Death Before Detransition

Dark eyes. Weathered face. A jaw that looks like it’s clenched more often than not.

You don’t know his name yet, but you know the type. Survivor. The kind who’s lost too much and trusts too little.

His gaze shifts to Drew.

It hardens.

“This is a town,” he says, voice low and rough like gravel dragged across wood. “Not a charity.”

Drew offers that easy smile he’s perfected—the one that’s gotten you extra rations, safe shelter, and better trades. “We’re willing to work.”

The man doesn’t return the smile.

You feel it then—that strange pull of tension in the air. Like a wire drawn too tight.

The lighter-haired man steps forward. “I’m Tommy,” he says. “That’s my brother, Joel.”

Joel.

The name fits him. Solid. Heavy.

Joel’s eyes flick back to you.

“You hurt?” he asks.

The question catches you off guard.

Before you can answer, Drew does. “She’s fine.”

Joel doesn’t look at him. Not once.

He’s still watching you.

You hesitate, then shake your head. “Just tired.”

Something shifts in his expression. Subtle. Almost imperceptible.

Tommy nods. “We’ve got procedures. Quarantine first. Just to be safe.”

You expect Joel to turn away. To lose interest.

He doesn’t.

As you’re escorted inside, you can feel it—the weight of his stare between your shoulder blades.

Drew leans closer to you as you walk.

“See?” he murmurs. “Told you we’d find somewhere better.”

You nod, but your eyes drift.

Joel is still standing by the gate.

Still watching.

Not you.

Drew.

And there’s something in his expression you recognize instantly.

Distrust.

.

Quarantine ends on a gray morning.

Two full days in the small wooden cabin at the edge of town. Two days of Drew pacing. Two days of you pretending you don’t jump at every sudden knock.

The knock comes just after sunrise.

Drew reaches the door first.

When he opens it, Joel Miller stands on the porch, broad shoulders filling the doorway like he owns it.

His eyes move past Drew.

To you.

“I’ll need you,” he says.

Not both of you.

You.

Drew frowns slightly. “For what?”

“Patrol.”

His voice is even. Calm. Final.

You stand from the small table by the window. “I can go.”

Drew turns toward you. “We just got cleared.”

Joel doesn’t respond to him. He keeps looking at you, waiting.

“You can handle it?” he asks.

“Yes,” you answer.

He nods once. “Gear up.”

Drew steps forward a fraction. Not aggressive. Not quite.

“I can go instead.”

Joel’s gaze finally shifts to him.

“She’s already been assigned.”

There’s nothing else to say to that.

.

Outside the cabin, the cold air bites sharp and clean.

You fall into step beside Joel as you head toward the stables.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

Snow crunches under your boots.

Finally, he breaks the silence.

“How big was the place you came from?”

“Small,” you say. “Maybe thirty people.”

"How long were you there?”

“Three years.”

"Is that where you met him?”

You hesitate, just slightly. “Yeah.”

He adjusts the strap of his rifle. "Are you married?”

The question catches you off guard. You shake your head. “No.”

A beat passes.

“How’d that happen then?”

You stare ahead at the treeline beyond Jackson’s walls.

“The council paired people,” you say carefully. “Men and women. Said it kept things stable.”

Joel is quiet for a long moment.

“You agree to that?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Too fast. You can feel it—that weight again. His attention isn’t loud, but it’s thorough.

“You sure?” he asks.

You nod. Your eyes don’t meet his. He doesn’t push.

.

The patrol is routine.

Perimeter sweep. Fence inspection. Clearing a small group of infected caught in a snowdrift near the north ridge.

You move well. Efficient. Careful with ammo. Calm under pressure.

Joel watches. He notices how you don’t panic. How you listen when he gives instruction. How you never once look back toward town.

When you finish, he hands you a thermos from his pack. “Here, drink," he says.

You take it. Your fingers brush his glove for half a second. Warm. Solid. You don’t know why that registers. It just does.

.

When you return to Jackson, Drew is waiting near the stables.

He walks up immediately.

“How long was the route?” he asks you.

“Maybe 10 miles,” you answer.

“Area?”

Joel answers this time. “North ridge.”

Drew’s jaw tightens—barely noticeable. “Everything clear?”

“For now,” Joel says evenly.

Drew’s hand settles at the small of your back. Joel’s eyes drop to it. Then back to your face.

Your shoulders shift—just a fraction inward.

.

Over the next two weeks, Jackson settles around you.

You work mornings in the stables. Sometimes kitchen duty. Once, inventory with Maria.

Drew finds carpentry work quickly. Talks easily with the other men. Volunteers often.

Joel watches.

He leans against fences. Fixes tacks that don't need fixing. Takes patrol routes that pass through town at certain hours.

He tells himself it’s routine.

He notices how Drew answers when someone asks you a question. How he steps in just a little too quickly. How you rarely look at anyone for long. Especially not Joel.

One afternoon, Tommy finds him sitting outside the workshop, staring across the street.

“You’re doing it again,” Tommy says.

Joel doesn’t look away. "Doing what?”

"Watching'."

Joel exhales through his nose. “New people.”

Tommy follows his line of sight.

You’re standing by the well. Drew says something. You nod immediately.

“You’re interested,” Tommy says lightly.

Joel’s jaw tightens. “I’m concerned.”

Tommy raises a brow.

Joel finally looks at him.

“Settlement paired men and women,” he mutters. “Didn’t like how she said it.”

Tommy studies him for a moment.

“You think he’s trouble?”

Joel looks back toward you.

Drew laughs at something one of the townspeople says. His hand rests on your shoulder now. You stand still as a statue.

Joel’s voice lowers.

“I think,” he says carefully, “she doesn't look like someone who chose.”

Tommy doesn’t joke after that. He just nods once.

.

It’s late afternoon when it happens.

The sky is heavy with incoming snow, and the air is sharp and metallic in your lungs. You volunteered to help move supplies from the storage shed near the east fence—dried beans, flour sacks, and a small crate of preserved vegetables.

Drew insisted on helping.

You carry more than you should.

Two sacks balanced against your chest, a crate hooked awkwardly in your elbow. The ground near the shed is uneven—frozen mud turned brittle and ridged.

You know better. Your boot catches anyway. It happens fast. Your balance tips. The crate slips first. Then the sacks. You hit the ground hard, palms scraping against packed frost as beans scatter across the snow.

For a second, there’s just ringing in your ears.

Then—"What the hell is wrong with you?”

Drew’s voice is sharp.

You push yourself up quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see—”

“Obviously you didn’t see,” he snaps, stepping closer. “You never pay attention.”

Your chest tightens.

You drop to your knees, scrambling to gather what you can before the snow ruins it.

“I’ve got it,” you murmur.

“You always say that,” he says, leaning down close enough that you can feel his breath. “You think people don’t notice? You embarrassing me like that?”

Your fingers tremble slightly as you scoop beans back into torn cloth.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“No, you never mean to. That’s the problem. You don’t think.”

The words hit harder than the fall did.

Behind the storage shed, just around the corner, two figures have gone still.

Joel had been checking the fence line with Tommy. They weren’t meant to hear anything, but they do.

Joel’s posture changes first. Tommy glances sideways at him, then back toward the voices.

Drew keeps going.

“You think this place is yours already?” he mutters. “You think they like you?”

“I don’t—”

“You don’t what?” His tone lowers. “Don’t forget where you came from. You need me.”

There’s the real crack.

You nod automatically. “I know.”

Joel’s jaw tightens so hard it aches. Tommy shifts his weight slightly, uncomfortable now.

There’s a long pause. Then Drew exhales. And just like that, his tone changes.

“Just… be more careful,” he says, almost reasonable. “Alright?”

You nod again. You don’t argue. You don’t defend yourself. You just gather the last of the spilled food.

Drew finally crouches to help—but not before brushing frost off his own jacket first.

Joel steps around the corner deliberately then, boots crunching against snow.

Drew straightens immediately.

Mask back on.

“Didn’t see you there,” Drew says easily.

Joel doesn’t look at him.

He looks at you.

Your palms are scraped raw. Red against white snow.

“You hurt?” Joel asks.

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

Joel holds your gaze a second longer than usual. You look away first. Of course you do.

Tommy steps forward, trying to ease the tension. “We can grab fresh sacks from storage.”

Drew smiles lightly. “Would appreciate it. She just lost her footing.”

Joel finally looks at him. There’s nothing explosive in his expression.

"The ground didn’t seem that uneven,” Joel says mildly.

Drew’s smile tightens. “Guess some people are clumsier than others.”

Silence stretches.

Joel bends and picks up the crate from your hands without asking.

His fingers brush yours. He doesn’t say anything else. But when he straightens, his eyes meet yours again. And this time—you don’t look away immediately.

.

Later that night, Tommy sits across from Joel at the table.

Neither of them mentions it at first.

Finally, Tommy says quietly, “You were right.”

Joel stares at the wall.

“She apologized,” he says. “For falling.”

Tommy nods. Joel’s hands curl into fists against the tabletop. “That isn't how someone talks to a person they respect.”

Across town, in your cabin, Drew is calm again. Easy. Talking about future work assignments. Like nothing happened. Like it never does.

.

Friday nights in Jackson belong to the The Tipsy Bison. Lantern light glows warm against the wooden beams, boots thud at the door as people stomp off snow, and somewhere in the corner someone plays a guitar just slightly off-key. Laughter comes easier here. It fills the space in a way that almost makes you forget what the world used to be.

You’re seated at a long table near the back, cheeks warmed by both the fire and the drink in your hand. And you’re smiling—not the polite, measured smile you’ve perfected over the years, but something looser. Real.

Maria sits beside you, elbow propped casually on the table as she studies you over the rim of her glass. “You clean up nice,” she teases.

You huff a soft laugh. “This is the same sweater.”

“Still,” she replies, smiling. Then her tone shifts, becoming gentler. “You settling in alright?”

You nod automatically. “Yeah. It’s good here.”

“And you and Drew?”

The question is light. Curious. Harmless.

Your answer isn’t. It’s immediate, smooth from repetition. “We’re good.”

Maria’s eyes linger on you a second longer than is comfortable. “How long have you been together?”

“Three years.”

"Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

Too quick. Too practiced.

You lift your drink before she can read anything more from your face. Across the room, Drew stands at the bar with a few of the carpenters, laughing easily. He hasn’t looked at you in a while.

But you’ve looked at him.

Several times.

Your eyes flick up every few seconds, checking, confirming. You don’t realize you’re doing it. Maria does.

A chair scrapes against the floor as Tommy Miller drops into the seat across from you with easy familiarity. “You ladies gossiping without us?” he grins, setting down fresh drinks.

Behind him, slower and quieter, Joel Miller takes a seat at the edge of the table. Not too close. Not too far. His presence is steady and deliberate.

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you.

You look away first.

Conversation flows easily after that. Patrol routes, weather shifts, and someone’s horse throwing a shoe earlier in the week. Tommy tells a ridiculous story that makes you laugh—really laugh—your shoulders loosening, your head tipping back slightly as the sound escapes you unguarded.

Joel notices everything.

Especially your eyes.

Even while you laugh, they move. Scan. Count. Check.

Drew.

Still at the bar. Still talking.

Until he isn’t.

He turns at the exact moment you laugh, catching the expression before you can temper it. Something in his posture changes—subtle but sharp. He doesn’t hurry over. He finishes his drink first, says something to the men beside him, and then makes his way toward the table.

You see him coming.

Joel sees the second you do.

Your laughter fades mid-breath. Your spine straightens. The ease drains from your posture like water through a crack.

Drew stops beside you. "Are you having fun?” he asks, tone light and controlled.

“Yes,” you answer carefully.

His hand closes around your wrist. Not violently. Not enough to draw attention. But tight enough that your fingers pale beneath his grip.

“Time to head home,” he says.

The table quiets in that subtle, almost polite way people do when tension enters a space.

“Oh, already?” Maria asks.

“Early morning,” Drew replies smoothly. “She needs the sleep.”

You don’t argue. You don’t hesitate. You stand.

“Goodnight,” you say softly to the table.

Joel’s gaze drops to Drew’s hand. The grip hasn’t loosened. When he looks up at Drew’s face, he sees it clearly now—not open anger, but possession. A silent claim.

She’s mine.

“Night,” Tommy says, trying to keep the tone easy.

Drew nods and guides you toward the door. You don’t look back.

.

He tells himself he’s just heading home. That it’s on the way. That it doesn’t mean anything.

But his steps are slow as he passes the cabin assigned to you. A faint light glows through the thin curtains. He shouldn’t stop.

He does.

At first, there’s only silence.

Then Drew’s voice, muffled through wood. “You think I didn’t see that?”

A pause.

Your voice answers, quieter. “I was just talking.”

“You were laughing.”

“It was just—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

The words aren’t shouted. They’re controlled. That makes them worse.

Something hits wood inside—not hard enough to splinter, but hard enough to make a point.

Joel’s hands curl into fists at his sides.

Inside, your voice again. Smaller now. “I’m sorry.”

The word lands heavy in his chest.

Footsteps. Movement. The murmur of low, tense voices he can’t fully make out.

Every instinct in him tells him to kick the door in. To drag Drew out by the collar and end it.

But he can’t.

Not without proof. Not without you asking. Jackson has rules.

And you haven’t asked.

The noise eventually fades. Silence settles thick and suffocating behind the cabin walls.

Joel stands there longer than he should—long enough to make sure it doesn’t start again. Long enough to feel useless.

When he finally turns away, his jaw is set hard.

Because this isn’t a single moment anymore.

It’s a pattern.

And Joel Miller does not ignore patterns.

.

You don’t leave the cabin for three days.

At first, no one thinks much of it. New people get sick. New climates hit hard. Stress catches up.

When Maria asks Drew about you on the second afternoon, he smiles easily and says, “She isn't feeling well. Just under the weather.”

He says it like he’s inconvenienced but patient.

Maria doesn’t entirely buy it. Neither does Joel. He hasn’t seen you once since Friday night. Not at the stables. Not at the well. Not at dinner. Your cabin curtains stay drawn.

“She doesn't seem the type to hide from work over a cold,” Joel mutters to Tommy Miller as they stand near the gate.

Tommy watches Drew across the yard. “Maria’s already clocked it.”

Sure enough, that evening Maria reassigns patrol rotations.

“Drew,” she calls, clipboard tucked under her arm. “You’re out early tomorrow. East ridge.”

Drew hesitates for half a second. Then nods. “Sure.”

Joel doesn’t miss the flicker in his eyes.

.

The next morning, Joel waits. He watches Drew leave through the gates with the patrol group. He counts until they’re out of sight.

Then he turns and walks toward your cabin.

He tells himself he’s just checking in.

The knock is firm but not loud. There’s a long pause before you answer. The door opens barely an inch. Just enough for one eye. Half your face.

“Yes?”

Your voice is thin. Joel’s chest tightens at the sound of it.

“You alright?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” you reply quickly. “Just under the weather.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Yeah?”

You nod. He studies the door. The way you’re bracing it with your shoulder. The way your body is angled to keep most of yourself hidden.

“Then why are you hiding behind a door?” he asks gently.

“I’m not hiding.”

“You are.”

Your fingers tighten on the edge of the wood.

You try to straighten your voice. “It’s just a cold. I don’t want to spread it.”

Joel doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he pushes lightly against the door.

Not forcing. Just testing.

You resist—but not hard enough.

The door opens another few inches.

And that’s when he sees it.

Darkened skin along your forearm. Yellowed at the edges. Deep purple near the center. Finger-shaped.

Joel goes completely still.

You realize too late what’s exposed and try to pull your sleeve down.

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly. “I bruise easily."

Joel’s eyes lift slowly to yours.

“Open the door,” he says.

You hesitate. Then something in you gives out. The door creaks open wider.

Joel sees you fully now. And the air leaves his lungs. The bruises don’t stop at your arm. They mark your collarbone. The edge of your shoulder where your sweater slips. Faint discoloration shadows your jaw, partially hidden but not enough.

Some are fresh. Some are days old. All of them tell the same story. Joel steps back like he’s been physically struck.

For a second, he can’t speak. You rush to fill the silence. “He didn’t mean it,” you say quickly. “He just—he gets upset sometimes. It’s not—it's not like before. He’s trying.”

Your voice shakes now. You’re defending him. Joel’s expression fractures.

“Like before?” he repeats quietly.

You realize what you’ve said and shake your head. “I just mean—it's stressful. New place. He doesn’t like not being in control.”

Joel’s jaw tightens so hard it trembles. “He isn't supposed to be in control of you,” he says.

“He kept me alive,” you whisper. “I needed him.”

Joel’s voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its steel. “Needing someone isn't the same as belonging to them."

Tears sting your eyes now, but you blink them back stubbornly. “He didn’t mean to,” you repeat. “It was just—I laughed. And he thought—”

Joel closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, something has settled there. Not just anger. Resolve. "Jackson, don’t let this happen,” he says quietly.

You look confused. “What?”

“We don’t allow men to hurt women here.”

Your breathing picks up. Panic creeping in.

“No, you can’t—if he finds out I told—”

“You didn’t tell,” Joel interrupts gently. “I saw.”

He steps forward carefully, like approaching a wounded animal.

“I'm not asking you to fight with him,” he says. “You don’t have to do anything right now.”

Your back hits the wall behind you.

Joel’s voice lowers further.

“But you aren't staying here alone when he gets back.”

Silence hangs between you.

Then he extends his hand. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just there.

“Come on,” he says softly. “We’re going to Maria’s.”

Your chest feels tight.

“What if he’s angry?” you whisper.

Joel’s eyes darken.

“Then he can be angry at me.”

.

Maria doesn’t hesitate.

The second you step into her house and she sees your arm—really sees it—her expression changes. Not shocked. Not pity.

Fury. Controlled. Focused fury.

She doesn’t ask you to explain. She doesn’t ask what you did or why it happened. She simply turns to Joel and says, “Get Tommy. Now.”

Within minutes, Tommy is there. Then two council members. Then more. Word spreads quickly in Jackson when it needs to.

You sit at Maria’s kitchen table, hands trembling in your lap. You don’t understand why everyone is moving so fast. Why do they look so certain?

You keep trying to soften it. “It’s not that bad,” you say once.

No one agrees.

Joel stands behind you. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back. He hasn’t touched you yet. He’s giving you room.

But he hasn’t stepped away either.

The council gathers around the heavy wooden table. Oil lamps flicker. Boots scrape against floorboards. It doesn’t feel dramatic.

It feels procedural.

Maria speaks first. “She’s not going back to that cabin.”

Tommy nods once. “And he won’t be staying in this town.”

Your breath catches. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes,” Maria says firmly, meeting your eyes. “We do.”

You don’t understand. In the world you came from, this was private. Managed. Endured. Explained away. Here, it’s treated like a threat. Because it is.

They don’t argue long. There’s no shouting. No debate.

Maria folds her hands on the table. “We’ve handled this before,” she says. “And we’ll handle it the same way.”

One of the council members nods. “He’s banned.”

Your chest tightens.

“If he crosses back over the river,” Tommy adds evenly, “he’ll be shot. No questions.”

The certainty in the room makes you dizzy.

“That’s extreme,” you whisper.

Joel’s hand settles on your shoulder then—heavy, steady, grounding.

“No,” he murmurs quietly near your ear. “It isn't."

You’re shaking now. Not because you want Drew to stay. Because you don’t understand why they’re choosing you.

Joel notices before you do. Without a word, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it around your shoulders. It’s warm. It smells like leather and cold air and something solid.

His arm comes around you. Not tight. Not claiming. Protective.

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “You’re alright.”

The front door slams open. Boots thunder across the floor. “Where is she?”

Drew storms into the room, snow melting off his shoulders. His eyes find you immediately.

Then they land on Joel’s arm around you.

His expression shifts—not confusion. Ownership threatened.

“What the hell is this?” he demands.

Maria rises calmly. “Sit down, Drew.”

“I’m not sitting down,” he snaps. “You put me on patrol, then I come back and she’s not in the cabin?”

Joel doesn’t move his arm. Drew steps closer. “Get your hands off her.”

Joel’s voice drops low and dangerous. “Careful.”

The room stills.

Maria speaks before it escalates. “The council has made a decision.”

Drew laughs sharply. “About what?”

“About you,” Tommy answers.

Maria doesn’t waver. “You’re banned from Jackson.”

The words land hard. Drew stares at her like she’s lost her mind. “Over what? A misunderstanding?”

No one responds. He turns to you. “Tell them. Tell them it wasn’t like that.”

Your throat closes. Joel feels the tremor run through you. His arm tightens slightly—not restraining, just steady.

Drew notices.

“You think this is funny?” he spits at Joel. “You think you can just take what’s mine?”

The word echoes.

Mine.

“She is not property,” Maria says coldly.

Drew ignores her. “The settlement before gave her to me. That’s how it works. You don’t just undo that because she got emotional.”

Joel’s jaw tightens.

“She isn't an object,” he says quietly.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“No,” Maria says. “We do.”

Guards move toward Drew. He looks around the room and finally understands. No one is backing him. He looks at you one last time. “You’re really choosing this?”

You’re still shaking. But you lift your head. And you don’t answer. Joel feels the shift in you.

Drew scoffs. “You won’t last a month without me.”

Joel’s reply is calm. “We’ll take that risk.”

The guards move to escort him out. That’s when he turns reckless. He shoves one of them hard enough to stumble and lunges forward—not at Maria, not at Tommy.

At you.

Joel reacts before anyone else.

He steps in front of you, shoving you back behind him as Drew swings wildly. The punch glances off Joel’s shoulder instead of your face.

The room erupts.

Tommy and the guards tackle Drew before he can swing again, slamming him into the wall. A chair overturns. A lamp wobbles but doesn’t fall.

Drew thrashes, shouting now. “She’s mine! You don’t get to take her!”

Joel doesn’t move from where he’s shielding you. His entire body is a wall. You can see the fury in him—controlled, barely contained.

“Get him out,” Maria orders.

The guards drag Drew toward the door as he continues yelling threats—at Joel, at the council, at you.

“You’ll regret this!” he shouts. “You think he’ll keep you? You’re nothing without me!”

The door slams behind him.

Silence follows. Thick and ringing.

Joel turns immediately, hands on your arms—careful, scanning you for injury.

“You hurt?” he asks.

You shake your head, tears spilling freely now.

Outside, Drew’s shouting fades as he’s hauled toward the gate.

Joel pulls you into him then. Firm and steady, your face tucked against his chest, his hand braced at the back of your head like he’s anchoring you to something unmovable.

“You’re safe,” he says, voice rough but certain. “He isn't coming back."

And for the first time—