Fever Dream

Joel’s jaw flexed.

You took a step closer. “What is going on?”

His voice was low. Bitter. “What’s goin’ on is that you’re finally seein’ me for what I am.”

You blinked. “Joel—”

“I’m tired, baby. Tired of pretendin’ like this is easy. Like I ain’t constantly waitin’ for the other shoe to drop. You’re young, you’re kind, you got a whole damn life ahead of you, and I’m just—” He shook his head. “I’m just some old man clingin’ to somethin’ that don’t belong to him.”

Your heart shattered right in your chest.

“Don’t do that,” you whispered. “Don’t take what we have and twist it into somethin’ ugly just ‘cause you’re scared.”

“I ain’t twistin’ nothin’. I’m tellin’ the truth.”

“Well, it’s a shitty truth,” you snapped, tears brimming. “And it isn’t mine.”

Joel stared for a beat—then turned. “I’m done talkin’.”

He walked out.

Not a slammed door. Not a final word. Just silence. Like he’d already decided.

You stood there in the stillness, breath shaky, limbs buzzing with frustration. He didn’t even look back.

You didn’t go after him.

Your hands trembled as you grabbed a blanket from the closet and curled up on the couch. You couldn’t cry again. You were too angry. Too heartbroken. Joel had this way of building walls and convincing himself he was protecting you by doing it. But all it did was make you feel like a stranger in your own home.

You stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, blinking up at the darkened beams as the clock ticked on. He didn’t come back out. You didn’t go in.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed you.

Joel’s eyes snapped open.

The room was pitch black, save for the faint glow of moonlight through the curtains. His body was still warm with sleep, but something felt wrong.

He reached out instinctively for you—cold sheets. Empty space.

His hand searched again, heart beginning to race. Your side of the bed wasn’t just empty—it had been that way for a while.

“Fuck,” he muttered, bolting upright.

The fight came rushing back in pieces—your voice trembling, the look in your eyes when he said you deserved better. The way he walked away like a coward, thinking silence would protect you both.

But now?

Now all he felt was dread.

“Baby?” he called into the dark, voice rasping from sleep and guilt. No answer.

He got up fast, pulling on the first hoodie he found and moving through the house, bare feet padding softly across the wood floor.

No sign of you in the kitchen.

Bathroom light off.

Coat still hanging by the door, shoes untouched.

His chest clenched.

Maybe you left anyway. Maybe it had taken a few hours to decide, but you realized he wasn’t worth it after all.

He deserved that.

But it would ruin him.

The fear took over, clawing up his throat as he stumbled into the living room—and stopped.

There you were.

Curled into a ball on the couch, blanket twisted around your legs, a crease between your brows even in sleep.

His knees nearly gave out with relief.

He moved slowly, crouching beside the couch and brushing a piece of hair away from your forehead.

You stirred at the touch, eyes fluttering open.

“Joel?” Your voice was groggy, confused.

His face was crumpled in guilt. “I thought you were gone.”

You sat up a little. “Why would I leave?”

Joel looked down. “’Cause I gave you every damn reason to.”

There it was—cracked and raw. All his worry, all his anger, all his fear that you were too good for him, poured out like floodwater from a broken dam.

You reached for his hand. “I needed space, Joel. I wasn’t leavin’. I was hurt.”

“I know,” he rasped, voice thick. “I—fuck—I didn’t mean any of it. You were right. I pulled away and then got mad when you noticed. That ain’t fair.”

You squeezed his fingers gently.

“I didn’t want to sleep without you,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “Woke up and you weren’t there and... I lost it.”

His eyes were glassy. The vulnerability in them made your chest ache.

“Come here,” you said softly, shifting over to give him space on the couch.

He settled beside you, slow and careful like he didn’t think he deserved to. You pulled the blanket over both of you.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice barely audible against your temple. “I feel like I ain’t enough sometimes. Like you’ll wake up one day and see what I see.”

You looked up at him, gently guiding his face to meet your gaze.

“You wanna know what I see?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“I see a man who has survived things most people wouldn’t. I see someone who carries so much pain but still chooses love. I see someone who protects what he loves with everything he’s got.”

Joel’s eyes shone in the low light.

“I see someone I want. Someone I love. Exactly as he is.”

A shaky breath escaped him. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to yours.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Yes, you do,” you whispered. “Stop sayin’ that.”

You kissed him then—soft and slow, mouths moving like they’d missed each other all night.

Joel deepened it, a low sound escaping from the back of his throat. His hand settled on your waist, pulling you closer.

You climbed into his lap without hesitation, straddling him beneath the blanket, hands cupping his face.

He kissed you like he was trying to make up for all the words he didn’t know how to say.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered against your lips.

“You didn’t.”

“Never wanna go to sleep mad again.”

You smiled, touching your nose to his. “Then don’t be an ass next time.”

That earned a breathy laugh from him. “Fair.”

His hands slid under your shirt, rough palms skimming the soft skin of your back. You shivered, not from the cold, but from the way his touch still made your stomach flutter.

You rocked gently against him, your forehead resting against his, heartbeats syncing in the quiet.

“Let me show you,” he murmured, voice husky. “Let me show you how much I need you.”

You nodded, voice caught in your throat.

Joel kissed down your neck, warm lips lingering at your pulse point. One hand slipped between your thighs, fingers teasing gently through your sleep shorts.

You let out a soft moan as he touched you, his name a breath on your lips.

“You always so wet for me, baby?” he murmured, fingers stroking slow, deliberate.

You whimpered. “Only for you.”

He slid a finger inside, then another, curling them just right. His thumb circled your clit with practiced care, watching your face the whole time.

“You’re perfect,” he said, voice gravel and reverence. “Every part of you.”

You bucked against his hand, breath catching. “Joel—”

“Shh, I got you,” he whispered, kissing you again, slower this time. “Wanna make you feel good.”

Your body trembled as he worked you open, fingers stroking deep until your thighs shook around him.

“Cum for me, baby,” he said against your neck. “Let go.”

You fell apart with a soft cry, clinging to him as the wave washed over you.

He held you through it, murmuring sweet nothings as you came down, pressing kisses to your shoulder, your cheek, your lips.

When your breathing slowed, you looked up at him. “Can we go to bed now?”

He smiled. “Yeah, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

Joel carried you back to the bedroom like you weighed nothing, setting you gently under the covers before crawling in beside you.

You curled into his side, his arm wrapped tight around your waist.

Your forehead cracks against the ground. Pain explodes across your face. Your ears ring. Your mouth fills with dirt.

Boots stomp near your ribs. You try to move, but you’re already being dragged—hands under your arms, your limbs limp, rifle long gone.

They drop you in a clearing like you’re nothing.

You blink past blood.

Three people surround you. One woman crouches in front—built like a tank, arms tense, jaw tight.

You don’t know her.

But she knows you.

“Thought I’d find you eventually,” she says, voice sharp with venom. “Joel always did have a soft spot for strays.”

Your heart stutters.

Joel?

You push up on one elbow. “What… what the hell are you talking about?”

You try to move, but hands hold you down—two of her crew pinning your arms and legs.

“I was hoping for Joel,” she continues, crouching beside you, pulling out a knife. “But you… you’ll do.”

The knife kisses your cheek.

Then slices.

Not deep—but enough to sting. Enough to make you flinch.

Her jaw twitches.

She stands up and kicks you hard in the side. You scream as ribs snap like brittle twigs.

“You don’t get to play dumb,” she snarls. “You’re the girl from Jackson. His… what, girlfriend? Housemate? Fuck-buddy?”

You stare, mouth open, breath stuck. You don’t recognize her, but she’s looking at you like you killed someone she loved.

“I should kill you quick,” she says, pulling a hammer from her belt. “But that wouldn’t hurt him enough.”

You try to crawl backward. The others move to block you.

“I don’t know who you are,” you rasp.

She crouches beside you, grabbing your face roughly. “No, but I know you. And that’s enough. I’m gonna make sure when he sees you, he sees what he did.”

The first hit with the hammer doesn’t come down on your skull—it crashes into your leg. You scream.

She’s not trying to kill you.

She’s trying to destroy you.

Another hit. Another. Your vision blurs. Your shoulder is yanked backward until something tears. You cry out, choking.

She whispers things you can’t make sense of—“My father,” “hospital,” “he didn’t hesitate.”

None of it makes sense.

But all of it hurts.

Eventually, you stop fighting. You just breathe. Try to stay awake.

Then—

Gunfire.

A sharp crack, and one of the men drops.

Another shot—clean through the second’s chest. He collapses.

The woman—though you still don’t know her name—spins too late.

Jesse’s bullet hits her square in the chest.

She gasps, stumbles. Her hammer falls. One more shot and she hits the ground, lifeless.

When it’s over, the world is deathly still.

He rushes to you. You can’t even lift your head.

“Hey. Hey, I got you,” he whispers, falling to his knees, pressing his hands to your bleeding side. “Oh fuck, oh my god…”

You try to speak. Your lips barely move.

He leans in close.

“…Joel,” you breathe, tears mixing with blood. “Don’t let him… blame himself.”

Jesse shakes his head, panicking. “No. No, don’t talk like that. We’re gonna get you home.”

He shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around you, lifting you carefully into his arms. You scream—your shoulder’s dislocated—but he holds you like you’ll break. Because you will.

“Shhh, I know, I know,” Jesse pants, voice shaking. “It’s bad. It’s so bad. Just hold on.”

He starts running.

“I’m getting you back. I swear to God. I swear to God,” he pants, staggering toward the trees, back toward Jackson, covered in blood that isn’t just yours.

Behind you, she lies dead in the dirt.

But her legacy is carved into your skin.

And all you can do is close your eyes and hope he gets you there in time.

You never even got her name.

He hears the shouting before he sees the blood.

Joel’s just outside the stables when the gates open too fast—too loud. His head snaps up.

People are running. Someone yells for help. Maria’s voice barks orders from the tower. Joel drops the shovel in his hand and moves before he can think.

Then he sees Jesse.

And everything stops.

Jesse is soaked in blood. His arms are trembling. And in them, slumped and broken, is you.

Joel doesn’t recognize you at first.

Your head lolls back. Hair matted with blood. Face unrecognizable—swollen, bruised, sliced. There’s something wrong with the way your arm hangs, like it’s not attached right. One of your boots is gone. Your jacket is torn and soaked through.

Joel’s stomach drops. His vision narrows.

“No,” he hears himself whisper.

Jesse pushes through the crowd, shouting— “I need help! She’s still breathing! She’s alive!”

Joel moves to intercept, chest heaving, but Jesse shoves past him, too focused.

“Get outta the fuckin’ way—Maria! Get a goddamn stretcher!”

Joel follows, dazed. “What happened?” he croaks. “Jesse—what the fuck happened?!”

Jesse’s voice breaks. “They jumped her, man. Out past the old checkpoint. One of ‘em—she knew who she was. Said her name. Said your name.”

Joel goes still. The cold wraps around his spine.

“Who?” he demands.

Jesse doesn’t answer.

They reach the clinic. The doors slam open. Jackson’s medics rush forward, shouting over each other, hands everywhere, lifting you from Jesse’s arms and onto a gurney.

Joel sees your blood smear Jesse’s jacket.

“Ribs are broken—she’s lost a lot of blood—”

“Shoulder’s out—maybe punctured lung—”

“She’s going into shock—get the morphine now—”

Joel doesn’t hear the rest.

He’s stuck.

His boots feel nailed to the floor as the doors swing shut behind the gurney.

You’re gone. Out of his reach.

And he wasn’t there.

He always told himself he wouldn’t let it happen again—not to Ellie, not to Tommy, not to you.

But he did.

He let you go.

He let you go out there alone, and now you’re somewhere behind those doors fighting to stay alive because of something he did. Something he caused. A ghost from his past, lashing out in a way he never saw coming.

Jesse is breathing hard, leaning against the wall, blood on his face and hands.

“I shot her,” he mutters. “The woman. Whoever she was. I killed her. Killed the others too. But I—” he swallows. “I wasn’t fast enough.”

Joel can’t even respond. His throat won’t work. His hands are fists at his sides.

All he can do is stare at the closed doors, heart pounding like war drums.

You’re in there.

And he’s out here.

Alone.

Again.

The machines are the only things making noise.

Soft, steady beeps. A faint hiss of oxygen. The occasional rustle of gauze or plastic as the nurse changes your IV bag in silence. Joel barely hears any of it.

He hasn’t moved in hours.

He’s sitting beside your bed—hands clasped tight between his knees, boots planted on the cold floor, head down. Watching your chest rise and fall.

You look… barely human.

Your face is swollen on one side. Purple, green, black. Stitches across your temple. Your arm is bound to your side, shoulder reset. Tubes in your nose. Dried blood crusted beneath it. A faint line of bruises runs along your throat like a cruel necklace.

Joel stares at your hand resting on the sheets. There’s an IV in it. A splint along your wrist. He hasn’t touched it yet. He’s too afraid you’ll be cold.

Or worse, that you won’t squeeze back.

He swallows hard. His eyes sting. But he won’t cry.

Not here.

Not where people can see.

The room clears eventually. Nurses change shifts. Jesse came by once—left you a cup of water and a little stuffed bear someone gave him when he was in the clinic for a busted ankle. Joel didn’t say much.

He just waits. And watches.

And breaks.

He doesn’t talk out loud at first.

For the first few hours, Joel just sits in it. Lets the silence crawl under his skin and stay there. He thinks of everything he could’ve done differently. Should’ve done. Would’ve done—if he’d known.

Shouldn’t’ve let you go out alone.

Should’ve been the one on that route.

Should’ve recognized the signs.

Should’ve told you to stay.

Should’ve told you the fucking truth.

Eventually, the silence gets too loud, and the guilt starts to spill.

“I should’ve been out there,” he says, voice rough and too quiet. “You should’ve never been alone.”

You don’t move.

Joel glances at your face. You’re still far away. Too far.

“I think she was lookin’ for me,” he adds, words slow like he’s choking on each one. “The one Jesse killed. She said my name.”

He runs a hand over his face, jaw tight.

“I don’t know what I did to her. But I’ve done enough to enough people that it don’t matter. It always comes back around.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. For a second, he looks older than he’s ever felt. Like the weight of the whole damn world is back on his shoulders.

“I told myself I’d never let someone I love get hurt again,” he whispers. “Not like this. Not like Sarah. Not like Ellie. But here I am. Sittin’ in another fuckin’ hospital chair. Watchin’ you fight for your life.”

Joel swallows hard. His hands shake.

“You didn’t even know her name,” he says. “You got all that pain and blood for someone you didn’t even know.”

He finally reaches out and brushes your hand with the back of his fingers.

It’s warm.

Barely.

He’s trying to stay strong. Like he always does. For Tommy. For Ellie. For Jackson. For you.

But there’s a crack in him now—and it’s spreading.

He rubs a hand over his face for the fifth time in an hour, like he can scrub the emotions away if he just tries hard enough. But his breath catches when he looks at you again.

You’re so still.

Too still.

And he can’t stop seeing the blood. The way Jesse held your body like it might fall apart in his arms. The way your fingers didn’t move when Joel reached for them. The bruises. The silence. The stillness.

He blinks fast. Looks down. Jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

But then—

A sound slips out of him.

Small.

Involuntary.

Like a wounded animal.

He squeezes his eyes shut, like that’ll hold it in.

It doesn’t.

His chest heaves, and the breath that comes next is a sob.

Low. Broken. Shameful.

“Goddamn it,” he rasps, pressing the heel of his hand against his mouth. “Goddamn it…”

The tears come slow at first—hot and silent. Rolling down his face before he can stop them. He hides behind his hand, hunched over, shoulders shaking.

It’s not loud. Not the kind of crying that screams.

It’s the kind that hurts more because it doesn’t.

He leans forward, elbows on your bed, forehead resting gently near your arm.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice thick. “I should’ve been there. Should’ve known. You were just tryin’ to help. And I left you out there…”

Another sob claws its way out of his throat.

“I’m so goddamn tired of losin’ people,” he chokes. “But if I lose you—if you don’t wake up—I swear to God, I don’t think I’ll survive it this time.”

He breaks fully then. Quiet, ugly, aching. Like his soul is caving in on itself.

It’s been years since he cried like this. Since Sarah. Maybe not even then.

Because this time… he let himself love again. He let himself believe he could have something good. That maybe, just maybe, someone could love him back.

And now you’re lying here—broken, because of him.

He stays there, folded in on himself, for a long time.

Holding your hand.

Letting himself fall apart where no one else can see.

It starts with sound.

Dull and warped, like you’re underwater. You can’t tell what’s real—what’s dream or memory. There’s pressure in your head, a deep ache in your chest, and something burning in your shoulder every time you try to breathe too deep.

You want to move.

You can’t.

Everything is wrong.

You try to blink, but your eyelids feel like they’re glued shut. Even thinking is hard. Like someone filled your skull with cement and let it dry.

Voices blur in and out. Someone’s crying, maybe. Or maybe that was just you.

Then—

A voice cuts through the fog.

Rough. Southern. Familiar.

Low like gravel and thunder.

“…can’t do this again…”

You try to move toward it. Just a twitch. Just your fingers.

Nothing.

“…can’t lose her…”

Your heart trips in your chest.

You know that voice.

Joel.

God—Joel.

You try to say his name, but your throat won’t cooperate. It’s raw. Like you swallowed glass.

More words. Barely audible. Like he’s talking to himself.

“…should’ve never let her go alone…”

There’s something about the way he says it—like he’s crumbling. Like he’s been holding himself together by nothing but spit and string and your heartbeat. You can feel it in the air. The weight of him. Heavy. Exhausted.

You blink again.

This time, your eyes open a sliver.

The room is dark. Dim light from a lamp in the corner. The shadows are soft. The world is blurry, like it’s behind a veil.

Joel is sitting beside your bed, hunched over with one hand pressed to his face. Shoulders shaking just slightly.

He doesn’t see you looking.

You try again. Just a whisper. Just his name.

“J…Joel…”

It’s barely sound. More like a breath shaped around a memory.

But he hears it.

His head jerks up. Eyes wild.

“Hey—hey, hey,” he breathes, scrambling to sit forward. “You—you awake? Baby, can you hear me?”

You manage a twitch of your fingers. Barely.

He lets out a noise like relief and agony all tangled together. One hand cups the side of your face, trembling like he can’t believe you’re real.

“You’re alright. You’re here. Jesus Christ…” He sucks in a breath like it hurts.

You blink again. His face is red, tear-streaked. His beard’s thicker than you remember. His eyes look like he hasn’t slept in days.

Your lips part.

“You okay?” you rasp, barely audible.

Joel lets out a sharp exhale that’s half a sob, half a laugh.

“Am I—? No, darlin’. Don’t ask me that,” he says, brushing your hair back from your forehead so, so gently. “You’re the one lyin’ in a goddamn hospital bed lookin’ like you got trampled by a fuckin’ truck. You askin’ me if I’m okay…”

Your eyes flutter. You want to smile, but it hurts.

“Didn’t mean to worry you,” you whisper, a flicker of humor in your broken voice.

Joel closes his eyes like that hurts worse than anything else.

“You didn’t worry me. You near killed me,” he murmurs. “Don’t say sorry. Not to me.”

You shift slightly—just enough to let the pain remind you it’s all real. The weight of your body. The ache in your bones. The bruises singing beneath your skin.

The flashes come in bits and pieces— The dirt. The hammer. Her voice.

You shiver.

Joel notices. He wraps his hand around yours instantly, warm and grounding.

“She’s dead,” he says, like he can read your mind. “Jesse shot her. She won’t hurt you again.”

You blink, slow.

“I didn’t… even know her,” you whisper.

Joel nods, jaw tight. “But she knew you. Knew me. That’s all it took.”

Silence falls again. You can feel your body begging you to sleep—but you don’t want to. Not yet. Not while he’s here.

Joel leans in closer. His voice drops.

“I love you,” he says, rough and low, like it’s been sitting on his tongue for years. “You hear me?”

You blink slowly. Nod once.

“I love you, too,” you rasp, and it hurts—but it’s worth it just to see the way his eyes close like he’s praying.

He presses your hand to his mouth and stays there. Quiet. Breathing with you.

You fall asleep with his fingers laced through yours, the echo of his voice still in your ear.

And this time, you know you’ll wake up again.

Because Joel’s here.

And he’s not letting go.

The days bleed together at first.

Morning and night don’t mean much when your body refuses to do even the simplest things. Breathing hurts. Talking drains you. Moving? Feels impossible.

Still—Joel is always there.

He helps you sit up the first time, cradling your spine like it might splinter in his hands.

You cry. Not from pain—but from the humiliation of it. Of being this weak. This… broken.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing tears from your cheeks before they fall. “You ain’t broken. Just healing. There’s a difference.”

You don’t believe him, not yet.

It takes a week before they let you leave the clinic. Joel argues to bring you home earlier, but the nurses insist on waiting until your fever passes and your oxygen holds steady.

When they finally wheel you out in a battered chair, Joel’s already waiting on the porch with a blanket, a flask of weak tea, and that look in his eyes—the one that never left from the moment he saw Jesse carrying you in.

Wrecked. Quiet. Protective.

He carries you inside like he’s afraid the wind might steal you away.

You sleep in his bed.

He insists.

“Only place in the house that don’t creak,” he grumbles.

He sits with you through the worst of it.

The fever sweats hit first—cold and sudden, leaving your body trembling under damp sheets while your teeth chatter like glass. Joel is always there before you even call out. A towel in one hand, a water cup in the other, his voice low and steady as he presses cool cloths to your forehead.

When the spasms start—violent jerks that rip through your legs, your healing ribs—he doesn’t flinch. Just slips his hand beneath your shoulder blades, murmuring your name over and over like it might steady your spine.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, voice like warm gravel. “I got you. I got you, sweetheart.”

Some nights, you wake screaming.

No build-up. No warning.

Just full-body panic, lungs dragging in air like you’re drowning, fingers clawing at invisible restraints. You don’t know where you are. Can’t tell what’s real. You think the hammer’s still coming down. You think the dirt’s still in your mouth. You think you’re still dying.

And Joel—he’s already there.

“Hey, hey—it’s just me,” he says, voice low, hands up like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “You’re home, baby. You’re safe. I got you.”

You sob. You shake. You try to get the words out, but your throat won’t work.

So he climbs into bed behind you, pulls you back against his chest, and just holds you—one hand wrapped around your middle, the other cradling your hand against his heart.

You cry until your body gives out. Until all that’s left is soft hiccups and a shaking breath that finally, finally goes still.

Other nights, it’s worse in its quiet.

You don’t scream.

You just… tremble.

Eyes open, unfocused. Breath shallow. Hands clenched in the sheets so tight your knuckles go white. Frozen in place like your mind’s trapped somewhere your body can’t follow.

Joel notices right away.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just slides into the bed, lays on his side, and touches your back—light and slow, letting you feel the weight of his palm so you remember where you are.

“You with me?” he whispers, after a while.

You nod.

But then the whisper comes, cracked and pitiful, over and over again like a broken record:

“I didn’t know her. I didn’t know why.”

Joel squeezes his eyes shut, face buried in your hair.

Every time you say it, it cuts deeper. Not because you’re admitting something—but because you’re still carrying it. Still shouldering it.

He holds you tighter.

“I know,” he always says. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

And it’s not just for what happened. Not just for the pain, or the bruises, or the sleepless nights.

He’s sorry for letting you walk out that gate.

He’s sorry for not telling you about his past. About the ghosts that still walk, still kill, still reach for the people he loves.

He’s sorry he wasn’t the one who took that beating.

And if he could take it from you—every scream, every scar, every ounce of fear—you know he would.

You feel it in the way he holds you.

Like you’re something he’s not just afraid to lose—

But something he knows he doesn’t deserve, and still begs the universe to spare.

Recovery isn’t linear.

It’s a jagged, crawling thing—three steps forward, two steps back, and a whole lot of days where it feels like you’re going nowhere at all.

You’re angry. A lot.

At your body, for not doing what it used to. For aching with every movement. For stiff joints and a limp you can’t shake. For how the skin around your shoulder pulls where the sutures were. For how even breathing sometimes feels like a betrayal.

But mostly, you’re angry at your face.

The first time you see it clearly in the mirror, you can’t look for more than a second.

The swelling is down now, but the bruises are stubborn. Deep. Sickly yellow in some places, dark red in others. One scar stretches along your temple in a jagged, cruel arc. Another bisects the curve of your lip.

You touch the stitches near your jaw with shaking fingers.

You barely recognize the reflection.

You drop the mirror on the counter and leave the room. You don’t talk for the rest of the night.

Joel notices. Of course he does.

But he doesn’t push.

He never does.

When you snap at him for standing too close, he just nods and gives you space. When you burst into tears halfway through trying to button a shirt, he wordlessly takes over—finishing each button with patient fingers and no pity in his eyes.

He carries you to the bathroom when you’re too weak to walk. Sits on the floor while you shower with your back to him, hands braced against the tile as the hot water runs over scars you don’t want anyone to see.

But he never stares. Never comments.

When you nearly collapse trying to shave your legs, you snap, “This is fucking pointless, Joel!”

He just gently eases the razor out of your hand and says, “Ain’t nothin’ pointless ‘bout feelin’ like yourself.”

And when you do finally cry into his chest again, fists clenched tight in his shirt, he just holds you and lets you fall apart.

“You don’t have to be okay every second,” he murmurs into your hair. “Just let me carry some of it when you can’t.”

He reads to you at night.

Old books. Short stories. Sometimes old letters he found in a busted file cabinet out near the edge of town—ones he thinks you might like. You fall asleep most nights to the sound of his voice and the weight of his hand resting over yours.

One day, weeks into your recovery, you catch your reflection by accident.

It’s late. You’re in the bathroom, brushing your teeth slowly, shoulders aching from using the cane all day. You glance up—and there you are.

Scarred. Pale. Tired.

Not you.

You stare at your reflection for a long time, toothbrush hanging loose from your hand.

Then you step out into the bedroom, where Joel’s sitting on the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots.

“Do I still look like me?” you ask, voice small. Barely audible.

Joel doesn’t even hesitate.

He looks up. Straight at you. And his expression is… soft. But unflinching.

“You look like the woman I was gonna spend the rest of my life with,” he says, steady and sure. “You still do.”

Your breath hitches. Your lips part—but no words come out.

He stands, steps closer, careful like he always is now.

“You think those scars make you look less like you?” he asks gently, brushing your hair behind your ear. “'Cause all I see is you. Braver than anyone I’ve ever known.”

You look away. “You’re just saying that.”

Joel cups your face, thumb brushing just below the old bruise near your cheekbone.

“I ain’t never just said anything to you in my life,” he murmurs. “And I sure as hell ain’t startin’ now.”

Tears burn behind your eyes.

You don’t try to stop them.

He pulls you in close, and you let yourself be held—not because you’re weak. But because you’re strong enough now to know that being held doesn’t mean broken.

You’re healing.

Slowly.

But you’re still you.

And Joel sees all of it.

It’s a few weeks after you come home when Jesse finally stops by.

He knocks once—three quick raps, casual, almost sheepish—then pushes open the front door like he’s done a thousand times before.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table, Joel’s sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, your cane resting against the chair leg. There’s a blanket around your legs and a mug of tea gone cold beside your hand.

When you see Jesse, you try to smile.

“Hey, hero.”

He raises an eyebrow. “If I’m the hero in this story, we’re all fucked.”

You let out a soft laugh, which still pulls at your side. “Don’t sell yourself short. You saved my life.”

Jesse walks in with a brown paper bag clutched in one hand. “Brought you that soup you like. From the new kitchen down by the stables.”

You blink. “The mushroom one?”

He sets it in front of you. “You think I didn’t memorize your post-patrol cravings after all this time?”

You go quiet. The steam rises between you.

Jesse leans against the counter, arms crossed.

“You look better,” he says finally. “Still a little like a raccoon with PTSD, but you know… cuter.”

You snort. “You always did know how to charm a girl.”

The silence after stretches. Thicker. He doesn’t look at you at first—just stares at the edge of the table.

So you say it.

“I never thanked you.”

His jaw flexes. He shakes his head. “Don’t.”

“I mean it, Jesse. You… you showed up when I thought no one would. You put a bullet in her without hesitating. You carried me back. You—”

“I said don’t.”

You stop.

Jesse finally lifts his eyes to yours. His voice is lower now. Calmer, but shaking just underneath.

“Don’t thank me for doing what anyone who loved you would’ve done,” he says. “That wasn’t brave. That was… reacting. I saw what she was doing to you and I just—” He swallows. “I didn’t even think. I just fired.”

You blink, watching his hands clench into fists against his arms.

He exhales hard through his nose and looks away.

“I’ve never been that scared in my life,” he mutters. “Not even during the outbreak. Not even when the infected rushed us last winter. Nothing’s ever scared me like seeing you lying there, not moving.”

You’re quiet.

“I thought I was too late,” he says.

You shift in your seat. “You weren’t.”

His eyes meet yours again, darker now. “Joel didn’t talk for two days after. Did you know that?”

You shake your head slowly.

“Just sat there. Outside the clinic. Hands covered in your blood.” Jesse’s voice goes rough again. “I brought him water. He didn’t drink it. Brought him food. He didn’t touch it. I think if you had… if you hadn’t woken up—”

He stops. Runs a hand through his hair.

“You’re the only reason Joel didn’t break entirely,” he finishes.

You feel that. In your ribs. In your throat. In the parts of you that are still learning how to beat again.

Jesse looks at you for a long time, then pushes off the counter.

“So yeah. Don’t thank me.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“But…” he adds, more softly now, “you’re welcome anyway.”

He gives you a half-smile, ruffles your hair gently, and starts to head out.

At the door, he pauses and glances over his shoulder.

“You ever wanna talk about it… about her, or anything… I’m around.”

“I know,” you say.

And you do.

The world doesn’t stop hurting.

But it gets softer.

Months pass. Slowly. Some days feel like entire winters packed into the space between breakfast and sleep. But your body grows stronger. The cane becomes more accessory than necessity. The ache in your ribs dulls. You walk without flinching. You sleep without screaming.

You live.

One breath at a time.

Joel never leaves. He gives you space when you need it, patience when you can’t ask for it, and love in the quiet, steady way he does everything — with his whole damn soul, hidden behind a low voice and calloused hands.

You find yourself falling in love with him all over again, this version of him that isn’t trying to be a hero. Just a man.

Your man.

Spring comes early that year.

The snow thaws, the streams swell, and Jackson begins to bloom again — cautious and slow, like it’s remembering how.

That’s when Joel shows it to you.

He doesn’t tell you where you’re going—just helps you onto one of the horses and rides beside you for twenty quiet minutes, down a path behind the eastern fields.

You’re confused at first. Until you reach the end.

A clearing.

A hand-built bench nestled beneath a twisted old tree, branches just beginning to bud green again. A stream runs past it, water glittering in the afternoon light.

The view is breathtaking—wide and open, far from town. It smells like fresh grass and wild mint.

You slide off the horse slowly and limp toward it, one hand bracing against your thigh.

“You made this?” you ask, turning back.

Joel nods, standing with his thumbs tucked in his belt. “Started workin’ on it when you were still in the clinic.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, looking away like he’s embarrassed.

“Needed a place to talk to you. Where it was quiet.”

You sit down on the bench. It creaks under your weight, but it’s sturdy. Comfortable.

Joel lowers himself beside you and pulls something from his coat pocket.

A leather journal.

Worn edges. Filled thick with pages.

You frown. “What’s that?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses it into your hands.

You open the cover slowly.

The first page is dated the night Jesse brought you home, soaked in blood.

March 4th. She’s not waking up. I can’t stop thinking about what her last thought was. Was it me?

Your breath catches.

You flip to the next.

March 5th. She always hated the silence at night. I’m talking out loud to her anyway. Told her the whole story of how I saw her at the market the first time. I think I talked for an hour. If she can hear me, I hope she knows how beautiful she is, even now.

Page after page. Memories. Guilt. Confessions. Anger. Fear.

He wrote you letters he never planned to send. Pieces of himself you never knew he could give.

There’s a page with lyrics. Half-remembered ones.

"If I could save time in a bottle…"

The ink is darker there. Blotted in places. You realize he was crying when he wrote it.

Your hands tremble.

“Why give me this now?” you whisper.

Joel leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and steady.

“‘Cause I spent too long not sayin’ the things that mattered. You damn near died with me never tellin’ you half of ‘em.”

He looks over at you, eyes full of something raw and terrifyingly real.

“I wrote all that down ‘cause I didn’t think I’d get another chance. But I did. And I ain’t gonna waste a second of it.”

You blink back tears and look down at the last page.

Just two lines.

If I could save time in a bottle… I’d save every second I wasted not telling you how much I love you.

You close the journal and hold it to your chest.

Joel watches you for a moment. Then reaches out and takes your hand.

You let him.

The two of you sit in silence—shoulder to shoulder, fingers laced—listening to the stream and the wind in the trees.

And for the first time in a long time—

You don’t feel haunted.

You feel held.

AN: if you made it all the way here… first of all, I love you. second, I hope your heart is okay. this one meant a lot to me — I wanted to write something that felt like grief and healing holding hands, and Joel just being there in the most Joel way possible. soft hands, steady love, long recovery.

Your truck’s AC wheezed in protest as it pushed lukewarm air against the back of your neck. You’d been on the road since dawn, the address your lawyer sent burned into the GPS like a map to a life you didn’t want. When the chipped wooden sign came into view—Clearstone Ranch still hanging by a rusted nail—you felt your stomach twist in on itself.

You hadn’t been back since you were seventeen. Since the night you packed a bag with shaking hands, climbed out your bedroom window, and never looked back. Now here you were, driving up the same gravel path, dust curling around your tires, the air heavy with heat and old memory.

The house looked smaller than you remembered.

The white paint had long since peeled to gray, the porch sagged just a little more, and the shutters hung crooked over windows you used to stare out of for hours. But it was still there—stubborn as ever. A weather-worn monument to everything you’d buried.

You parked near the edge of the wraparound porch, cutting the engine and letting the silence settle in. Cicadas screamed in the trees. The wind stirred through dry grass, whispering against the wood. For a long moment, you didn’t move. Just sat there, gripping the steering wheel, heart thudding in your throat.

You thought you’d feel... something. Anger. Grief. Maybe fear. But mostly, all you felt was tired.

You reached for the door handle with a hand that wasn’t quite steady. Gravel crunched beneath your boots as you stepped out into the heat. The sun was merciless—sharp and hot, baking everything in its reach—but you welcomed it. Better than the cold that had lived in your chest for years.

The screen door to the house swayed lazily, bumping the frame with a rhythmic creak. You walked up the steps, fingers grazing the railing, half-expecting it to splinter under your touch. But it held. The wood was old, yes—but not rotted. Someone had been keeping it up.

You frowned, a strange tug in your chest.

The will had said everything was yours now—the land, the house, what was left of the equipment. But no one mentioned that someone was still living here. Or at least... working it.

You turned slowly toward the fields.

And that’s when you saw him.

Out past the barn, near the old fence line, a man stood with his back to you, hammering in a new post. His movements were steady, methodical, like he’d done this a hundred times before. The sun caught the sweat on his shoulders, the back of his worn flannel shirt dark with it.

Even from this distance, you knew who it was.

Joel Miller.

He hadn’t changed much—still broad-shouldered, still moving like someone who carried weight well beyond what you could see. His hair was more silver now, and his beard was thicker than it used to be. But it was him. The man who’d been working this land since you were a kid. Quiet. Solid. Safe in the way grown men rarely felt when you were young.

Joel had always kept his head down around your father. Never said much. But when he passed you in the hallway or saw you sitting on the porch with a book clenched too tightly in your hands, there was a softness in his eyes. He never asked questions. Never pried. But you always had the feeling... he knew.

And now here he was—still here.

He must have heard the truck because he paused mid-swing and looked up. The distance between you shrank with the intensity of his gaze. His eyes narrowed for half a second, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

Then recognition settled in.

He dropped the hammer into the dirt and started walking toward you, slow and even. You stayed where you were, hand still resting on the porch railing like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

When he reached the edge of the porch, he stopped just short of the steps. Close enough to see the sweat on his brow, the faint crease in his forehead. He looked at you like you were a ghost—like maybe you weren’t really there.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you back here,” he said, voice low and rough like gravel.

You swallowed. “Didn’t think I’d come back.”

Joel nodded once, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to fill in the years. “You... holdin’ up alright?”

It was such a simple question. Not why are you here? or what do you want? Just—are you okay?

You nodded slowly. “I’m... managing.”

Joel gave a quiet sound, almost a hum. “Well. You came a long way to manage.”

You almost smiled.

There was a pause. Not awkward—just full. The kind of silence that had history behind it.

“I wasn’t sure if anyone’d been here,” you said, finally.

He shifted his weight. “Kept the place goin’. After your old man passed, figured the animals still needed tendin’. Someone had to.”

You looked past him, toward the barn, the fields that were neater than they had any right to be. “You’ve been here all this time?”

Joel’s gaze didn’t waver. “Didn’t have much reason to leave.”

You wanted to ask why. Why stay here? Why stay after everything? But the question caught in your throat like barbed wire.

Instead, you just nodded. And for a brief, fragile second, you felt something unfamiliar stir behind your ribs.

Not safety. Not yet.

But maybe—maybe—a place to start.

Joel didn’t move right away. He just stood at the foot of the porch, hat in hand now, the sun behind him casting his figure in warm, amber outline. His eyes hadn’t left yours—not in a threatening way, not even a questioning one. Just steady. Watchful.

You used to think he looked tired back then. Now you realized that was just who he was—weathered by life in the way the land was: sun-bleached, wind-scored, and still standing.

“I didn’t know you were still here,” you said, breaking the silence.

He tilted his head slightly. “Figured the place needed someone. Wasn’t much left in the bank account, but the land’s good. Animals don’t stop eatin’ just ’cause the world keeps turnin’.”

There was a flicker of something under the words—something you didn’t want to name yet. Loyalty, maybe. Or guilt.

You shifted on your feet. “I wasn’t sure I’d come back.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Didn’t blame you for goin’, neither.”

That caught you. The way he said it—not with judgment or curiosity, but quiet understanding. Like he’d been waiting years for this conversation and didn’t want to crowd it.

You looked away toward the barn, toward the rolling hills that stretched beyond the back pasture. “I wasn’t running toward anything,” you said, half to yourself. “Just away.”

Joel didn’t speak. He let the silence stretch again, long and soft like a breath held between two people who weren’t sure if they could exhale yet.

“How bad was it?” he asked after a while, voice low. Not demanding—gentle. Like he already knew the answer but needed to give you space to name it, if you ever wanted to.

You shook your head. “Don’t ask that.”

He nodded, accepting it without offense. “Alright.”

That was Joel, always had been. He never pushed. He never tried to insert himself in places he didn’t belong. But he saw more than he let on. You remembered that, even when you were fifteen, hiding bruises behind long sleeves and silence. He never said anything—but sometimes he’d leave a sandwich out when you skipped dinner. Or stay near the house longer than he needed to in the evenings.

Your eyes burned unexpectedly.

“You stayin’?” he asked after a moment.

“I don’t know.”

“You thinkin’ about sellin’ it?”

You shrugged. “Would anyone buy it?”

Joel’s mouth twisted—not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “Some city folks been lookin’ at land out here. Not sure they’d know what to do with it, but they’d sure try.”

That pulled a soft laugh from you, small but real. Joel’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. A pause followed—not uncomfortable, just... heavy.

“You still got the bunkhouse?” you asked.

He nodded. “Clean enough. Got power and water. If the main house don’t feel right, you’re welcome to it.”

You glanced at the house behind you. It loomed like a shadow you hadn’t shaken. “Thanks,” you said. “Maybe just for tonight.”

Joel looked like he wanted to say more, but instead he just gave you a soft grunt of acknowledgment. “You need anything,” he said as he turned to go, “I’m out back. Don’t sleep much.”

He walked away without fanfare, the way he always did—boots crunching on dry earth, shoulders a little stiff. But you noticed the way he paused by the barn, glancing over his shoulder once before disappearing inside.

You stood there for a long while after he was gone, the weight of the heat pressing down on your back, the scent of dust and sun-baked wood thick in the air.

It was strange—coming back to this place expecting only ghosts, only ruin—and finding Joel Miller instead.

Still here.

Still watching.

Still waiting.

The screen door let out a long, metallic groan as you pulled it open. The main door behind it was unlocked—not that it ever used to be. Your father believed locks were for cowards. You’d learned early that walls didn’t stop anything anyway.

The moment you stepped inside, the air changed.

It was cooler, stale from months of stillness, thick with dust and time. The scent hit you first—old wood, mildew, smoke, and something faintly sour beneath it. And underneath all that: memory. Heavy and sharp.

You walked slowly, boots creaking across floorboards that whined like they remembered too. The living room was untouched. Your father’s recliner still faced the TV. The coffee table sat in the same spot, ringed with stains from beer cans and ashtrays, a newspaper yellowing on top.

It was like stepping into a museum of your own grief. Or a trap you weren’t sure you could leave.

You moved through the kitchen quickly, not touching anything. Past the counter where you learned to flinch. Past the window you once considered climbing out of, long before you actually did.

In the hallway, the shadows gathered. Light from the dusty windows cut through them, but it wasn’t enough. You paused outside the door at the end—the one you used to lock at night and pray would hold.

Your room.

The knob turned easily. The hinges squealed. The air inside was heavier.

The bed was still there. Sheets stripped, mattress sunken in the middle. The closet door hung open an inch, just enough to feel wrong. You crossed the floor slowly, your breath catching with each step. It was like the house knew you were back, like it had been waiting.

You sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, and tried to breathe.

But something shifted.

The air felt too thick. Your skin prickled. Your chest tightened.

You couldn’t swallow.

The silence roared in your ears, and suddenly the walls felt too close. The window wasn’t open. You hadn’t cracked it. You were locked in. The same way you used to be.

Your hands started to shake.

You pressed them to your thighs, tried to ground yourself, but your vision blurred at the edges. Your heartbeat was too loud, too fast. You couldn’t catch your breath.

No, not here. Not now.

Your throat closed, panic pressing up your ribs like a rising tide. The room felt like it was tilting, folding in on itself. Your lungs wouldn’t open. You felt the edge of something hot behind your eyes, a sob threatening to rip free, and you didn’t want to make a sound. You didn’t want the house to hear you break.

Then—

A knock.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Another knock, gentler. Then the door opened with a slow creak.

“Hey—” Joel’s voice, quiet, careful. Then silence. He must’ve seen your posture—curled forward, hands gripping your thighs, shoulders hunched like you were trying to disappear.

He crossed the room in a few steps, not hurried but not hesitant either.

“Hey, hey,” he said again, softer now, crouching in front of you. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut, tears slipping free. “I—I can’t—” you managed. “It’s—too much—”

“I know,” he said, voice low and steady. “You’re safe now. You hear me? You’re not there anymore.”

You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t speak. Your hands were trembling, your breathing shallow and rapid.

Joel didn’t touch you. Not yet. He just stayed there, close, grounded, solid. Like an anchor. “Breathe with me,” he said gently. “In real slow. Just like this.”

He exaggerated a breath, deep and calm, and waited.

You tried. Failed. Tried again.

“Good. There you go. Keep goin’. You’re doin’ just fine.”

It felt like hours, but maybe it was minutes—maybe less—before the storm inside you started to pull back. Like waves easing from the shore.

You finally lifted your head, tears streaking down your cheeks. Joel was still there, crouched low, his eyes on you like nothing else mattered.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracked and raw.

He shook his head immediately. “Don’t you be sorry.”

“I didn’t—I thought I could handle it,” you said, choking on the words. “I thought I could just walk in and deal with it, but—”

“You don’t gotta explain nothin’,” Joel said, finally reaching out—not to touch you, but to place a hand near yours on the mattress. Letting you come to him, if you wanted. “You did the hardest part already. You came back.”

You stared at his hand, at the way his fingers were calloused, dirt still under his nails. You remembered those hands fixing fences, steadying frightened horses. Always working. Always there.

Without thinking, you moved your hand to rest over his.

Joel didn’t flinch. He turned his hand under yours, letting your palm settle into his like it was meant to be there.

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. But eventually, your breathing eased. The shaking stopped. The pressure in your chest loosened, like you’d finally let something go.

Joel sat back just slightly, his voice still soft. “I brought you somethin’ to eat. Thought maybe you hadn’t yet.”

You nodded, unable to say thank you, but hoping he saw it in your eyes.

“I’ll leave it in the kitchen,” he said, standing slowly. “You don’t need to come down if you’re not ready.”

He paused at the door, then looked back. “You’re not alone here. Not anymore.”

And then he was gone.

The room was still quiet. But somehow, it didn’t feel so heavy.

You looked down at your hand, the one that had rested in his. It still tingled with warmth.

Maybe it was okay to fall apart—if someone was there to help you put the pieces back.

You didn’t leave the room for a while.

The panic had passed, but the exhaustion it left behind was bone-deep. You lay back on the bed, arms folded over your chest, eyes on the ceiling, watching the fan blades that hadn’t moved in years. You didn’t cry again. There wasn’t anything left to cry out.

But you did breathe.

And that alone felt like something close to progress.

When you finally stood, the light outside had gone honey-gold. Evening was settling in, warm and slow. You made your way down the hallway with cautious steps, as though the house might still startle awake and snap at you if you moved too quickly.

The kitchen was quiet, but the scent of something warm lingered—rosemary, butter, maybe eggs.

On the counter sat a plate, still covered with a clean dish towel. Next to it, a folded note in blocky handwriting:

Eat something. I’ll be around. —J

You stared at the note for a long time. The simplest thing. And yet it cracked something open in you again—not like the panic from before, but softer. Sadder. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had fed you without wanting something in return.

You uncovered the plate. Scrambled eggs. Pan-fried potatoes. A biscuit that looked a little lopsided but smelled like heaven.

You sat at the kitchen table and ate slowly, almost reverently. It tasted better than it should’ve—like comfort, like care. Every bite anchored you a little more in the present. You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you were scraping the last of the potatoes with your fork.

The sound of boots on the porch made you pause. You turned just as Joel’s shadow filled the screen door.

You stood before he could knock.

He didn’t step inside this time—just hovered at the door, hat in hand again, eyes flicking to your face like he was trying to read if you were okay to talk.

“I ate,” you said first. “Thank you. That was… more than I expected.”

He gave a small nod, almost a smile. “Didn’t have much. Hope it was alright.”

“It was perfect.”

Joel looked relieved in that quiet, subtle way of his. He rubbed the back of his neck, then glanced over your shoulder, toward the hallway behind you.

“You stayin’ in the main house tonight?” he asked.

You hesitated. The air inside still felt thick. The bedroom walls too close. “I was thinking maybe the bunkhouse. If that’s alright.”

“‘Course it is,” he said without missing a beat. “It’s cooler out there anyway. Less creaky floors.”

You cracked a smile, just a faint one. “That sounds good right now.”

“I’ll walk you out, if you don’t mind.”

You didn’t.

You grabbed the duffel you hadn’t unpacked, and together you stepped into the soft dusk. The cicadas were louder now, the sky streaked with oranges and purples, the first stars blinking through. The air was warm, but it carried a breeze, the kind that tugged gently at your sleeves and made the edges of everything feel a little softer.

Joel walked a half-step ahead of you, not speaking. He didn’t need to.

The bunkhouse sat behind the main barn, tucked beneath the shadow of a cottonwood tree. You remembered coming out here once, as a kid—when your father had chased you out of the house in one of his moods. You hadn’t stayed long. You hadn’t dared.

Now, Joel unlocked the door and pushed it open, flicking on the light with practiced ease.

“It’s not much,” he said, stepping aside. “But it’s clean. Got hot water. Sheets are fresh. I come out here sometimes when the house gets too quiet.”

You stepped in slowly. The space was small but comfortable—a narrow bed, a small table and chair, a counter with a sink and stovetop. The floor was swept clean, and a little stack of books sat near the nightstand. A lamp glowed in the corner, giving the room a soft, golden hue.

It was more than enough.

“This is… nice,” you said, setting your bag down. “Thank you.”

Joel stood in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, gaze steady. “You don’t gotta thank me. Just glad you’re here.”

That stopped you.

You looked at him—really looked—and something passed between you in the quiet. A thread pulled tight. Not romantic, not yet. But intimate. A shared understanding. You’d both lived in silence too long.

Joel stepped back then, as if sensing the moment had reached its edge.

“I’ll be out with the horses for a bit longer. If you need anything…”

You nodded. “I know where to find you.”

He looked like he wanted to say more—but instead he just gave a short nod, pulled the door shut behind him, and disappeared into the fading light.

You stood there for a minute after he left.

The quiet settled around you—but this time, it didn’t feel dangerous. It didn’t feel like it was closing in. It just felt... still.

You sat on the edge of the bed, running your hands over the clean sheet. Then you lay back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of evening—the creak of the barn, the distant murmur of Joel’s voice as he talked to the horses.

And for the first time in years, you thought:

Maybe I could stay.

You couldn’t sleep right away.

The bunkhouse was quiet, the kind of quiet that wrapped around you like a heavy blanket—not threatening, just... thick. Outside the window, the stars had come out in full force, wide and wild across the Texas sky. You forgot how many there were out here. No city glow to mute them. Just stars and silence.

You cracked the window open to let in some air, and the soft rustle of night drifted in—wind in the trees, the low creak of barn wood settling, and somewhere in the distance, the slow murmur of Joel’s voice.

You didn’t know who he was talking to. Maybe the horses. Maybe the dog. Maybe just himself. But it comforted you in a way that startled you with its gentleness. That deep, gravelly voice. Steady. Familiar. Like an anchor buried in earth.

You sat at the little table and pulled the note he’d left you from your pocket. You unfolded it again, rereading the simple scrawl.

Eat something. I’ll be around. —J

That was Joel. No flowery language. No promises he couldn’t keep. Just presence. Just being there. And after the day you’d had—after the years—you realized that might be exactly what you needed most.

You stayed there for a while, elbows on the table, chin in your hands, letting your thoughts settle like dust after a long drive.

Being back wasn’t easy.

Hell, it was barely tolerable.

But it hadn’t broken you.

And Joel… Joel hadn’t looked at you like you were fragile. He’d looked at you like you were real. Like you were allowed to hurt, and allowed to come back, and allowed to need someone, even if only for a minute.

That alone made the air easier to breathe.

Eventually, you turned off the light and stretched out on the bed, the sheet cool against your skin. The room smelled faintly of cedar and clean laundry—nothing like the house. Nothing like the past. It wasn’t home yet. But it wasn’t hostile either.

You let your eyes drift shut.

For the first time in a long time, your body began to unwind.

Out the window, you heard the barn door creak again—then the faint sound of Joel’s boots crunching gravel. You heard him pause outside, maybe checking the latch on the gate. Maybe just listening.

Maybe just making sure you were still breathing.

You didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.

But somehow, you knew he’d stay out there a little longer than he needed to. Just in case.

You woke briefly to the sound of coyotes in the distance. Their howls cut across the fields like sharp wind, and for a split second your heart jumped, the past flaring up like a match.

But then you heard it again—Joel’s voice.

Closer now. A soft whistle. The rustle of hay. The low scrape of metal as he closed the barn for the night.

And just like that, the fear faded.

You rolled to your side and stared at the shadowy outline of the ceiling.

You were here. You had survived the first day.

And tomorrow… you’d decide what came next.

You didn’t know if you were ready to stay.

But maybe—for the first time—you weren’t so afraid of trying.

AN: And that’s Chapter 1, babes. We’ve got slow burn, emotional damage, and a cowboy with quiet hands—so saddle up, because this ride’s just getting started 🤠💔 If you want to be tagged in future updates (so you don’t miss any of the angst or accidental hand touches), just drop a comment and I’ll hook you up.

You tug his flannel shirt around you tighter and pad into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes.

What are you even hungry for?

You open the pantry. Crackers. Old jerky. A jar of questionable preserves. You wince at the label’s date and shove it back onto the shelf. Maybe toast. If the bread isn’t stale. Or a spoonful of honey?

Your stomach rumbles again — louder this time. You sigh and flick on the oven light, bathing the room in a warm amber glow, soft and dim enough not to feel too awake.

That’s when you hear it: the shuffle of bare feet on hardwood and the low, gravelly voice you know better than your own heartbeat.

“You tryna sneak out or somethin’?”

You spin around. “Shit—Joel.”

He’s standing in the doorway, shirtless, hair tousled and sticking up in wild directions, eyes half-lidded and squinting against the light.

“You scared me,” you whisper, heart still fluttering from the surprise.

Joel just gives you a slow once-over. “And you’re in my shirt.”

“Your shirt’s comfy,” you murmur, tugging at the hem. “And I was hungry.”

“Hungry at two in the damn morning?”

“Midnight cravings don’t check the clock, Joel.”

He runs a hand down his face, scratching at the stubble along his jaw. “You could’ve woke me.”

You shrug. “Didn’t want to bother you. Figured I’d sneak a spoonful of peanut butter and crawl back into bed.”

Joel walks past you toward the cabinets. “We’re makin’ pancakes.”

You blink. “Wait—really?”

“Yeah, really. But you’re helpin’. Ain’t gonna be your damn short-order cook.”

You grin and follow him to the counter, grabbing the mixing bowl.

Joel pulls out the flour and a half-empty carton of milk while you grab eggs from the icebox. He’s still squinting, clearly not fully awake, but his hands move on autopilot. You get the feeling he’s done this before — maybe for Ellie, maybe for Sarah.

You don’t ask. You don’t need to. His quiet comfort in the kitchen tells enough stories.

“You got a real specific kind of hunger,” he mutters, cracking eggs into the bowl like it’s a challenge. “Can’t just eat a piece of bread like a normal person. No, gotta make pancakes from scratch in the middle of the night.”

“I never said you had to make them,” you reply, reaching over to snatch the whisk from him. “But now that you’re here…”

Joel grunts and raises a brow, but you catch the tiniest smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

You start mixing the batter while Joel greases the skillet. The scent of butter begins to drift through the kitchen, rich and warm and nostalgic. The kind of smell that makes you feel like a kid again.

But it wouldn’t be a late-night kitchen scene without a little chaos.

You’re scooping flour when Joel bumps your elbow reaching for the sugar, and half the cup dumps across the counter. Some of it lands squarely on your shirt—his shirt—and dusts the front like powdered snow.

“Joel!” you gasp, flailing slightly. “You flour-bombed me!”

“I didn’t do nothin’,” he says, deadpan, though you can see the amusement in his eyes. “Clumsy woman’s makin’ a mess in my kitchen, that’s what I see.”

You retaliate with a light sprinkle of flour to his chest. It clings to the soft hair there and leaves a ghostly handprint. Joel blinks down at it, then narrows his eyes.

“Oh, you’re askin’ for it now.”

Before you can back away, he dips his fingers into the batter and smears a line across your cheek.

“Joel!”

“You started it.”

“You ruined the pancake batter!”

“Nah, I improved it. Gave it some character.”

You stare at him, eyes wide with playful indignation, and then you both burst into laughter. It echoes off the tile and the quiet, sleeping walls of the house. You realize how rare this is — not just the moment, but this version of Joel. Loose. Soft. Light in his eyes. Laughing with you like nothing else in the world exists.

Once the batter’s somewhat salvaged and the skillet is ready, you both settle into your makeshift system. You pour; Joel flips. He grumbles every time a pancake gets too brown, and you tease him for being a “perfectionist pancake dad.” He tries to act annoyed, but his little grin betrays him every time.

“You ever do this?” you ask softly, handing him a plate.

He doesn’t look at you. “Do what?”

“This kind of thing. Middle of the night, pancakes, talking.”

There’s a beat. His eyes stay on the skillet as he flips one more cake with practiced ease.

“Used to,” he says eventually. “Long time ago.”

You nod. “Thanks for doing it with me now.”

Joel finally looks at you — and there’s something tender in his gaze, something wordless that wraps itself around your ribs and holds.

“I don’t mind,” he says. “Not with you.”

The pancakes turn out a little lopsided and uneven in color, but neither of you care. You stack them on mismatched plates, drizzle what little maple syrup you have left over the top, and sit cross-legged on the kitchen floor like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The oven light glows warm behind the stovetop, casting golden shadows across Joel’s bare chest and sleepy smile. The air smells like vanilla and sugar and him.

You take a bite and hum, mouth full. “See? Worth waking up for.”

Joel watches you, head tilted just slightly, fork in hand but untouched. “You got syrup on your lip.”

You swipe your tongue across it and shrug. “Fixed.”

He leans in — close enough that his knee bumps yours, close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. “Didn’t say I didn’t wanna get it myself.”

Your pulse skips.

He kisses you, slow and sweet, one hand braced against the floor and the other curling gently behind your neck. The kiss is soft but unhurried, like he’s tasting the syrup and you all at once, and savoring both. When he finally pulls back, your lips are sticky and smiling.

“Better,” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes and bump his shoulder. “You’re such a sap.”

“And you’re a damn menace,” he replies, nudging your foot with his. “But I like you anyway.”

The house is quiet, the rest of Jackson asleep, and yet the space between you feels full. Full of laughter and syrup and the warmth of something that stretches far beyond pancakes on the floor.

Joel finishes off the burnt one — because “wastin’ food’s a sin” — and then sets his plate aside, rubbing his hands on his sweatpants.

When he shifts, he opens one arm toward you in invitation. You don’t hesitate.

You crawl into his lap, your back against his chest, your body fitting like it always belonged there. Joel exhales like a weight lifts off his shoulders just having you close. His arms wrap around your middle, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“You warm enough?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Perfect.”

You sit like that for a while. No need to fill the silence. Just the occasional deep breath, the soft drum of his fingers tracing lazy circles over your arm, and the contented hum he gives when you nuzzle into his neck.

He starts to sway just slightly — not quite rocking, but a rhythm so natural you barely notice it until your eyes get heavy.

“Sleepy now, huh?” he whispers.

You hum back, already halfway there.

Joel shifts a little and curls his hand protectively over your thigh. “You want me to carry you back to bed?”

You shake your head against his chest. “Can we just… stay here a little longer?”

He kisses your temple. “As long as you want, baby.”

The hardwood floor isn’t exactly comfortable — not like Joel’s bed, not even close — but wrapped up in him, you couldn’t care less.

Your legs are tangled together, your cheek resting just over his heart, where the steady thump lulls you closer to sleep with every second. His fingers trace patterns over your thigh, your hip, the curve of your back. Absentminded. Reverent.

You’re barely awake when you hear him speak.

“So, uh…” he murmurs, voice thick with hesitation and sleep. “This kinda thing. It’s real easy with you.”

Your breath catches, just a little. “Yeah?”

He nods against your temple. “Don’t usually—y’know, let people see me like this. Bein’ all soft, makin’ pancakes like a damn idiot.”

You smile, eyes still closed. “You’re not an idiot. You’re sweet.”

Joel lets out a small huff of a laugh. “Don’t spread that around.”

“No promises,” you tease. “You did smear pancake batter on my face, so... I’m definitely telling someone.”

“Traitor.”

You turn your face just enough to press a kiss over his heart. The thump beneath your lips stutters, then steadies again.

Joel’s arms tighten around you, and for a moment, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t awkward — it’s peaceful. Soft. Like the world outside doesn’t exist, and all that matters is the two of you in this sleepy kitchen, with syrup on your fingers and love in your bones.

Then, quietly—so quietly you almost don’t hear it—he whispers it:

“I love you.”

Your eyes open.

Not because you’re surprised. You knew it. You’ve felt it in the way he looks at you, how he shields you from the cold, how he always walks on the outside of the sidewalk. But hearing it—so unguarded, so soft—makes something bloom in your chest.

You shift just enough to meet his eyes.

“I love you too,” you whisper back.

And god, the way he looks at you then. Like you hung the stars. Like you’re the reason he stayed soft all this time.

He kisses you again — slow, deep, sleepy. One hand curls into your hair, the other pulling you tighter like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“You ready for bed?” he murmurs against your lips.

“Nope.”

He huffs. “You plannin’ to make a nest on the floor, then?”

“Maybe,” you mumble. “Kinda like it here.”

Joel laughs under his breath, low and rough. “Yeah. Me too.”

Still, he stands with you cradled in his arms like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You bury your face in his neck, and he walks you both back to the bedroom with slow, steady steps.

You’re half-asleep before your head hits the pillow, tucked into his side. His flannel shirt still wrapped around you. His fingers tangled with yours.

And before the darkness fully pulls you under, you hear him again:

“Next time you wake up cravin’ somethin’…”

“Mm?”

“Just wake me. We’ll make waffles.”

But this time, something about the way he looked at you was different.

You bent down to grab something from the floor, adjusting the waistband of your yoga pants when you stood back up, and that’s when you felt it — his eyes glued to you. Heavy. Intent.

“You gonna help, or just stand there starin’?” you teased over your shoulder, a playful lilt in your voice.

Joel’s lips twitched into a half-smirk, though there was something a little darker underneath. “Ain’t starin’,” he muttered, voice gravelly and far too casual to be honest.

You rolled your eyes and continued, purposefully swaying your hips a little as you moved into the living room, fully aware now of the game that had begun.

Joel followed, slowly, like a predator stalking prey. He leaned against the doorway, watching as you bent over to pick up some stray clothes and fluff the couch pillows.

“You wear those on purpose, huh?”

You looked back at him innocently, feigning ignorance. “What, these?” You gave your hips an exaggerated little wiggle. “They’re just comfy, Joel.”

His jaw flexed as he pushed off the doorframe, closing the distance between you in a few slow, measured steps.

“Don’t play with me, sweetheart,” he warned softly, hands finding your waist and gripping it tightly. “Ain’t fair, walkin’ around the house like that when you know damn well what it does to me.”

You grinned, feeling the heat rise between you both. “Thought you had things to do,” you whispered.

Joel’s nose brushed along your jaw as he murmured, low and rough, “Got more important things now.”

You barely had time to react before Joel’s hands tightened on your hips and spun you around, pressing your back firmly against the wall behind you. The sudden shift knocked a soft gasp from your lips, but Joel’s mouth was already on yours before you could say a word.

His kiss was all heat and frustration — needy, rough, claiming. You whimpered into it as he bit down gently on your bottom lip, tugging until you melted against him, your hands instinctively gripping his shirt for balance.

“Joel,” you breathed when he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes wild and dark with hunger.

“Nah, baby. You started this,” he rasped, one hand sliding down to cup your ass through the thin fabric of your leggings. His fingers squeezed possessively, making you shudder. “Walkin’ around here in these fuckin’ things, bendin’ over everywhere, swayin’ that pretty little ass like that… and now you’re gonna play all innocent on me?”

You felt heat pool between your legs as his words settled deep, making your thighs clench together instinctively.

Joel’s lips curled into something between a grin and a sneer when he noticed. “Yeah… that’s what I thought.”

Without warning, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your yoga pants and panties at once and yanked them down roughly to mid-thigh, exposing you completely. You gasped, your head falling back against the wall as the cool air kissed your now bare skin.

“Joel—”

“Shh,” he growled softly, kneeling slightly to spread your legs apart with his hands on your inner thighs, firm and possessive. “Gonna give me this now. Been thinkin’ ‘bout it all fuckin’ day. Can’t wait.”

His mouth descended between your legs before you could catch your breath.

You cried out softly when his tongue licked a slow, greedy stripe up your slit, swirling and teasing before focusing right on your clit. Joel groaned as he tasted you, the vibrations sending jolts straight to your core.

“Fuckin’ soaked already,” he muttered, voice muffled as he lapped and sucked like a man starved. “Knew you were actin’ like a brat for a reason.”

Your legs trembled, hips bucking slightly against his face as pleasure quickly overtook you. Joel’s hands held you firmly in place, spreading you wide while he devoured you mercilessly.

“Joel, please—”

He pulled back just slightly, his lips glistening, dark eyes locking onto yours with a hunger that made your knees weak.

“Turn around,” he ordered roughly, standing back up and pressing his body flush to yours. You obeyed on instinct, turning to face the wall, your cheek pressed against the cool surface while Joel guided you to arch your back for him.

His hand slid between your legs again, fingers gliding through your wetness before he groaned low and lined himself up behind you.

“Y’sure you want this right here, baby?” he teased darkly, voice strained with how badly he wanted you. “Can fuck you right on this wall. Won’t even make it to the damn bed.”

“Yes,” you gasped desperately, rocking back against him, needing more.

That was all he needed to hear.

Joel pushed into you slowly but firmly, groaning deep in his chest as he stretched you open.

“Oh fuck—Joel—”

“That’s it, take it,” he praised darkly, gripping your hips tightly as he bottomed out. He paused for a second, breathing heavily against the back of your neck, then started thrusting deep and slow at first — dragging out every inch.

It didn’t stay slow for long. Joel’s patience snapped completely as he picked up the pace, slamming into you with hard, brutal thrusts that made the wall creak under your hands.

“You feel that, baby? S’what happens when you tease me all fuckin’ day,” he grunted, hips snapping against your ass. “Gonna fuck you dumb right here so you remember next time.”

Your moans filled the room, incoherent now as Joel fucked you rough and fast, one hand wrapped firmly in your hair to keep you in place while the other squeezed your hip tight enough to leave marks.

He leaned down slightly, mouth brushing against your ear. “So good for me… fuckin’ perfect. This pussy’s mine, yeah? Say it.”

“Y-yours, Joel. All yours,” you whimpered, the pleasure overwhelming.

“Damn right,” he growled, snapping his hips even harder. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Make sure you know it’s mine.”

You didn’t stand a chance.

Joel’s pace turned relentless, fucking you so deep and fast you felt like you couldn’t even hold yourself up anymore. Your hands scrambled at the wall for something to grip, but it was useless — Joel had you exactly where he wanted you.

“C’mon, baby,” he rasped against your ear, his voice rough and ragged. “You gonna give it to me? Been teasin’ me all fuckin’ day. Gonna cum for me now like a good girl.”

His hand snaked down between your legs and rubbed tight, fast circles over your clit — and that was all it took.

Your orgasm slammed into you hard and sudden, your body tensing before trembling violently, vision going hazy as pleasure ripped through every nerve ending.

“Joel—fuck, fuck—”

You were babbling, moaning too loud now, but Joel only groaned low and fucked you through it, hips jerking roughly as he chased his own release.

“That’s it, baby,” he growled through clenched teeth, the strain in his voice obvious. “Milk my cock just like that—shit—”

With a final, deep thrust, Joel buried himself to the hilt and let out a deep, broken moan. His hips stuttered as he spilled inside you, his hold on your hips bruising as he rode out every last pulse.

The room fell quiet except for both of your harsh breathing, your foreheads pressed against the wall as you both came down slowly, your bodies trembling and sticky with sweat.

Joel didn’t pull out right away. He stayed pressed against your back, hands softening as they slid up your sides, thumbs stroking gently as he kissed your shoulder.

“Jesus,” he murmured, voice a rough whisper. “You fuckin’ ruin me, you know that?”

You couldn’t help the breathless laugh that bubbled up.

“You’re the one who couldn’t control himself,” you teased weakly, still dazed and wobbly in your legs.

Joel chuckled low, the sound vibrating through your back as he rested his forehead against your shoulder. “Yeah? Keep wearin’ those fuckin’ pants ‘round me, see what happens.”

Slowly, he eased out of you, hands steadying you when your legs threatened to give out completely.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured, turning you around carefully and catching you when you practically fell into his chest. His lips pressed softly to your temple as he cradled you close, his usual roughness melting into tenderness now that the heat of the moment had passed.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, pulling back just enough to search your face. His eyes — still a little wild but softer now — held nothing but concern and warmth.

You nodded, cheeks flushed, a dreamy little smile playing on your lips. “More than okay.”

Joel hummed, pleased, and leaned in to kiss you sweetly, slow and lingering — a sharp contrast to how desperately he’d just taken you against the wall.

When he pulled away, his lips quirked up in amusement.

“C’mere. Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, tugging your yoga pants and panties carefully back up over your hips while you giggled at how tender he suddenly was.

“Oh, now you’re sweet?” you teased as he helped you shuffle over to the couch, guiding you to sit while he grabbed a nearby throw blanket and draped it over your lap.

Joel plopped down beside you, his arm slinging over your shoulders and tugging you into his side. His fingers absentmindedly played with the hem of your shirt while his other hand rubbed slow, soothing circles against your thigh.

“M’always sweet after I fuck the attitude outta you,” he muttered smugly, pressing a kiss to your hair.

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly as you leaned into him, utterly spent but completely content.

“You totally ruined cleaning day,” you pointed out, voice light and teasing.

Joel snorted. “Shit needed ruin’ anyway,” he said lazily, nuzzling into your hair. “Might as well make a mess if we’re cleanin’ later.”

“You’re terrible.”

“Uh huh. Terrible and yours.”

You grinned, letting your eyes flutter closed as you relaxed fully against him, warmth and satisfaction settling deep in your bones. Joel’s hand never stopped moving, always soothing, always grounding.

Eventually, he shifted slightly to glance down at you, voice softer now — genuine.

“Love seein’ you like this, baby. All fucked out, wearin’ my clothes, curled up next to me. Could get used to it.”

Your heart squeezed, and even though he’d just ruined you against the wall in the filthiest way, the tenderness in his words made heat rise in your chest all over again.

“Yeah?” you murmured sleepily, turning your face to hide against his neck.

Joel kissed your forehead, voice low and certain.

“Yeah. Stay here all damn day if you let me.”