose, sloshy feeling inside, it’s no good.”

As instructed, she crouches and dips her hand into the straw. A second later, she lifts out two pale and speckled eggs.

“No way,” she says, brows pinched with amazement as she turns one in her hand. “They’re… warm.”

“Yeah,” you reply, smiling and amused. “That means they were laid recently. Cool, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s warm. I just told you,” she shoots back with that mischievous, crooked grin flashing. 

A chuckle slips out before you can stop it. “Alright, comedian. Come on, we need two more."

Across the row, a line of hens sit planted over their nests with feathers puffed in quiet defiance.

“Here,” you say, guiding her closer. “I’ll show you how to take one from under them.”

Her head snaps to face you. “Wait, will it like… attack me?”

“Unlikely,” you reply flatly, but then you see her feel unsure of herself. “Don’t worry, I’m here if anything happens. You’ll be fine.”

She glances at you again, fear flickering across her face, but then steels herself like she’s bracing for something way worse than a hen.

“Now,” you whisper. “You’re gonna gently slide a hand under her and take the egg. She might look a little pissed, but don’t panic. Just stay calm and remember — slow and steady.”

Determined, she eases a hand underneath the hen. It fluffs up a little, making Ellie flinch just a bit. When it pecks its beak against the leather and she realises it doesn’t hurt, she laughs softly before drawing the egg out with relief.

“Nicely done,” you say, unable to hide your proud grin. “See? Not that bad.”

She studies the egg like a trophy before lowering it into the basket with the others.

Once the last egg is secured, you pull the coop door closed. It groans on its hinges before settling into place. With a sharp inhale of the fresh air outside, you turn back to the field. You slow your stride, mindful of the fragile goods Ellie carries in the basket as you cut through the pasture towards the gate.

“Now we’ve just gotta find somewhere we can bake this thing,” you say, your boots flattening the silvered grass beneath you. “Any ideas?”

“We could use Joel’s kitchen. He’s out on patrol today,” she suggests, casual as anything.

You shoot her a look like she’s lost her mind. “I don’t think Joel would appreciate me making a mess in his house.”

“I already told him you were teaching me to bake something today, so he knows,” she says, staring down at the taller blades of grass and kicking off the damp with the toe of her boot.

It would save you the time hunting down an oven that isn’t being used somewhere in town. “You sure?”

She nods. “Mm-hm.”

You exhale, watching your breath cloud in front of you. “Alright… I’ll trust you.”

—

Ellie claims the kitchen the second she walks in. Ingredients are unpacked and lined up in formation across Joel’s counter with the recipe smoothed out flat beneath her palm. You linger in the doorway for a minute, noticing the knife block by the stove, a vase with wilting flowers by the window and the ghostly scent of coffee hanging in the air.

“Okay, what do we do first?” she asks eagerly, already leaning in and scanning the counter for answers.

Instead of answering right away, you pull off your coat and drape it over the back of one of the dining room chairs and roll your sleeves up to your elbows. “First thing’s first. Wash your hands. I’ll preheat the oven.”

“Yes, chef,” she chirps, marching to the sink while you fiddle with the oven dial.

By the time you’ve set the oven and skimmed the recipe to double-check everything, she’s back, practically wedged at your side with energy fizzing out of her and ready for instruction.

“Right,” you say, sliding a large mixing bowl towards her. “You’re gonna start by cracking the eggs into this. You know how to crack an egg, yeah?”

Her shoulders dip an inch. “Yeah… It just doesn’t always go well.”

“Not to worry,” you reply. You reach for one and tap it against the countertop. “See? Like this. On a flat surface.” The shell splits open cleanly down the middle and you empty the contents into the bowl.

With concentration, she picks up the next egg, hesitates, then smacks it a little too hard against the counter. The shell caves in, and when she pulls it apart, fragments tumble into the bowl along with the yolk. 

“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath.

“That’s alright, no big deal,” you say, quickly reassuring her. “Look, watch this.” You take one of the larger shell halves and use it to scoop out the smaller shards from the bowl with ease.

She leans closer, watching like you’ve just shown her the secret to a magic trick. She reaches for another egg. Crack. Another piece of shell drops in. She fishes it out herself this time, careful and patient. Same again with the last egg, another stray shard, another calm recovery.

“Great stuff,” you say, skimming the recipe sheet for the next steps. “Next is the hardest part. Sift in the flour, add the butter and sugar and mix with a wooden spoon.”

“Doesn’t sound so hard,” Ellie remarks, already rummaging through the utensil drawer for a wooden spoon.

“Give it five minutes and we’ll see how you feel then,” you say.

She squints at you. “Five minutes? Why do I need to stir it for so long?”

“The batter needs to turn a sort of pale colour until it falls off the spoon easily. Butter can take a bit to soften, so you’ll be mixing for a while.”

“And that’s gonna take five minutes?” she complains.

“More than,” you reply, enjoying the shift in her tone. “You have to whip enough air into it to make it light and fluffy. I can take over after a while if your arm starts to hurt.”

She starts stirring, shoulders set like she’s gearing up for a fight. While she works, you gather the eggshells, wipe the surfaces and reset the space, hyperaware that this is Joel’s kitchen and you don’t want a thing to be out of place.

“Jeez,” she groans barely two minutes later. “Why’s it so tough?”

You can’t help it. “See, told you.”

She huffs and carries on. “Do you think my arms would get huge from doing this every week?”

“If you did it often enough and don’t eat the cake, I’m sure they would.”

“Good,” she stirs extra hard. “I wanna be strong for when I start doing patrols.” 

Your hand stops wiping the cloth around for a moment. “Patrols? You want to do patrols?”

“Yeah,” Ellie beams. “I already told Tommy. He actually mentioned you’re pretty good with a bow.”

“I’m not the worst,” you reply lightly, though your stomach knots. Two new patrols dead this month. The thought of her vulnerable outside the gates doesn’t sit right with you.

“Can you teach me how to use one?” she asks.

“I don’t know, Ellie,” you say. “Isn’t it a little early to be thinking about going out on patrols?”

“You can start training for patrols when you’re fifteen.”

“Well,” you say, “you’re only fourteen, so we can think about it again when you’re birthday rolls around.” 

“Uhh, it is my birthday,” she says, correcting you. “I am fifteen.”

You blink at her. “What? Really?”

She shrugs, her eyes still on the mixture. “We don’t know exactly what date my birthday is because my mom died after she gave birth to me. Someone had to, y’know, save me. But I like to celebrate it in the last week of March.”

“Huh,” you say, something in you softening. “Happy birth-week then! I’d have gotten you some sort of gift if I’d known. I had no idea.”

She flashes that mischievous look again. “How about teaching me how to use a bow?”

You let out a deep sigh and roll your eyes, knowing she’s got you again. “Fine… But let’s focus on making this bloody cake first and we can worry about weapons later.”

Her grin widens, victorious, still stirring like she’s conquered the day.

“Hey, where did you say you were from again? Before here, I mean,” Ellie asks, her wrist working the spoon in steady circles now that the batter has begun to soften.

Your gut folds in on itself. You clear your throat and rinse another dish. “I didn’t.”

“So…” She continues to stir. “Where’re you from?”

The tap squeaks off and you brace both hands against the countertop and stare at the warped wood grain. For a split second, you consider lying and just naming some other random town. Somewhere she wouldn’t even notice on a map. But she’s smart. Not much gets passed her. She would figure out you were lying in no time or hear it from someone else, and any spec of trust you’ve earned from her would be blown away in an instant.

You look over at her, hoping the next words you speak won’t spoil everything.

“Silver Lake.” You almost try to catch the name as it leaves your lips.

The spoon keeps circling. She doesn’t look at you, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. She just stirs until the silence becomes a thick fog. The door is about to be closed and sealed.

“It wasn’t a good place,” you add, your voice thinning slightly. “It was evil. Run by evil people. It took my family from me.”

The only sound is wood scraping glass and the low hum of the oven fan.

“I got out when it all fell apart. Now I’m here. Trying to get back what was taken from me.”

“How did you get away?” Ellie asks at last. It’s not her usual, curious tone. She sounds measured.

Your jaw stiffens.

“It was hard,” you say, attempting to steady your breathing. “The guy running the place didn’t want anyone to leave. But someone killed him. And by doing that, they saved a lot of people. They stopped a lot of people from getting hurt. It must’ve been a very difficult thing to do. Something they shouldn’t have had to do.”

Ellie stops stirring.

“Sometimes,” you continue gently, “people have to do terrible things to survive. But that doesn’t make them terrible people.”

She stares off into nothing. 

“My arm’s starting to hurt,” she says abruptly, pushing the bowl across the counter to you. “You stir.”

She drifts towards the sink and takes over the dishes instead. You surrender the space, swapping her spoon for your towel. Even though the mixture is already pretty much done, it gives you something to do in the dull quiet as she dries and stacks dishes away where they belong.

Wordlessly, you portion the batter into two round tins and slide them into the oven to bake.

“Um… did you get anything nice for your birthday?” you ask, aiming to keep your voice somewhat neutral.

“Yeah,” she says, reaching on her tippy toes to place a plate on a cupboard shelf. “Joel got me a guitar. Tommy and Maria got me a book to teach me how to play.”

“Wow,” you say, leaning back against the counter. “That’s… one hell of a gift. Did you always want to learn how to play guitar?”

“Mhm. I’ve been practicing some chords all week.” Ellie replies. A pause. “Wanna see?”

You lift your eyes to her, relieved by the offer. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

She darts off out of the kitchen with her boots rumbling up the stairs and returns a moment later holding a Martin that almost dwarfs her. The dark honey finish is worn slightly with age, barely visible scuffs patterned along the body. Must be another restore job from Joel.

She drags a chair out, settles the guitar against her knee and fusses with her fingers until they’re placed where she’s practiced. Tongue tucked against her lip, she strums an A major, stops to adjust, then E major. Then D, and then G. Each chords plays a little stiff and hesitant.

When she looks up at you, she’s grinning anyway. 

“Amazing,” you say, truly meaning it. “You learned that just this week? Took me ages.”

“Wait,” Ellie says, perking up a little. “You play?”

You scratch behind your ear. “I used to. It’s been years since I played properly.”

“Here.” She’s already shuffling off of the chair and putting the guitar in your hands before you can talk yourself out of it. “Play something.”

“Oh God… Really? What do you want me to play?”

“I don’t know, whatever. Joel always plays sad, old country shit, so anything but that.”

That gets a chuckle from you. You sit and rest the curve of the guitar against your thigh, clearing your throat and flexing your fingers as you let muscle memory find something familiar. 

“Oh, I know…”

Am, D, G, C, G

“So needless to say

I'm odds and ends

But I'll be stumblin' away

Slowly learning that life is okay”

Your voice comes out shakier than you wanted, but it holds. The melody of your favourite song feels strange in this kitchen, under Joel’s light instead of under an Irish afternoon sky where you once played this in your garden.

“Say after me

It's no better to be safe than sorry

Take on me

Take me on

I'll be gone

In a day or two”

By the time you reach the last line, Ellie’s watching you like she’s seeing a whole other person.

You play the last chord slow with a hum, letting it melt away into the warm kitchen air.

Ellie arches a brow. “Okay, I wasn’t expecting you to sing.”

You duck your head with an embarrassed grin as heat climbs your neck. “Yeah, sorry. I’m a little rusty.”

“No, it was good!” she insists. “What’s that song called? I’ve never heard it before.”

“It’s called Take on Me,” you say, shifting the guitar on your knee. “It’s from the eighties. It was a huge song back in the day. My all-time favourite.” You glance down at the fretboard now, tracking a groove in the wood with your finger. “I feel like it has a lot of different meanings depending on what you’re going through. It’s stayed with me through my whole life.”

“Can you teach it to me?”

You snort. “Dear Christ, you really want me to teach you everything, don’t you?”

She lifts a shoulder, all innocence.

“Alright, add it to the list,” you sigh, then tip your chin to the fridge. “But, you’ve got to whip the cream for the cake. Grab a whisk, pour it in a big bowl and start mixing really fast. I’m gonna sit back and jam for a bit.”

She lights up and dives for the utensils while you drift into easy chords, strumming away like you would have done with old friends back home on a Sunday. The whisk clatters against the bowl with flecks of white spattering on the counter and her sleeves.

Within minutes, she’s flushed from effort, rolling her flannel cuffs up past her elbows and swiping across her forehead with the back of her wrist.

Eventually, she sags and lets out a sharp exhale. “Okay. I think it’s done. Can you check?"

You rise and step over, guitar still hooked in your grip. The cream has thickened into fluffy, glossy peaks that curl at the tips.

“Look at you,” you say. “Spot on. You can pop that into the fridge until the sponges are ready.”

She lifts the bowl, and then you see something. Bandages wrapped tight around her forearm as if they’re concealing some sort of wound.

“Hey.” You stop her before she can turn away. “What’s this? What happened to your arm?”

She shifts to hide it. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just uhh—… spilled some hot water on myself. I’m fine.”

Before you can press, the front door opens and shuts outside in the hall. A rush of cold air snakes down under the kitchen door, followed by the heavy tread of old boots on wood. Each step gets closer until the door swings open.

Joel. 

He stands just past the threshold, shoulders squared with chilliness clinging to him like a second coat. The metal smell of frost and horse sweat drifts in with him. His eyes take in the scene, and it’s clear he was not expecting to find you in his house.

For a moment, no one speaks. The pair of you look like you were caught trying to hide a dead body.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asks, his voice low and gaze flicking between you and Ellie, then settling on her guitar in your hands.

“We’re making a cake,” Ellie says quickly, flour still dusted on her cheek. “For my birthday. I wanted someone to teach me how to make one, so I asked Joey.”

“And it didn’t cross your mind to ask me first before using our kitchen? Our food?” He pulls his jacket off, irritation now etched into every line on his face.

You look over at her. So she didn’t tell him about this plan. 

Colour flushes across her skin. “We didn’t use your food,” she fires back. “Elise gave us everything except for the eggs, but Joey took me to the coop to show me how to get some.”

Joel moves through the kitchen without answering, scanning counters and cupboards like he’s taking stock.

“He played me this song, what was it called— Take On Me! It was sooo good. You have to hear him play sometime.” Ellie keeps going, desperate to not let the room fall silent. “He’s gonna teach it to me. And how to use a bow now that I’m fifteen so I can start training for patr—”

“Ellie,” Joel says, giving her a look as firm as a locked door. “Go put your guitar in your room.”

The air shifts and she deflates right in front of you. She steps forward to take the instrument from you and then heads for the stairs, her boots quieter this time as she drags her feet.

“Sorry,” you offer once it’s just the two of you in the kitchen. “She told me you knew we were baking something. I made sure to clean it up as best as I could so it wouldn’t be a mess—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupts, finishing his inspection. His voice is rough but not noxious. “Thanks for keepin’ her busy while I was gone. Just don’t like it when she lies.”

You’d expected something worse. It’s obvious in the way your fists unclench. It’ll take a while to get used to not feeling like the enemy around him.

You give him a small, understanding look. “Bit early to be back from patrols,” you say, nodding towards the clock. “Everything okay out there?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “I just like to head out early so I can be back before she causes any trouble.” His eyes flick up to you from the irony. “Nothin’ out of the ordinary. No strangers. No tracks. Just quiet.”

“Quiet’s good, right?” you say. “Maybe the attackers have moved on.”

He shakes his head at you. “Raiders don’t move on when they’re after somethin’. They wait. They watch. It’s just a matter of time before somethin’ else happens.”

For some reason, the thought of him being out there when something else does happen turns your stomach sour. Another uninvited feeling for Joel.

“I told Tommy I’m taking a bit of a step back from the school for a while after this project I’m working on,” you say. “Frees up more days for me to be on patrols, so we’ll probably be paired up again at some point.”

He pauses at that, his eyes lifting to meet yours again and then pulling away when they linger for a second too long. You both remember the last time.

The oven timer chirps, snapping you both out from wherever your heads wandered. Ellie hears it too. Her footsteps come pounding down the stairs before you even call her name.

“Are they done?” she asks, slightly out of breath.

“Yeah,” you grin at her. “Wanna do the honours?"

She doesn’t answer verbally, instead, she lunges for the oven mitts. Joel drifts to the side, leaning against the counter and watching the scene unfold.

“Okay, slow,” you murmur as she opens the oven. Heat rolls out in a wave. “Careful…”

One tin comes out, then the other, and she places them onto a waiting rack with complete concentration. She leans in to look at them closely, eyes wide as she observes the golden tops that are a touch too dark around the rim.

“Look,” she says, waving Joel over. “We made these.”

He steps up beside her and studies the cakes in silence. His face doesn’t give much away, but something softens behind his eyes.

“You made these,” you say, correcting her. “I just supervised.”

He keeps watching as you show her how to ease a knife around the inner rim of the tins to release the steam and then turn the sponges out with a gentle thud. He’s dazed, maybe overwhelmed — trying to process what he’s witnessing. The man he once feared existing in his space, now effortlessly giving more time and patience to his girl than anyone has. 

“Okay,” you say, poking the side of one of the sponges lightly. “We have to let these cool for about ten minutes before we put the cream on or it’ll go all soupy and weird. Let’s get these last few dishes cleaned up in the meantime.”

Joel pulls out a chair in the dining room and lowers himself into it with a tired exhale, spent from patrol. His eyes track you, noticing how you make her feel cared for, safe and included. It’s like you’ve always been here. Or should’ve always been here.

Enough heat has ebbed from the cakes by the time you’re ready to trim the domed tops away with slow, careful slices. Ellie watches like you’re performing surgery, fascinated as you talk through it.

“Go on,” you say, nudging some of the cake shavings towards her. “Try a bit.”

She snatches a piece with her fingers and pops it straight into her mouth. Her expression changes instantly, surprise splitting across her features.

“Holy shit,” she says. “That’s so good.”

“Language,” Joel warns. 

You both bite back a laugh.

With the back of a spoon, you help Ellie spread a thick layer of the whipped cream across the bottom sponge, then multiple dollops of Elise’s dark, glossy chokecherry jam. You settle the second sponge on top and sift a veil of powdered sugar over it to finish.

Pretty. Perfect.

“There we go,” you say with a smile.

You reach for your jacket that’s slung over the back of the other chair. “All that’s left to do is to let that chill for a few hours in the fridge. It should be ready to slice after dinner.”

Ellie’s head jerks up with the jam spoon in her mouth. “Wait — where’re you going?”

The question catches you mid-motion. Joel looks up too.

“Oh, I— I’ve gotta head out.”

“You’re not gonna stay to try the cake?” she asks.

“Uhh, I didn’t think I— No. I wasn’t planning to.” Silence settles for a moment between the three of you. “I have to go see Jeremiah today, and I made plans to meet Ms. Zhang for dinner later. You enjoy it though. I’m sure it’ll be great.”

“But it’s my birthday cake.”

Her words tug at you.

“I know, I’m sorry,” you reply, your voice softer now. “I just… have some things I need to take care of. You should enjoy it with your family.”

She doesn’t respond. The excitement drains from her face and her shoulders round inward.

“I’ll see you at school next week,” you say gently, guilt suddenly ravaging your insides. “And thanks for letting us use your kitchen,” you say to Joel. He gives you a quick nod.

With that, you make your way through the hallway and out the front door, closing it behind you. The afternoon sun hangs high overhead, bright but somehow completely indifferent.

March 16, 2024

Yesterday evening left you frustrated and worried. Jeremiah flat out refused to let you move in to his home no matter how you tried to sell it to him. He insisted he was fine and there was no need for concern. Without needing to say it, you could tell he wanted to hold on to his dignity and independence for a little while longer. 

Reporting it back to Tommy felt like you were letting him down. His advice was to just keep a close eye on him and take one of the newly available cabins in the meantime. Ironically, you also flat out refused, reminding Tommy that you just didn’t need or want that much space to yourself. For now, you’re staying in the hotel room. It’s enough. And you’d miss the view overlooking the town.

Nausea has worked its way up your throat and settled there by the time you reach Joel’s front door and knock. You’re still trying to make sense of that moment he approached you after the hearing, and why heat spreads through you every time you think about it. Or about him.

Your mind has repeatedly been wandering to places it shouldn’t be lately even when you try to stop it. What would his skin smell like after a long patrol? What would it be like to experience the pull of his mouth, gentle but possessive. Would the weight of his hands keep you steady? It feels wrong, borderline blasphemous, but it has persisted and only gotten worse.

You almost didn’t come. You stood in your hotel room, considering just staying there and letting the night roll by. But you couldn’t shake the fear that doing so would sour things between you and undo whatever fragile goodwill exists now. In the end, the curiosity and desire got the better of you. You need to know what he has to say, and you want to be in his presence. 

Footsteps approach, boots thudding against the floorboards on the other side of the door. There’s no time to brace or settle your pulse before it swings open. Joel stands there, filling the frame, solid and broad.

“Hey,” he says quietly. His expression carries the same strained awkwardness you feel settling into your shoulders. “Come on in. Food’s just about ready.”

It’s strange right away. The hospitality. The invitation to enter his home. The fact he’s cooked a fucking meal for you. None of it aligns with the Joel you’ve been dealing with since you got here. It’s like you’re walking around inside one of the weird dreams you’ve had about him.

He steps aside and lets you pass before closing the door behind you. He lingers there for a moment, his eyes following you as you take in his space for the first time.

It isn’t what you pictured at all. It’s not the dark, gloomy cave you expected. Instead, it feels like a home in a muted, real way. Lived-in. Slightly cluttered with personal and practical belongings. There’s something unmistakably single-father about it. Maybe it was the lone rocking chair beneath the porch wind chimes or the paint cans stacked and forgotten in a corner.

“Dinin’ room’s this way,” he mumbles, already turning down the hall. You trail after him.

“Smells good,” you say, pulling off your jacket as the warmth overwhelms you. The kitchen air is thick with herbs, something slow-cooked drifting from the stove.

“It’s, uhh… vegetable stew,” he replies. “Didn’t know what else to make. Never cooked for a vegetarian before.”

Stew. Great.

You nod and make a vague sound of approval while trying to fix your face into something that won’t give away the crawling anxiety and crippling discomfort. Of all the things he could’ve made, he picked a fucking stew. Trauma in a bowl.

“You want a glass o’ water or somethin’?” he asks, already facing the sink.

“Uh… yeah. Please. That’d be great,” you answer. You’re unsure if it’ll even help. Imagining anything going down your throat right now makes your stomach roll.

“Where’s Ellie?” you ask, trying to change subject from food as quickly as possible.

“Over at Tommy and Maria’s,” he says, hovering over the pot now with a ladle and bowl. “She’s just… helpin’ out with a few things. Likes to keep herself busy.”

“I’ve noticed,” you say. “She likes to keep me company between classes for some reason.”

That seems to stall him. Whether it’s new information or something he was already aware of, you can’t tell. He doesn’t respond verbally, just motions through placing bread plates and cutlery down on the table.

“Sit,” he orders, nodding to the chair nearest you. 

You swallow, sliding down and doing as you’re instructed, pulling the chair out and easing into it. Your mind still lags behind your body. Sitting at his dinner table, watching him slide a steaming bowl in front of you… It’s just bizarre. 

When you look down into your bowl, something in you spikes suddenly and mercilessly. Fight or flight kicks in. The room blurs around you. For a second, you’re not here at all, you’re somewhere else. Todd’s Steakhouse specifically. It’s way too familiar. It’s like you’ve snapped out of a daydream and are still there.

Joel sits opposite you. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes keep flicking up at you, checking and tracking you in brief, restless glances. He notices the change in your breathing pattern, the way you look at the bowl without blinking and the way you grip the spoon like it’s a weapon of self-defence.

You desperately try to focus on remembering that you’re not there, you’re here. This isn’t the grey slop you were served every day in that place. These are actual, real, fresh vegetables grown by a community that looks out for one another and prepared by a man who wanted to cook them for you. Even the accompanying bread isn’t rigidly stale at the edges like the bread in that other place.

It should make it easier, but it doesn’t.

Hesitantly, you prod at the stew, turning carrots and potatoes over and assessing them like they might bite back. The smell that enticed you at first now clings to the inside of your nostrils and threatens to expose you again. This time, you won’t have the sympathy of Maria to hold you together, it’s just you and Joel under his roof.

You scoop up a chunk of potato, glossy under the warm overhead light. You lift it to your lips, but lose your nerve and abort, placing it back in the bowl. Instead, you reach for a bread roll which somehow seems safer.

Joel, on the other hand, doesn’t hesitate. He eats like the food is just food, spoon disappearing into his mouth and brow pulled tight as he swallows each mouthful. 

You watch him longer than you mean to with guilt now twisting in your gut. He meant well. He still does. He actually cooked for you. A vegetarian meal too, unaware that you’re not even a vegetarian.

When his eyes flick up again and catches you staring, you look away too fast, heat now blooming in your ears. Mortified, you tear the bread roll apart and shove it into your mouth, trying way too hard to play it off and look literally anywhere else. 

His attention always does this to you - sets your nerves ablaze. Sometimes, unhelpfully and annoyingly… you enjoy it.

“Good bread,” you blurt out to break the agonising quiet while holding up another torn piece. “Elise?”

He answers with a short nod and a low sound from his chest. The silence settles back in, dense and unrelentingly awkward.

“So,” you say, pushing through the discomfort before it has any more time to root. “What did you want to bring me over for?”

Joel slows, spoon hovering before he sets it back down. He finishes chewing, wipes his mouth with a napkin like he needs an extra second, then leans back in his seat and looks at you properly.

“To tell you I was wrong,” he says. “About you.”

That lands heavily and to the point you don’t even know how to take it. You sip your water, noticing the faint tremble in your grip as the glass touches your lips.

“Figured I owe you an apology,” he continues. “For how I handled you comin’ here. How I acted.”

You inhale slow and careful. “I would say I understand, but I don’t. I still don’t know what I did to you—”

“You didn’t do nothin’,” he interrupts. “That’s why I wanted to make it right. I shoulda… I dunno… I was just… bein’ cautious.”

He lets that sit before continuing.

“Truth is, me an’ Ellie got here not long before you did. We were worn down. This place was the first time she— we’ve felt safe in a long time. There’s a bunch o’ stuff me an’ Tommy don’t agree on, but lettin’ strangers in the way he does puts all our safety at risk.”

“And so because I came from Silver Lake, I was just a risk to you? I didn’t deserve to also feel safe?”

He exhales through his nose. “I didn’t know what to think. None of us did. You coulda been passin’ information to outsiders for all I knew. Coulda been scopin’ the place out, plannin’ a takeover.”

You sit back now too with an incredulous scoff. “A takeover? Joel, I showed up half-dead. This place has twice the population and twice the arms. Do you really think I would’ve been capable of something like that?”

He leans forward, forearms on the table and eyes locked on yours. “I wasn’t willin’ to take any chances.”

The words sink in. Neither of you rush to fill the quiet that follows.

“How do you know so much about Silver Lake anyway?” you press. “Why do so many people treat me like a threat?”

Joel doesn’t look up right away, but when he does, his jaw tightens. “Doesn’t matter how I know. What matters is protectin’ my family. Simple as that.”

You let out another brittle huff. “You were prepared to send me back out there. You were willing to let me die. Everyone here seems to have an opinion about me but no one wants to explain it.”

“There’s people here who were hurt by that place,” he says, flat and final. “That’s all you need to know.”

He picks up his spoon again and continues eating. 

Your hands curl around the edge of the table. Hurt by that place. As if anyone could’ve paid more of a price than you did. As if it hadn’t taken your mother and sister. As if it hadn’t rewired your body to reject comfort, stillness, safety and even nourishment. 

David’s dead, but his fingerprints are everywhere. In that way, he won in the end.

“Well, I’m glad you eventually saw past how much of a threat I was,” you murmur into the quiet.

He observes what his treatment has done to you, how it lingers in your body language. It dawns on him that you’ve had to go so far above and beyond to prove yourself not only to him, but to the entire community. Guilt and regret riddles his body now, only made worse by the fact you’ve formed some sort of bond with Ellie despite everything.

It physically pains him to think back on how just days ago, he referred to you as nothing but “bait”. An object. A sacrifice to lure out something actually dangerous. And you still chose to save his life.

Across the table, you draw in another breath, steadying yourself and then dip your spoon in the bowl to scoop up a potato chunk. Slowly, you guide it to your mouth, bracing but determined to push through it. Squeezing your eyes shut, you jam it past your lips and bite.

Every chew feels laboured. You keep your gaze fixed downwards, unwilling to let him see you struggle. The warm broth settles on your tongue and drags you into your memory. David’s dining table. The flickering candlelight. 

Then you hear him repeat the words that broke you. She tastes delicious, doesn’t she? The sound of your mother gagging with horror.

Nausea climbs up your throat, but you swallow hard, pushing it back down with the potato, leaving your breath shaking and shallow. It feels like you’ve just surfaced from almost drowning.

Joel watches nonplussed. Not openly, but he can’t ignore your suppressed retching. “It ain’t that bad, is it?” he asks, concerned and perplexed.

You lift your eyes, ashamed from the realisation that you didn’t do enough to conceal it. “No, no… It’s not that, it’s— nothing. It’s great.”

Some concoction of pity and empathy stirs in him, and he leans forward slightly. “S’okay. Don’t worry if you can’t finish it. I wasn’t ever that good a cook anyways...”

The softness in his voice throws you. It’s almost forgiving. It doesn’t line up with the man who sat opposite you at Maria’s dinner table. He’s not trying to corner you this time. This really isn’t the Joel Miller you know.

Instead, you focus on the bread, tearing it apart and eating it with slow, methodical bites. It’s all you can manage without your body completely rejecting it. 

He finishes his bowl in silence, but the quietness has morphed into something more resigned than tense. It’s like you’re both just waiting for it to be over.

“You sure you’re done?” he asks a few minutes later, already reaching for the dishes and clocking the way you’ve finally stopped pretending to eat.

Your eyes drop to the bowl. The stew has gone dull with a thin film formed on the surface where steam once rose from. “Yeah,” you reply quietly. “Thanks. And… sorry.”

He lifts it from the table and out of sight swiftly, brisk enough that you wonder if you have actually offended him.

“Go sit in the livin’ room,” he says over his shoulder as he turns towards the sink. “Fire’s burnin’. I’ll get this cleaned up.”

The word fire is all it takes. You get to your feet and drift to the amber glow in the living room, following the promise of heat.

The open space settles you the moment you enter. Firelight and the dull shine of the street outside soften the edges of everything, including the tension you didn’t realise you were holding on to. 

You wander around to take it in. There’s a large rug underfoot, paintings hung perfectly straight and three guitars mounted on the wall. An old clock ticks on the mantle like a heartbeat. Books sit in messy stacks on the coffee table, dog-eared and semi-neglected.

You sink into the couch across from the fire, letting the heat penetrate you properly. This is what the stew couldn’t offer you. A comforting warmth.

Joel follows a few moments later, circling around the parameter of the room to pull the curtains closed, then drops onto the far end of the same couch with a weary, achy grunt. He leans back, eyes wandering the room like he’s seeing it for the first time too, like he’s stalling.

“So, uh,” he says eventually, clearing his throat and looking over. “You gonna tell me why you’re such a fussy eater?”

Your shoulders lock up a little. It’s like the question pins you in place. Joel’s not the type to sugarcoat anything, but this feels like he’s asking for honesty whether you want to give it or not.

You lace your fingers together and study them in your lap. “I wish I knew,” you say quietly. “I wasn’t always like this.”

His brow creases. “What d’you mean?”

You sniff, jaw tightening. “Silver Lake. David.” The words taste bitter and come out laced with venom. “That place fucked me up. He fucked me up. I had to be ruined in order for me to survive. Sometimes…” your voice drops off an edge. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t.”

“What did he do to you?” Joel asks.

A dull ache blooms in your chest with a tightening pressure on your sternum. Your breathing becomes shallow, like a plastic bag is cinched around your head. You shift on the couch, skin prickling with discomfort.

“S’okay if you don’t wanna talk about it,” he adds, even softer now, noticing the way you’ve folded in on yourself even more.

“No— it’s just…” You gulp down the thickness in your throat. “I haven’t talked about it with anyone yet. Not even Tommy. It still feels like it all happened yesterday. Like it’s right here.” You rub your palm over your heart.

You keep your focus on your hands, now clammy in your lap, and recount everything slowly. 

“He ran the whole place. Controlled everyone in it. He acted he was like some sort of god. And some people believed it. He never punished us directly if we fucked up. He’d punish us by hurting someone you love. Even children. He’d make you watch as it happened. Then he’d leave you to sit with the guilt, like it belonged to you.”

Joel’s face doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen slightly before you continue.

“I knew there was something he wasn’t telling us. I could sense something was… off. And he knew I was suspicious. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like me.” A short, humourless huff escapes you. “So he had to find a way to punish me.”

You lean forward now, elbows braced on your knees and eyes fixed on the worn pattern in the rug. “He knew my mother was sick. She could barely move most days. He sent Anna out with some guards to find medication to help. But then they came back without her. They told us they ran into a horde and she got ripped apart. Couldn’t even bring her body home.”

Your voice hardens and steadies. “I didn’t buy it. Anna was smart, fast too. She wouldn’t have gotten herself into that situation. I had no way to prove it, but I just… knew they did something.”

Joel doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t breathe out loud. Just lets you speak.

“David left us alone for a few days to grieve. Then he tried to make us believe that he felt sorry for us. Invited us for a private meal… Stew. It wasn’t venison or rabbit or beef though…”

Your eyes glaze with a vacant heat and oncoming, unfocused tears.

“It was her…” you murmur shakily, your voice barely audible. “It was Anna. He fed her to us.”

The silence crashes down hard. The words sit there, ugly and brutal in their rawness.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ…” Joel whispers, stunned in disgust, realising the rumours circulating about Silver Lake were true.

You drag the heel of your hand across your cheek, smearing a fallen tear away as your face flushes.

“Then he locked us up in a cage,” you manage. “Left us to rot in our own filth. It broke my mam. I watched her deteriorate right before my eyes. It was so quick.”

Your fingers curl into your sleeves.

“One of the guards took us outside at one point. He started mouthing off at her… He was gonna hurt her, so I—…” Your jaw grinds. “I killed him.”

The confession hangs heavy in the air for a moment as you recall the feeling of life leaving his body in your arms. You clear your throat again and push on.

“She managed to grab his gun and ran while I was trying to get my bearings. I chased after her. Found her down by the lake.” Your breath hitches now. “She told me she was done. She was too tired. She didn’t want to survive anymore, so she—…”

Your voice collapses entirely.

You fold forward, elbows planted on your knees and your face buried in your hands as the grief finally breaks through the dam you’ve built to keep it contained. It erupts messily, breath stuttering and chest aching, like it’s the first time you’ve ever cried in your life. It’s humiliatingly loud in the quiet room.

You barely register it when Joel shifts closer and then his hand is there, warm and solid resting on your shoulder, giving a small but grounding squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs quietly. It’s not eloquent and it doesn’t try to be.

You exhale the anguish and then pull air back into your lungs, the memory of what came after flooding in. The rage that hijacked every sense you had, the numbness that followed once there was nothing left to live for. It grew and settled in like a second skin.

“Then something happened. There was a fire. I could hear people screaming, gunshots… I knew that was my opportunity. My chance to kill him.” You stare off into the hearth as the flames dance and crackle.

“I ran back to find him, but I was too late. I just found his body. Apparently some girl beat me to it. Fucked him up really bad.”

Joel shifts uncomfortably, the couch creaking under the movement. His eyes slide away, fixed somewhere near his boots.

“Looked like he suffered, and I’m glad about that,” you go on, quieter now. “But a part of me hates that I didn’t get to be the one to do it. I just hope whoever she was… I hope she enjoyed it.”

The room fills with a thick, charged silence. The old clock on the mantle keeps ticking like a bomb waiting to explode.

“She didn’t,” Joel blurts out suddenly. His head turns to you again, like he’s waiting for you to look back at him.

You do, your brow furrowing as you search his expression and try to read what’s written all over it. Regret and worry is etched in the way his lips part slightly and the shine in his eyes. How could he possibly know?

Then your stomach drops and realisation hits. The girl in the cell. The one with the freckles scattered across her nose. The one with the wild chestnut hair.

“Ellie…” you whisper with muted disbelief.

Joel doesn’t nod to confirm or say a single word. He doesn’t need to.

It settles in slowly like a bruise forming after the hit. Ellie’s face. Joel’s tension. The immediate uncertainty people had when you first crossed into Jackson.

“I saw her… in the basement…” you say. “I knew I’d seen her before… What the fuck was she doing there?”

Joel’s shoulders sag a fraction. “It’s a long story, but we were makin’ our way here to find Tommy. I knew he’d made a home here. I got hurt real bad on the road. Almost died. Ellie went out to find help.” His lips tighten. “That’s when she ran into David.”

You pull at your mouth and try to picture it all in your head. “How did she get out? What happened?”

He shakes his head. “I dunno. She doesn’t really talk about it. I managed to get myself movin’ eventually. Found her outside after she…” He trails off, swallowing the lump in his throat. “She shouldn’t’ve had to do it. She’s only a kid.”

For a moment, you drop your head and replay the moment you saw David’s face when you found him. The necessary barbarity. 

Your mouth dries trying to digest the fact that Ellie, the girl you’ve grown so fond of, was the one who took away your opportunity at vengeance. You don’t like how it sits with you at first. There’s even a prickle of resentment towards her for a moment, like she knowingly blocked you from ever having the satisfaction of being the one to end David’s reign of terror.

It fizzles out eventually, but you have to keep reminding yourself that she didn’t know — she couldn’t have known. She was trying to survive just like you were. You couldn’t possibly hold it against her.

“Does everyone know?” you ask, returning your eyes to his side profile.

“Was only supposed to be Tommy,” Joel says, his voice roughening with irritation now. “But he took it to the entire council. Said it was procedure. For reportin’. Fuckin’ bullshit. Same guy who’ll let damn near anyone waltz through those gates.”

That finally explains the hostility between the brothers. That constant friction you’d noticed but never understood.

“I’m guessing word got around,” you murmur, staring down at your hands. “That’s why people don’t want me here.”

Joel glances across to you, guilt flickering across his face again before he looks away, knowing he contributed to it. “And now two patrols are dead… You gotta know somethin’.”

You shake your head stiffly. “I don’t. I wish I did. Silver Lake was overrun with infected when I left. Whoever killed Kai and Archie could’ve been anyone, from anywhere.”

Joel angles back to the fire, distant and turning the thought over.

“I feel like it’s my fault,” Joel says at last. “Ellie bein’ the way she is now I mean.”

You turn to him. “Why would it be your fault?”

He drags a hand down his face. “I dunno… Shoulda been there to protect her… Stop her from gettin’ hurt.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. The fire snaps softly, the sound of it almost hypnotic. It’s like sitting inside his regretful mind. Silent in sound but still a storm. 

That guilt is all too familiar. It mirrors yours in a way that makes you see him through a different lens. You should’ve been there to save your mother and sister when they needed you most. Even your father.

“Maybe someday it won’t feel like this anymore,” you say quietly, eyes drifting to the sliver of streetlight cutting through the curtain, “And we’ll be able to just let it all go.”

He follows your line of sight, jaw stiffening now as if he’s clenching around something he can’t say.

“I worry about her,” he admits, his voice barely audible. “‘Specially now.” It radiates off of him. It’s in every move he makes, every word he speaks. 

“She’s your daughter,” you say gently. “Of course you worry about her. She just needs time."

“She’s not my daughter,” he says, his correction coming out sharper than intended. He exhales after to dull the edge.

“Oh,” you murmur, realising you may have hit a nerve. “Sorry. I forgot. I didn’t mean to—… But… how did you meet her?”

“Like I said, long story,” he replies, pushing himself up from the couch with a strained groan. “I’ll be right back.”

He heads down the hallway before you can say anything else, boots thudding away towards the kitchen. Left alone with the fire, you can’t help but try to decode the mystery behind him and the one behind Ellie. How did they meet? Why was Joel separated from his brother until recently? Why does he care so much about someone he doesn’t claim?

With a similar strain, you get to your feet too hoping to find some answers dotted around the room. The guitars mounted neatly on the wall draw you over. They’re not exactly decorative, but they are cared for. Clearly maintained and loved based on the polished wood and spotless detailing.

“Do you play?” Joel’s voice comes from behind, almost making you jump. You didn’t even hear him reenter the room.

“Used to,” you say, still observing them closely. “Haven’t played one in a long time. I take it you do?”

“Yeah,” he answers, the word riding on a low exhale. “Fixed ‘em up myself.”

That earns a soft hum from you. Arms crossed, you lean back and let your eyes admire the soft sheen of the wood, and how his large, laboured hands would hold them. “I assume the wooden carvings everywhere are yours too then?”

He glances up from the fireplace, poking at the logs to look occupied, giving you a muted confirmation without saying anything.

It all does something to you. It’s alarming how your feelings are shifting rapidly for him now. You’re surrounded by tangible evidence of his patience and skill. Not only was he wrong about you, but you were very much wrong about him. He’s gruff and guarded but somehow still endearing.

“I should probably get going,” you say, glancing over at the time on the old clock. “I’ve gotta be up early for patrol tomorrow.”

He stands straight again, seemingly unaware of the time too. “Yeah, right,” he replies, nodding once with his eyes lingering a second longer than they usually would. “I’ll uh… go get your jacket for ya.” 

After he disappears down the hall again, you turn back to the guitars, your fingers desperate to pick one up and play. 

An unwelcome thought crosses your mind. Maybe you’re going insane, but you could’ve sworn that look in his eyes just now was saying that he didn’t want you to leave. Yeah, you’ve lost it.

When he returns a moment later with your jacket folded over his arm, he stops when he sees you still hovering by the guitars. He hands it to you and then just stands there, hands planted on his hips and teeth dragging across his bottom lip like he’s analysing a thought. The room suddenly feels about ten degrees hotter than it already was.

“You wanna borrow one?” he asks, lifting his chin towards the wall.

Unsure if you misheard, you glance back at the instruments then at him as you slip your arms into your jacket. “What?”

“You can take one with you if you want,” he says. “Doubt there’s much else to do in that hotel.”

The offer throws you at first. The cautious part of you wonders if this is some sort of test or trick question. “Uh… okay. If you’re sure…”

He steps past you and reaches for the leftmost guitar and eases it down. He takes a second to inspect it like muscle memory is taking over. “This one’s solid. Changed the strings a couple weeks ago.”

With every ounce of care, you take it from him, holding it close and trying not to take notice of the brief graze of skin as your fingers overlap with his. “It’s beautiful.”

“Know how to look after one?” he asks, observing the way you fall in love with it in real time. Something washes over him in that exact moment. A switch goes off. A seed plants itself.

You nod. “I’ll keep her safe. Promise.”

He pulls the front door open for you a moment later, the bitter cold waiting and already seeping through the doorway before you have a chance to step out. The night air smells fresh and metallic with frost.

“Uh, thanks for having me over,” you say, almost embarrassed to hear those words leaving your mouth in his company. “And… thanks for letting me borrow the guitar.”

He gives a single nod again, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe and getting one last look at you. “Sorry again… for everythin’.”

It’s impossible to know exactly what he means by everything, but you don’t ask. Maybe he doesn’t really know either. His apology feels broad enough to hold a lot though. Tonight could’ve gone very differently. You’re glad that it didn’t.

A small but genuine smile forms before you can stop it. The nausea that haunted you has finally eased somewhat. Now it’s replaced by this warm awkwardness hanging between you both.

“I’ll see you around,” you say quickly, stepping back off his porch. The last time you did this, he was unbearably cruel in how he told you to stay away from him and from Ellie. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Stay safe out there tomorrow.”

Your heart kicks a little.

With that, you head down the driveway out onto the street. The neighbourhood is hushed, windows glowing faintly with fire and candlelight. No one’s around. It’s like everyone knew better than to be out here.

Halfway down the street, you can still feel his eyes on your back. You’ve learned that feeling. Before, it would’ve set every nerve alight. It still does — but it’s different now. 

Only when you’re far enough away does his front door finally close with a soft click.

AN: Cuties! :3

Thank you for all the love, especially on the last two chapters.

I hope you're enjoying the progress these two babies are making individually and in each other's company. There is so much yet to come. I literally spent about three hours today tweaking a later part of the story and I can't wait to share it.

As always, your messages, comments, kudos, shares and everything is so very much appreciated.