#tsbu

From 19/07/2025 to 20/07/2025

Word Count: 21,896

Chapters:

Chapter 01 : A Family in Rehearsal

Chapter 02 : Things We Don’t Say

Chapter 03 : The Night She Didn’t Wait

Chapter 04 : Lost

Chapter 05 : What Forgiveness Tastes Like

Chapter 06 : The Language of Holding On [Finale]

Author's Note:

Thank you.

For reading, for feeling, for staying.

The Silence Between Us was never just a story about war, or betrayal, or even healing. It was about the quiet, often unspoken ways love bends but doesn’t break. About the spaces between words, the weight of what we carry alone, and the brave, imperfect choice to come back to each other anyway.

If you saw yourself in the quiet grief, in the burnt garlic bread, in the too-loud family dinners or whispered apologies, then this was for you.

To everyone who’s ever had to rebuild love from ashes…

To everyone who’s ever come home to a life they weren’t sure they deserved…

You’re not alone.

This isn’t a perfect ending.

But it’s a beginning that’s soft. And real. And earned.

Thank you for letting me tell it.

With love,

Devi 🤍

A soft sound escaped him, barely audible, and you realized he was half-awake himself, testing the waters. You stirred, your body shifting as you turned in his arms, lids fluttering open just enough to catch the outline of his face in the low light.

Joel stilled the moment he felt you move. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmured, voice husky with lingering sleep. His hand froze on your side, but he didn’t pull away.

“It’s okay,” you whispered back, still groggy but fully aware of his closeness, the quiet want in his touch. Your heart skipped in your chest. Slowly, you reached for his hand and guided it more securely against your waist. “I’m awake now.”

He paused, gaze searching yours for a long moment in the dimness, as though making sure what he wanted was truly welcome. You answered him by leaning in, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to the corner of his mouth. That was all the invitation he needed. A low, appreciative hum rumbled in his throat as he eased you onto your back, his weight settling beside you, not over you, mindful and careful. His lips found yours slowly, gently, like he was savoring a first taste all over again. Even in this tender moment, you felt the lingering tension in his shoulders—an undercurrent of relief and longing that told you he needed this closeness as much as you did. You traced your fingers along the nape of his neck, letting him know you were here, awake, and wanting him too.

“Good morning,” you breathed against his lips, the simplest greeting suddenly feeling weighty with all that you’d been through together. Joel’s small smile against your mouth felt like both an answer and a promise. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he returned softly, and this time, there was no hesitation in the warmth of his hand on your hip, or in the quiet, content sigh you gave back.

Joel's lips hovered just over yours, warm breath mixing with your own. The way he studied your face made you feel cherished and, at the same time, set an undercurrent of desire humming through your veins. When he finally bridged the small gap, the kiss was both tender and insistent, a slow burn kindling in the space between you.

His hands slid carefully over your waist, testing your boundaries, making sure you were still comfortable. Each touch was gentle at first, deliberate. But soon, you felt the subtle shift in his grip-the way his fingers pressed a little more firmly into your sides, betraying a hint of the urgency he was holding in check.

You answered him by wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. A soft sound escaped him, somewhere between relief and a low growl of need. In that moment, everything outside of this room seemed to slip away: the dangers, the fears, the lingering memories of violence. Now, there was only Joel and the feel of his heartbeat thudding against your own.

His kisses trailed from the corner of your mouth to your jaw, then down your neck, each gentle press of his lips building a delicious tension. Yet behind the tenderness, you sensed a restrained hunger-he held you like he was afraid to let go, fingertips digging in just enough to send heat rushing across your skin. You arched into him, breaths coming in shorter, heavier bursts. Your pulse hammered, a heady mix of reassurance and raw longing.

When Joel shifted position, bearing a little of his weight against you, the bed creaked beneath you both. The press of his body spoke volumes: he wanted you with a fierceness that bordered on desperate, but he was still careful, alert to every subtle cue you gave. When you hooked a leg around his, meeting his intensity with your own, he let out a low noise that vibrated against your collarbone. Your hands found their way into his hair, knotting gently, urging him on. Each time you tugged, his grip tightened— there was a welcome roughness there, a counterpoint to the guarded way he'd tried to keep you at arm's length for so long. His mouth found yours again, more demanding this time, pulling a soft gasp from your lips. Heat pooled in the pit of your stomach, your body responding to his closeness and that delicate balance between sweetness and a desperation you could both barely contain.

"Tell me if it's too much," he managed to whisper, voice rasping with need. His forehead pressed against yours, searching your eyes for any sign of uncertainty.

"It's not," you breathed, guiding his hand where you wanted it, the simplest reassurance that you were here for everything he offered. "Joel... I'm good."

That quiet admission was all it took. He pressed himself closer, yet even in his urgency, there was a distinct gentleness in how he held you-like he couldn't bear the idea of hurting you. When you gripped his shoulders, letting a hint of nails scrape lightly across his skin, he groaned, breath hitching. The tension between you built, your bodies moving in a near-synchronized dance of hunger and cautious tenderness.

Neither of you spoke again. Words would have been clumsy here, unnecessary. The conversation unfurled in every labored breath, every shift of hips, every soft moan muffled against heated skin. And when the moment finally caught up with you, it was an overwhelming rush of closeness-an affirmation that, despite the dangers and anxieties, you were both alive, together, and finally letting yourselves feel something that had been simmering for far too long.

Joel's breath ghosts along your inner thighs, the air warm and deliberate.

Despite the early morning light spilling across the sheets, he's wholly absorbed in you—no inhibitions, no self-consciousness. His fingers press gently against your hips, guiding you closer as his eyes meet yours, a flicker of longing and unspoken awe passing between you. He dips his head, and a contented murmur escapes his throat as he presses his face into the soft curls right above your clit. There's something deeply grounding in the way he buries himself against you, not rushing, simply reveling in the texture and warmth of your unshaven skin. Every exhale of his carries a quiet reverence, a hint of something feral beneath the tenderness.

"You feel...amazing," he breathes, and it's more than just a compliment-it's gratitude. This closeness, this unfiltered honesty, is what he craves. You catch the faint grin on his face when the curls tickle his nose, and his voice drops low, rich with affection. There's no room for any insecurity here; he loves you exactly as you are, finds beauty in every part of you, even the ones you worried might be "too much."

When he finally moves to taste you, it's unhurried, savoring each second. His soft groan vibrates against your skin, and his hands slip beneath your thighs to keep you where he wants you-firmly in his care. His lips and tongue map out every sensation as though committing it to memory, and the pleasure that races through you feels all the more potent for the ease of it, the complete acceptance in his closeness. Joel doesn't speak much then—he doesn't need to. The reverent way he lingers, the texture of his beard against your skin, the low, throaty sounds he makes whenever you shift or sigh...they say enough. It's a heady mixture of unguarded desire and tenderness, stirring something raw and deeply comforting in you.

Joel's low voice thrums with unwavering conviction as he leans in, pinning you with that smoldering look he gets when he's set on something-or someone. Lapping his tongue around your clit as he takes his two fingers to slowly tease your entrance.

"Relax," he whispers, voice gravelly with controlled desire. His other fingertips trace lazy patterns just above your knees, coaxing your body to let go of any residual tension. When he finally presses his fingers in, he does it slowly, savoring your every reaction-every soft moan, every quiver of your legs around his shoulders.

Time loses meaning in the hush of the room. He lingers with single-minded focus, lips and tongue working you until any coherent thought slips away. That steady, methodical attentiveness sends you climbing higher and higher, and whenever you think he's about to ease off, he doubles down, determined to wring every ounce of pleasure from you.

Through it all, he keeps murmuring hushed, tender reassurances against your skin-telling you how good you taste, how he'd stay like this forever if it meant seeing you come undone again and again. It's an unspoken vow that you come first, that your pleasure matters before all else.

Eventually, you're left breathless and boneless beneath him, your heart hammering in your chest. He looks up, a faint smile curving his lips as he takes in the sight of you-disheveled, glowing, entirely undone.

Joel straightens up onto his knees, still breathing hard from the heated exchange that brought you both to this point. His gaze never leaves yours as his fingers move to his belt buckle. There's a deliberate, almost measured quality to the way he undoes it—metal clinking quietly in the otherwise still room. A spark of anticipation flutters through your stomach, realizing he's giving you a small show, letting you see just how sure he is about what happens next.

He tugs the belt free, letting it slip from the loops with a soft rasp. The muscles in his arms shift under his shirt, every motion exuding that calm, contained power you've come to know. When he finally drops the belt aside, he reaches for the button of his jeans, pulling it open with a deft flick of his fingers. His eyes flicker with something between determination and need as he straightens, pushing his jeans and underwear down in one smooth motion.

You watch, heart thudding, as his length springs free-hard and ready, evidence of just how worked up he's been. For a moment, you can't help but stare, breath catching in your throat. The raw need in his eyes only fans the heat coursing through your veins.

You swallow, mouth going suddenly dry and then flooding with want all at once.

Every muscle in Joel's body is poised, tense with anticipation as he looks down at you. There's a flicker of that familiar gentleness in his gaze, but it's undercut by an unmistakable hunger. “Fuck” you breathe out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Joel's voice dips into that low, husky register that always makes your pulse race. He hovers above you, one hand braced near your shoulder, the other cupping your cheek in a gentle but insistent hold.

"Tell me how much you want it, darlin'" he murmurs, breath hot against your ear. His gaze roams over your face, devouring every flicker of reaction.

You feel a rush of warmth, your heart pounding in your chest. The intensity in his eyes draws a shiver up your spine, and you let yourself be honest-no holding back, no coyness.

"I want you," you whisper, voice unsteady but sure. "I want all of it."

A slow, satisfied smile tugs at his lips.

Joel keeps his lips lightly against yours, as if savoring every exhale that slips between you. The contact is tender, but there's a deliberate tension in the way he pushes forward, guiding his cock into you with excruciating slowness. Each inch is a warm, gradual pressure, and it's all you can do to cling to him, arms winding around his shoulders. Your breath catches at the sudden fullness, a heady mix of pleasure and the natural jolt of adjustment. His mouth coaxes yours open in a gentle kiss, softening the moment until your body relaxes under his. You hear him let out a ragged sigh, a sound somewhere between relief and restrained desire, as he stills for a second-just long enough to make sure you're truly okay.

"It's alright," you manage to whisper, voice shaking with a mix of nerves and excitement. You shift your hips, inviting him deeper. Joel adjusts his grip on your hips, the muscles in his arms flexing as he starts to move. He fills you to the hilt, every inch of his length snug in place, then pulls back until you feel the sudden coolness of absence. You barely have time to catch your breath before he thrusts forward again with a little more force, eliciting a startled yelp from your lips.

He stills for a second, eyes flicking over your features to make sure you're okay, that you're with him in this moment.

Your heart thunders in your chest, and you give him a small nod, breath hitching at the lingering sensation of that bold push.

A hint of a reassuring smile curves his lips. He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss against your shoulder, his gaze earnest, letting you know he's paying attention to every cue from your body.

As he starts up that intimate rhythm again, the warmth and tension coils lower.

At first, Joel tries to pace himself, to keep the sensations from spinning out of control, but the moment overtakes him. His restraint cracks like a dam giving way, and he begins thrusting harder, each urgent stroke fueled by a raw, unfiltered need. The sheer force pulls a startled cry from your lips; your fingers dig into his arms, instinctively clinging to him as he surges forward.

He notices the sound you make, flicks a desperate look your way-and you meet his gaze, heat rushing through your veins. He searches your eyes, confirming you're all right, then presses in again, rough and insistent. There's something primal in the way he moves, as if he can't bear even an inch of distance between you.

A sharp pang slices through you, momentarily stealing your breath. The thrusts have become urgent, almost too intense. You can't deny that it hurts— but the pleasure that surges in its wake is even stronger, a heady rush that makes your body crave the next wave.

Joel notices the flicker of pain in your eyes and seems torn between concern and the raw, desperate need pouring off him. His grip tightens on your hip, and he tries to ease his pace, but you tug him closer, eyes half-lidded, silently telling him it's okay.

"Tell me," he rasps, voice rough with worry. "You-are you sure?"

You suck in a shaky breath, nodding.

"Yes. I'm good," you whisper, heart pounding against your ribs. A trembling hand cups his cheek, a tender counterpoint to the fierceness of the moment. His gaze darts over your face, searching, then he groans softly, pressing his forehead to yours in relief.

He doesn't stop—he couldn't if he tried

-but he adjusts, recalibrates just enough that your body begins to loosen under him again. The pain lingers on the edges, but each pulse of pleasure chases it back, building a euphoric urgency that sets every nerve alight.

You cling to each other, lost in the collision of sensation-where hurt becomes heat, and heat spills into ecstasy. And in that wild, fragile balance, the connection between you only deepens.

You could feel the urgency radiating off Joel in waves, every ragged exhale brushing hot against your ear. His pace grew uneven, each thrust edged with mounting desperation. "So good," he muttered, voice raw, words slurring together in a low, urgent litany.

He didn't bother trying to hold back his mouth-dirty confessions poured out in a husky, unfiltered stream, praising every inch of your body and the way you clenched around him. “Feel how good you take me? You’re perfect, sweetheart” It wasn't just filthy talk; there was an almost frantic reverence woven into each word, as though he couldn't get enough, couldn't be close enough. His hips were starting to stutter and you could feel your own resolve crumbling, a shockwave shoots through you as your body gives into the pleasure. Your eyelids flutter shut as the final crest of pleasure surges through you, muscles tensing in anticipation. But Joel's hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your jaw in a gesture both tender and insistent. His voice, low and husky, rumbles close to your ear:

"Look at me... right here. I wanna see your face when you come."

At his words, your eyes snap open, meeting his heated gaze. The world around you seems to narrow until only his face remains in focus. A tremor races through your body, and you're utterly undone-an electric,

overwhelming climax that arches your back and spills a loud, drawn-out moan from your lips. Your mouth forms a silent "O," caught there in breathless rapture as every nerve flares with sensation.

Joel's gaze never wavers; he holds you through it, absorbing every quiver and cry. You can feel the fierce pride in the way he watches you, the way he savors the unguarded emotion flooding your expression.

You're still riding out the last waves of your own pleasure when Joel lets out a ragged groan, hips stuttering against you. Panic flashes over his features for a split second—he tries to pull away, but it's already too late. The heat of his release spills into you, followed by a strained exhale that echoes the intensity of the moment.

A tremor courses through his body as he half-collapses, catching himself on one elbow to avoid crushing you. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath coming in short gasps. He finally manages to ease back, murmuring a low curse under his breath-an apology caught somewhere between guilt and lingering pleasure.

Despite his moment of hesitation, you feel a flood of tenderness as he lifts his gaze, searching your face. The shared realization of what just happened hangs in the air, but the softness in his eyes speaks volumes. You reach up, brushing a hand against his cheek, and his chest heaves with relief. In that hushed aftermath, you're both left a bit shaken, a bit breathless, and overwhelmingly connected-each heartbeat a reminder that, no matter how messy it might be, this closeness is exactly where you want to be.

——

The warmth of the moment still lingers in every ragged breath, your pulse hammering in your ears. Joel’s weight rests heavily on you for a few lingering seconds before he carefully shifts away, his gaze flicking over your features as if to double-check you’re alright. There’s a softness in his eyes that tempers the rawness of the encounter you just shared.

“I’ll, uh… run you a bath,” he murmurs, brushing a stray hair from your face. Even in his hushed tone, you hear the concern that’s always right beneath his gruff exterior.

You only manage a nod, still catching your breath. He presses a brief, tender kiss to your temple before rising, gathering a pair of boxers from the side of the bed, and slipping them on. As he disappears into the hallway, you hear the faint creak of the old pipes coming to life, water rushing through.

Pulling the sheets higher over yourself, you close your eyes for a moment, letting your heart settle. Outside, the world feels distant, and you’re grateful for the cocoon of calm that’s wrapped around the two of you—no raiders, no infected, just the quiet aftermath of a shared intimacy that still leaves your legs trembling.

After a minute or so, Joel’s footsteps pad back toward the room. He stands in the doorway, arms folded across his bare chest, the slight flush still on his cheeks. “Water’s runnin’,” he says gently, voice low. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You ease out of bed, each movement a reminder of the fervor you just shared. Joel crosses the room in a few strides and rests a steadying hand at the small of your back, guiding you toward the bathroom. A rising cloud of steam beckons from behind the door, the promise of warmth and comfort.

In the softly lit space, the tub’s nearly full, water gently steaming at the surface. Joel turns the faucet a bit, testing the temperature with his fingertips. Satisfied, he twists it off and gestures for you to climb in, his posture guarded yet attentive—ready to help if you’re sore or unsteady.

You sink into the bath, a relieved sigh escaping your lips as the heat soothes tired muscles. Joel lingers at the edge, rolling up his boxers just enough to kneel beside the tub. With tender care, he sweeps a hand through the water around you, the small motion an unspoken question: How are you feeling?

“I’m okay,” you whisper, leaning back against the porcelain. Your eyes flutter shut, letting the water cradle your body. Every twinge of ache from earlier recedes under the liquid heat, and you sense Joel’s gaze on you—protective, gentle, and a little bit humbled by what you’ve just shared.

He reaches for a washcloth and soaps it up, then wordlessly offers to help wash your arm, your shoulder—any place you’re too spent to reach comfortably. There’s no rush now, just the soft drip of the faucet and the low hum of the house around you.

As he runs the cloth in slow circles along your skin, you lean into his touch, breathing in the damp air. The world feels at rest, if only for this moment, and in his quiet care you find the reassurance you need. When he finishes, he sets the cloth aside, trailing his knuckles lightly over your cheek.

“You get some rest when you’re done,” he says softly, voice rich with concern. “I’ll— I’ll be right here if you need me.”

The gentle promise in his words settles over you like a blanket. You let your eyes close again, letting the steam and the rhythm of your breath guide you toward a calmer state of mind. At this moment—wounds, stress, and the trials of the day aside—you realize how comforting it is to be cared for so completely. And as Joel lingers at your side, you know neither of you would trade this small, stolen sense of peace for anything.

By the time you step out of the bathroom—hair damp and skin still radiating warmth from the bath—you notice the house is hushed except for the faint clink of a mug against wood. Following the sound, you find Joel in the living room, sitting on the couch with a steaming cup of coffee cradled in one hand.

As soon as he spots you, his expression brightens, relief and tenderness mingling in his eyes. Setting his coffee on the side table, he stands and opens his arms wide, invitation plain on his face. Without hesitating, you cross the short distance between you and slip into his embrace. He wraps his arms around you with a gentle firmness, the soft fabric of his shirt a comforting barrier against the lingering chill clinging to your skin.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just hold each other, your ear pressed to Joel’s chest, listening to the reassuring thrum of his heartbeat. All the tension from earlier feels far away—replaced by the simple warmth of his presence. When he finally loosens his hold, his gaze searches yours, wordlessly asking if you’re okay. You give a small nod, and his shoulders relax as he tugs you back in for another brief, quiet hug. In that stolen moment of peace, it’s hard to imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

You whisper something softly, half expecting him not to hear you.

Joel’s hold on you loosened fractionally as your words slipped out, so quiet you barely realized you’d spoken them aloud. For a second, the world seemed to fall silent; you half expected Joel to ask you to repeat yourself or miss it entirely. But then, he drew in a sharp breath, his hand settling firmly against the small of your back.

He pulled away just enough to meet your eyes, a mixture of astonishment and softness on his face. You felt your cheeks heat under his intent gaze, that flicker of uncertainty fluttering in your stomach. Had you said too much too soon?

Yet Joel’s expression slowly melted into something deeply certain—tender, almost reverent. He brushed a thumb across your cheek, leaning in to press his forehead gently against yours.

“Say it again,” he murmured, voice hushed, holding your gaze like it was the only thing keeping him afloat. And somehow, just like that, the fear faded, replaced by a quiet, overwhelming warmth at being heard—really heard—by him.

A small tremor flickers through you as Joel’s voice wraps around those three words, coaxing them out of you one more time. His forehead rests softly against yours, his breath a quiet, steady warmth across your lips.

Your heart flutters, but you force a whisper past the tightness in your throat. “I love you.”

The look on Joel’s face is almost disbelieving, as though he’s trying to memorize every nuance of this moment. He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s letting the weight of your words sink in, then opens them again with a resolve you’ve only ever seen when he’s protecting someone he cares about.

He shifts his hand to cup your cheek, gaze drifting over every feature of your face. “I love you, too,” he says, the low rumble of his voice like a promise that settles warmly in the quiet room.

You press your forehead more firmly to his, relief and tenderness washing over you. He rubs a thumb lightly across your cheekbone, and for a fleeting moment, neither of you speaks—no words are necessary when the feeling is that clear.

Eventually, Joel pulls you into him once more, a slow exhale leaving his chest, as if he’s finally allowed himself to relax. You melt into his embrace, your ear catching the steady beat of his heart. With those three words hanging in the space between you, the house feels more like a home than it ever has before.

Joel’s gaze travels across your body in that tender, protective way he has—until it snags on your shoulder, where a telltale patch of red blooms against your shirt. His expression shifts in an instant, all softness replaced by alarm.

“Oh shit, darlin’,” he murmurs, hands coming up quickly but carefully, as though he’s not sure whether to touch the wound or keep from hurting you further. “You’re bleedin’.”

You glance down, following his worried eyes. The sight of blood seeping through your shirt tugs the breath from your lungs; you’ve both been so lost in the comfort of each other that you completely forgot the stitches the doctor had given you yesterday. A throb you’d been ignoring intensifies, as if to remind you that the injury still needs attention.

Joel scrambles for the nearest towel or rag, pressing it gently over the stained fabric. “C’mon, lemme see.” His voice is steady even though you see the panic flicker behind his eyes. He peels the fabric back with painstaking care, hissing softly when he catches sight of the torn stitches.

“Easy,” you mutter, trying to keep the pain from your tone, but a wince slips through anyway.

Joel’s jaw tightens. He’s already scanning the room, looking for the first-aid kit or anything that might help. “We gotta get this cleaned up. Should’ve remembered—”

You shake your head, though the movement makes you a bit dizzy. “No, it’s on me too. I—forgot.”

He moves with a crisp resolve, one arm still cradling you while the other rummages for supplies. “Sit down,” he orders gently, voice low and firm. You do as you’re told, lowering yourself onto the couch while he carefully eases the damp cloth away.

His eyes lift to yours, contrite but determined. “I’ll fix this up. Just sit tight.” And in the quiet between you—cut through only by your shallow breaths—you can feel the undercurrent of worry that tells you he’s more upset about this than he’ll admit.

But as he gathers what you both need to patch things up, his hands betray none of that emotion: they’re steady, protective, and sure. It’s then you realize that even though he’s anxious, he won’t let that stand in the way of keeping you safe.

A cold sweat prickled across your forehead, and you felt your heart rate spike at the sight of the blood seeping through the bandage. Even though you’d been bruised and scraped more times than you could count, the sharp sight of fresh blood always had a unique way of weakening your knees. Your stomach gave a slow, uncomfortable roll.

Joel, hunched beside you with the first aid kit in hand, read the change in your face before you even noticed it yourself. One glance at your eyes turning glassy, and he sprang into action.

“Hey,” he murmured, his free hand reaching up to cup the uninjured side of your face. The warmth of his palm felt steady, grounding. “Stay with me, darlin’.”

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly in an effort to fight off the wave of dizziness creeping in. The walls seemed to close in for a moment, the dim edges of your vision going fuzzy.

“S-sorry,” you stammered, breath hitching, “I’m—gonna be fine.”

“Don’t try to tough it out,” Joel said, voice low but firm as he guided you to lean against the back of the couch. “Breathe, remember?”

Trying to follow his instructions, you drew in a slow breath and let it out in shuddery increments. Gradually, the buzzing pressure in your ears began to recede. Feeling a bit steadier, you met his worried gaze.

Joel returned a small nod of approval. “Better?”

You forced a tight smile. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” He exhaled slowly, picking up a roll of gauze. “I’m just gonna get this wrapped—then we can get you to the clinic for new stitches if we gotta. But first things first.”

Your heart fluttered at the care in his voice, even though you were still fighting the unease in your belly. “Thank you,” you managed softly, closing your eyes for a moment to focus on his voice, his presence.

Joel’s movements were practiced and deliberate as he pressed fresh gauze against the wound. His brow knit in concentration, but he kept one eye on your expression to make sure you weren’t about to keel over. Every so often, he’d whisper a small reassurance—quiet words that kept you tethered to him and away from the threat of passing out.

And it worked. Gradually, the hush in your head faded, leaving only the steady sound of his breathing and the warmth of his hand on your arm as he finished dressing the wound. Even though the pulsing ache persisted, it was easier to bear with Joel close by, guiding you through each breath until your stomach finally settled.

“You did good,” he murmured once he was done, offering you a shaky little smile of his own. And despite the pain and the lingering dizziness, the sight of that honest concern on his face was enough to make you think that maybe—just maybe—you’d be alright.

———-•

The rest of the day passed more smoothly than you’d feared. After patching you up at home, Joel insisted on taking you to the clinic just to be sure, and the doctor confirmed what the two of you already knew: one of your stitches had torn. While the doctor carefully replaced it, you gripped Joel’s hand with white-knuckled intensity, wincing every so often at the sting of disinfectant.

Ellie, planted in the corner, openly snickered whenever you flinched, though her eyes shone with relief. “Keep it up,” Joel warned, shooting her a half-hearted glare, but she just rolled her eyes and offered you a dramatic thumbs-up. Despite her teasing, you could sense her concern; it showed in the way her voice quivered with relief once the procedure ended.

When the doctor finally pronounced you patched up—again—you and Joel exchanged exasperated smiles. Ellie, still smirking, ambled over to nudge you playfully. “Could’ve been worse,” she mused, feigning seriousness. “At least no one fainted.”

Joel shook his head, helping you to your feet with gentle care. “Yeah, yeah. Keep it down, kid.” But his voice carried more affection than annoyance, and Ellie’s grin widened.

Once you left, the three of you stepped into Jackson’s late-afternoon light. You winced at the brightness, but a deep sense of relief settled in your chest. Even if it meant a rip in your stitches, the day’s close call was behind you, and for once, normal felt close at hand.

Joel’s hand remained firmly clasped around yours as you made your way back home, Ellie trailing behind with her usual lighthearted commentary. And though your shoulder throbbed dully beneath the fresh bandage, the pain was a small price to pay for the calm you felt in that simple moment—united, safe, and together.

Tommy’s voice cut through the comfortable lull as you, Joel, and Ellie were passing by Jackson’s main street. He stood a short distance away, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed in that half-stern, half-concerned way of his.

“You guys have a job to do!” he boomed, though the frustration in his tone was laced with brotherly worry as he looked Joel up and down, his gaze flicking to your freshly bandaged shoulder. “Don’t think I’m lettin’ you off the hook just ’cause you decided to go get yourself stitched up.”

Joel let out a low groan but strode forward to meet Tommy’s eye. “We just got back from the clinic. She’s fine—everything’s fine.”

Ellie snorted, folding her arms. “Yeah, yeah, we can’t go five minutes without being on some chore list around here.”

Tommy shot her a quick glare, then focused back on Joel. “Look, we’ve been running low on certain parts—generators are acting up again. I need some folks I trust to head out beyond the perimeter to pick up replacements. Figure you and Ellie can handle it. And you,” he continued, nodding pointedly at you, “only if you’re up for it. Don’t push yourself if that shoulder’s still tender.”

You gave a small shrug, feeling the dull ache beneath the bandage. “I’ll live.”

Tommy’s expression softened a bit, looking guilty for a moment. “I wouldn’t be asking unless it was important. Supplies’ll be gone by the end of the week if we don’t get our hands on parts soon. You know how fast folks use up electricity around here. We can’t afford any downtime.”

Joel sighed and glanced at you, then at Ellie, who was already straightening her posture as if ready to march off on the mission. “Guess that means we’re on duty,” he muttered.

Ellie grinned, tipping her head back as if she thrived on the chance to do something useful. “We’ll get it done.”

Tommy crossed his arms. “I know y’all will. Just be careful. Strange stuff’s been happening around the outskirts—folks reporting fresh tracks, maybe infected. Could just be paranoia, but keep an eye out.”

Joel nodded. “Alright. We’ll gear up. Give us a half hour.”

Tommy’s gaze lingered on you one last time. His features eased, genuine concern shining through. “Take care of that shoulder.”

With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the hustle of Jackson’s late afternoon, leaving you, Joel, and Ellie standing in the street—renewed purpose stirring in your veins, a trace of anxiety coiling in the pit of your stomach, and the faint but steady throb in your bandaged wound reminding you that nothing in this world ever stayed calm for long.

Ellie threw up her hands, exasperation pulling her features taut. “But we just went on a supply run yesterday,” she whined, jabbing a finger in your direction. “That’s how she got this!”

Her voice echoed slightly along the busy street, drawing a few curious glances. You shifted uncomfortably, hyperaware of the fresh bandage on your shoulder. Ellie’s words stirred the memory of the close call—raid, chaos, and a knife wound.

Tommy gave Ellie a look somewhere between sympathy and impatience. “I know, kid. But this is different. We can’t wait around on these parts, or the whole town’ll be sittin’ in the dark by next week.”

Joel nudged Ellie gently, his eyes scanning her face before darting to yours. “We’ll be careful,” he assured, though you heard a hint of fatigue in his tone. “Stick close, minimize any risks.”

Ellie folded her arms, torn between her desire to protest and the sense of responsibility she felt for Jackson. Finally, she gave a resigned sigh. “Fine. But if we run into trouble, I’m blaming you,” she told Tommy, though a ghost of a grin tugged at her lips.

Tommy just shook his head in exasperation. “Yeah, yeah. Just get those parts back, and don’t let her,” he added, nodding at your shoulder, “get busted up any worse.”