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ruewritesoccasionally · 5 months ago

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Playing with Fire | Aaron Pierre

pairing: aaron pierre x plus size!black!reader

warnings: heavy smut 18+, bratty behaviour, teasing, impact play (consensual ofc), power dynamics (dom!aaron + sub!reader) oral (m receiving), praise + degradation kink, dirty talk, & use of names (daddy, slut, princess, baby, mama)

summary: when a night of hosting their friends turns into a game of control and temptation, YN's bratty teasing pushes aaron to his limits. once the guests are gone, he makes sure she learns exactly why it's never wise to play with fire.

word count: 3.2K

a/n: you guys seem to be loving the aaron content, i'm lowkey tempted to come out of retirement

The kitchen buzzed with activity as Aaron worked his culinary magic, the scents of rosemary and thyme mingling in the air. The music played low, a jazzy playlist that matched the intimate vibe of the evening. It was their turn to host the couple's dinner, a tradition among their tight-knit circle of friends that had lasted years. Aaron had looked forward to the night—catching up with friends, sharing good food—but YN clearly had other plans.

Her plans, as far as Aaron could tell, didn’t involve entertaining guests at all.

She was stunning, as always. Her rich, deep brown skin glowed against the soft knit dress she’d chosen, the snug fabric hugging her curves in ways that made Aaron’s chest tighten. Her thick thighs brushed together as she moved, the sway of her hips almost hypnotic. She knew what she was doing—she always did.

“Everything okay over there, Chef?” she teased, her voice honeyed as she leaned against the counter, holding a wine glass in her hand.

Aaron glanced up from the pot he was stirring, his dark eyes locking on her. “Fine,” he muttered, though his grip on the wooden spoon tightened.

“Good,” she purred, taking a slow sip from her glass. The motion drew his attention to her lips, full and glossed, before his gaze slipped lower—to the way her breasts pressed against the dress.

She caught him staring and smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips that sent heat pooling low in his stomach. He turned back to the stove with a muttered curse, but the damage was done.

As she moved around the kitchen, she made a show of brushing past him. Her fingers grazed his arm here, her hip bumped his there, and every time she leaned over, her dress rose just enough to reveal the smooth, bare expanse of her thighs.

“YN,” he warned at one point, his voice low and strained as she reached for a glass on the top shelf, the movement arching her back in a way that had him gripping the edge of the counter.

“Yes, baby?” she replied innocently, glancing at him over her shoulder.

His jaw ticked. “Keep playing with me.”

By the time the first guests arrived, Aaron was already on edge, his self-control hanging by a thread. He greeted their friends with a warm smile, his deep voice steady, but YN’s presence beside him was a constant distraction.

As they settled into the evening, she didn’t let up. If anything, her teasing became bolder.

She sat across from him at the dining table, her dress riding up slightly as she crossed one leg over the other. The motion drew his eyes, and when he looked back up, she was watching him with a sly smile, her chin resting on her hand.

“What?” he asked, his voice low enough that the others couldn’t hear.

“Nothing,” she replied, the word laced with mischief.

Her foot brushed his under the table, a light, teasing touch that made his breath hitch. She kept the conversation going with their friends, her laugh rich and warm, but her foot remained there, sliding up his calf and lingering just high enough to make him shift uncomfortably in his seat.

He clenched his fists under the table, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep his composure.

As the laughter and conversation flowed in the living room, Aaron’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He frowned, slipping it out and glancing at the screen. A message from YN.

“For your eyes only.”

His brow furrowed, but the second he opened the attachment, his breath caught in his throat.

She’d taken the picture in the bathroom, angling her phone just so. Tilting her neck in a way that showcased the delicate curve of her jawline and the smooth expanse of her rich skin, her collarbone and chest gleamed with her favourite body oil. The neckline of her dress was tugged down ever so slightly, revealing the swell of her full breast—and just the barest hint of her sweet, dark areola.

Aaron’s grip tightened on his phone as a wave of heat surged through him, leaving him momentarily speechless. He swore under his breath, locking the screen and shoving the phone back into his pocket, but the image was seared into his mind.

His gaze darted to her across the room. She was laughing at something one of their friends had said, her smile wide and carefree, as if she hadn’t just sent him a picture designed to ruin his composure.

Aaron clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists as he fought to keep his cool. She was going to pay for this later.

The real test came later, as the night wore on.

YN excused herself to fetch dessert from the kitchen, and Aaron followed her with his eyes. Her dress swayed with each step, the fabric clinging to her curves in ways that made his throat go dry.

She returned a moment later, balancing plates of cake in her hands, but when she bent to place one in front of a guest, her dress inched up again. Aaron’s sharp eyes caught the briefest glimpse of smooth, bare skin beneath it.

No panties.

He froze, his entire body going rigid as a wave of heat surged through him. His jaw clenched, and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table.

When she straightened, she met his eyes, a flicker of challenge dancing in hers.

He was done.

Aaron stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice tight, though his tone remained polite. He turned to YN, his gaze dark and dangerous. “Can you help me with something upstairs?”

She blinked, feigning confusion. “Of course, babe,” she replied, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her excitement.

Not that YN much cared—her focus was elsewhere—but their guests could feel the shift in the air. The sexual tension was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife, and Aaron’s not-so-subtle announcement had sent an unspoken message.

Recognising the situation for what it was, the group exchanged quick glances. One by one, they politely let themselves out, sparing YN and Aaron the embarrassment of any lingering.

“Thanks for the lovely evening,” one friend said with a warm smile, though there was a knowing gleam in their eyes.

“Food was amazing, as always,” another added.

Aaron stood at the door with YN by his side, his hand resting firmly on her waist. His fingers tightened in a warning grip, silently reminding her that he was still in control—even if she’d spent the entire evening testing him.

“Glad you all enjoyed it,” he said, his deep voice steady, though there was a rough edge to it now.

With a chorus of goodbyes and promises to catch up soon, their friends made their way out, leaving Aaron and YN alone in the now-empty house.

The door clicked shut, and for a moment, silence hung heavy in the air.

Then Aaron turned to her, his jaw tight, his dark eyes blazing with unrestrained hunger.

“You’ve got exactly five seconds to get upstairs,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

With Aaron’s words still echoing in her ears, YN dashed up the stairs, her laughter spilling out in breathless giggles. The thrill of anticipation coiled in her stomach, making her pulse quicken. She loved this—the push and pull, the game they played, and most of all, the way she could unravel him, bring a man like him to the brink of control.

Aaron was one hell of a man. Tall and broad, with muscles that flexed beneath his fitted clothes. Every move he made was deliberate, like a predator sizing up his prey. And his face—oh, his face. Those piercing eyes that could make her knees weak with a single look. That beard, perfectly shaped, framing lips that were equal parts soft and sinful.

What those lips were going to do to her tonight, what they’d say to her… She trembled at the thought, her body already buzzing with need. Her excitement got the better of her as she missed a step on the staircase, her balance slipping for just a moment.

Before she could fall, strong hands caught her waist, steadying her with ease. She gasped as Aaron’s body pressed up against hers, his chest firm against her back.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” he murmured against her ear, his deep voice sending shivers down her spine. His grip tightened, possessive and grounding all at once.

Her heart raced as she turned her head slightly to catch his gaze. There was that fire in his eyes, a look that made her feel equal parts powerful and utterly at his mercy.

“Go on, princess,” he said lowly, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “I’m not done with you yet.”

As soon as the bedroom door closed behind them, Aaron turned YN around, pressing her back against the door. His broad frame loomed over her, dark eyes burning with the kind of intensity that made her thighs clench together. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body, his hands already gripping her waist like he couldn’t wait another second.

“You got what you wanted, didn’t you?” he growled, his voice low and rough, vibrating in her chest. His hand slipped down to grip her ass firmly, pulling her flush against him, letting her feel the hard evidence of her earlier teasing.

“Daddy all alone, all to yourself,” he continued, his tone laced with both frustration and hunger. His lips brushed against her ear, his breath hot and teasing. “Pulling those little stunts earlier… making your dirty little comments, bending over like that. You got me so fucking hard in front of our friends.”

Her breath hitched, her body tingling with equal parts anticipation and nervous excitement.

“You’re lucky I didn’t bend you over the table and tear your ass up right there,” he growled, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her neck. “Should’ve shown them what a real slut looks like. My slut.”

The word sent a jolt through her, her knees threatening to buckle under the weight of his dominance. She whimpered softly, her hands curling into the fabric of his shirt as she looked up at him through wide, needy eyes.

“You wanted this, princess,” Aaron continued, his hand moving up to cup her face, forcing her to look at him. “You think you’re ready for everything you’ve been begging for?”

“On your knees for me, baby. You know the game already—time to deal with the problem you made.”

Aaron’s voice was low, steady, but carried an edge of command that sent a thrill racing through her. She sank to the floor without hesitation, her breath quickening as she looked up at him. The view above was dizzying—his broad chest rising and falling, his dark, muscular arms flexing as he worked the buttons of his trousers at an agonisingly slow pace.

He radiated power, pure and unrestrained, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away as he pulled himself free, his thick, glistening length standing proud. A bead of liquid pooled at the tip, threatening to spill, and she moved without thought, her lips parting as she surged forward to catch it before it was wasted.

“Greedy little thing,” he chuckled darkly, the sound rough and pleased as he widened his stance. His fingers slid into her curls, tangling there, as he guided her to him. “That’s it, princess. Take Daddy’s dick like the good girl I know you are.”

The warmth of her mouth wrapped around him, hot and eager, and Aaron groaned, his head falling back as a shiver ran through his body. She worked him with precision and desperation, her tongue swirling over the sensitive head before taking him deeper, the sheer weight of him on her tongue making her core tighten.

Her nails gripped his thighs for support as she bobbed her head, hollowing her cheeks with every pull. He hissed at the sensation, his free hand curling into a fist at his side as her pace quickened, her determination to please evident in every movement.

“Fuck, mama,” he growled, his voice strained, his body trembling slightly as her lips worked magic. “That mouth of yours… you’re going to make me lose it.”

“Are you ready for me to make you feel good?” he asked, his voice low, a dark promise in the words. She mumbled a garbled ‘yes’ around him, the vibration sending a jolt through him.

He smirked, his hand coming up to slap her cheek with a quick, sharp motion. “Don’t you know it’s rude to talk with your mouth full?” he teased, a smug smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

With a sudden pull, he withdrew himself from her mouth, the sound of the pop echoing in the charged air between them.

“Bed. Now,” he commanded, his tone cold and authoritative. Without even sparing her another glance, he turned away, pulling off the rest of his clothing with slow, deliberate movements, his eyes set on the bed.

The mirror was conveniently positioned for moments like this—face down, ass up, legs spread just enough, and eyes locked in. That’s how Aaron liked her: presented, prepared, and ready to take everything he gave. Y/N’s perfect arch highlighted the curve of her back, every inch of her body a work of art meant to be admired and claimed.

She began to regret ditching her panties earlier in the night. Maybe she could have used those extra seconds of slipping them off to brace herself for what was coming. The cool air brushed against her bare skin, adding to her anticipation, her slick thighs betraying how much she wanted him.

The bed dipped behind her, signaling Aaron’s presence. His movements were slow and deliberate, his towering figure closing in on her reflection in the mirror. She followed his every step, every calculated motion that made her nerves alight with electricity.

"God, just look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with lust, eyes burning with intent.

Then came the first smack—a sharp sting across her ass that echoed in the room and had her gasping, her body jolting forward slightly. The force left her speechless for a moment, the pain a shock to her system, but her pussy clenched in response, desperate for more.

His laughing bearing no humour filled the room as he smoothed a large hand over the reddened spot. "You’re gonna count to ten for me, Princess. Loud and clear. Got it?"

“Yes, Daddy,” she whimpered, her voice laced with desire and submission.

With each strike, her voice grew shakier, but she obediently counted, the mixture of pain and pleasure building to a maddening crescendo. By the final number, tears streaked her makeup, her lips swollen from biting back moans, her chest heaving with shallow breaths.

Aaron’s gaze softened as he took her in—flustered and utterly perfect, his Princess. “That’s my good girl,” he praised, his voice like velvet as he bent down to kiss the marks his hands left behind. His touch shifted to something gentler, soothing the stinging skin as he whispered against her. “You were so patient for me. I’ll make it all better now, baby. Daddy’s gonna take care of you.”

Aaron’s grip on her hips was punishing, his fingers digging into her flesh, holding her in place as if she’d dare to escape—not that she could even if she tried. Each stroke was deliberate, deep, and devastating, his hips snapping with a rhythm that left her crying out into the sheets.

“Are you gonna tease me again, huh?” His voice was rough, a low growl vibrating through her. Each word was punctuated by a thrust that knocked the air from her lungs. “Or are you finally gonna use your words like a big girl?”

Her head lolled forward, barely able to hold herself up as the relentless pounding scrambled her thoughts. She opened her mouth, but nothing coherent came out—just desperate, breathless gasps that only seemed to amuse him.

“Uh uh,” Aaron rasped, slowing his movements just enough to make her whimper in frustration. He leaned down, his chest pressing against her back as his breath fanned over her ear. “Closed mouths don’t get fed, baby. Talk to Daddy.”

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, her voice trembling as she clung to the sheets. “I won’t—won’t tease you again—oh God, Daddy, please—”

“Please what?” His hips stilled entirely, his thick length buried to the hilt and throbbing inside her. “You don’t seem so confident now, do you? Where’s all that energy from earlier, huh?”

“Please don’t stop!” she begged, tears of desperation pooling in her eyes as she tried to push back against him, but his grip on her hips was unyielding.

He chuckled darkly, a sound that sent a shiver down her spine. “Oh, don’t worry, princess. Stopping was never an option. But I will make sure you remember who’s in charge.”

And with that, he resumed his brutal pace, his thrusts merciless as her cries of pleasure filled the room. The obscene sound of their bodies colliding only spurred him on, and when she tried to muffle her screams by burying her face in the pillow, Aaron wasn’t having it.

“Let me hear you,” he commanded, yanking her head back by her hair. “Let the whole damn block know who’s fucking you like this.”

Her response was an unintelligible mix of moans and cries as her body tensed, trembling on the edge of release. Sensing how close she was, Aaron reached around to find her swollen clit, his rough fingers circling the sensitive nub with just enough pressure to send her hurtling over the edge.

Her climax hit her like a freight train, her body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. She screamed his name, her nails clawing at the sheets, and Aaron didn’t let up, riding her through it with a feral intensity.

“That’s my girl,” he praised, his tone softening for a brief moment as he kissed the back of her neck. “Taking everything I give you like the good little slut you are.”

But before she could catch her breath, he flipped her onto her back, her legs thrown over his broad shoulders as he leaned down to capture her lips in a bruising kiss. “We’re not done yet, mama,” he murmured against her lips. “Not until I’m satisfied.”

He thrust back into her, deeper this time, and her overstimulated body arched off the bed as the sensation bordered on too much. “Daddy, I—” she tried, but the words were lost as another scream ripped from her throat.

“That’s it,” Aaron groaned, his pace quickening as he chased his own release. “Take it all. Take every last fucking drop.”

When he finally came, it was with a guttural moan that sent shivers down her spine. He buried himself deep, his warmth spilling inside her as his body trembled against hers. For a moment, the room was silent except for their ragged breathing, their bodies tangled together in the aftermath.

Aaron leaned down to kiss her forehead, his thumb brushing away the tears that streaked her cheeks. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice filled with adoration. “But don’t think for a second I’m letting you off easy next time.”

comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

#aaron pierre #aaron pierre x black!oc #aaron pierre x black reader #aaron pierre fanfic #aaron pierre smut #black!reader #ruewrites #aaron pierre x black!reader #aaron pierre x fem!reader #aaron pierre x plus size!reader

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capuccinodoll · 8 days ago

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— A haunted body, part four: "I, the one who dimmed the Sun" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (jackson!joel x f!reader)

fic masterlist | ao3 | capuccinodollupdates | previous chapter | next chapter

— Chapter summary: Joel returns your necklace. And slowly, curiosity begins to take hold of him, sinking deeper into his body. Inevitably, he tries to pull away—but you push him to the edge once more. This time, with brutal blows and power games. At night, he remembers. wc: 17k

TW!!!: This chapter contains mild and graphic violence, graphic depictions of murder, mentions of blood, death, and other sensitive themes. Reader discretion is strongly advised!!

A/N: I hope you like this one. Please don't forget to let me know your opinion in the comments, it helps me a lot! <3 (TAG LIST OPEN) (also, if you asked me to tag u but I didn't, please dm me to let me know!)

Jackson’s greenhouse. Evening.

Soft light pooled through the glass panels, catching on floating dust and the gentle sway of hanging vines.

Joel’s hand hovered over a yellow bloom, fingers nearly brushing the petal—then pulled back, abrupt, as though it might burn at his touch.

He lifted his gaze, instinctively sensing a shift in the air, and there you were, stepping inside. Not alone.

Zach walked beside you, his voice low, easy. He was good with people. Mid-thirties maybe, helpful, always around, always offering help when there was construction to be done or someone needed a second pair of hands.He was good at patrols too. A reliable man.

Joel didn’t move. His gaze flicked back to the greenery in front of him. Rows of herbs, delicate flowers, sun-wilted basil and half-wild rosemary. He’d come looking for lavender. He liked the smell. Said it helped with sleep. But now he couldn’t quite remember what he’d needed it for.

Instead, he found himself tracing the edges of memory—gardens he used to walk past on his way home from work, backyard flower beds neighbors took pride in, places where he’d knelt in dirt with aching knees and the weight of normal life pressing warm against his back.

That was before. A different world, a different version of himself.

Past tense. Past gone.

He straightened his back, and a quiet sigh slipped from his nose, barely audible, but enough to feel like a release. His spine ached, and so did something else.

When he looked up, you were there.

Just a few feet away, standing with a kind of ease that made his chest tighten. You didn’t acknowledge him. Not with a glance, not even a flicker of recognition. Your focus was entirely on the herbs in front of you—rows of thyme, mint, maybe basil. You reached out with the backs of your fingers grazing the leaves, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like the world itself hadn’t fallen apart in pieces and rebuilt itself into something quieter and violent.

Then, gently, you leaned in. He watched you breathe in the scent like it could fix something.

You looked—peaceful. That was the word that kept circling in his mind, irritating and impossible. How could you look like that?

Joel stayed still. Watched you as if from far away.

That morning, he’d thought about it more than once. Not on purpose. Just flashes. Your face, the way you spoke like you didn’t owe anyone an explanation, the way you didn’t seem afraid even when you should be.

He knew you were hurt. Not visibly. But inside, somewhere in the place where people carried the real damage. Everyone who had survived this long carried something. That wasn’t a mystery. But you... You carried your pain like it didn’t belong to you. Or like it did, but you had made peace with it in a way that left him uneasy. There was something almost reckless in how your attention drifted toward ordinary things. Like the scent of herbs. Like sunlight filtering through dusty greenhouse glass.

He didn’t get it. Not even a little.

You smiled.

It was faint, genuine. Like the scent of those herbs, faint as it might’ve been, was something worth smiling about. And for a second—just one second—it looked like none of it had ever happened. Like pain wasn’t a language you spoke fluently. Like you weren’t made of the same brittle, exhausted material as everyone else here. As him, here.

How?

Something about that expression stopped him. Froze something inside him just long enough to hurt.

And then, your eyes lifted. They met his.

For a second, Joel didn’t breathe. Then he looked away too quickly, like he’d been caught staring at something he wasn’t supposed to see. Guilty.

He let out a tired sigh and dragged his hand through the soft scruff on his jaw, the gesture half out of habit, half frustration. He was ready to head out. Enough of this. He’d come for lavender, maybe, or just a reason to be alone for a while. Either way, he was done standing around smelling plants.

He turned to leave, but didn’t make it far.

“Joel,” you said, right in front of him now. With that familiar, disarming smile and a cloth bag cradled in your arms like you’d just picked it up from the market or packed it with something for someone else. For a moment, he thought you might hand it to him. “How are you?”

His body responded before his mind had the chance to intervene; eyebrows tightening, posture stiffening, a flicker of irritation or confusion crossing his face before he could stop it.

“Fine.”

You kept smiling. Your gaze swept over him, noticeable enough to make his shoulders tense slightly. He was suddenly aware of how he looked—dust on his shirt, sweat near his collarbone, the ache in his back he hadn’t paid attention to until now.

“Everything felt kind of empty today without you,” you said, light, almost teasing. “There was no one giving me dirty looks.”

He tilted his head, just enough. “Kind of empty doesn’t sound like the worst thing.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “If you weren’t right here, I’d think you were avoiding me. Are you?”

He gave a soft shake of his head. “Too much effort.”

The truth was that ever since that day at the school, he’d been more careful. Just enough to feel it.

In the mornings, he made himself useful and nothing more—spoke only when required, kept his eyes fixed on tasks that didn’t involve you. But it got harder when you kept being you. Open. Friendly. Effortlessly warm, even when you weren’t doing anything at all.

And so he kept circling—choosing lunch tables two over from yours, stepping off the sidewalk when he saw you walking ahead, finding excuses to linger somewhere else entirely. The same way he had stepped back from that yellow flower earlier, like touching it might burn it.

Avoidance wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t noble. But it was quiet. And Joel had always been good at quiet.

You opened your mouth like you were about to say something but then Zach’s voice cut through the greenhouse, calling your name from across the room.

Your head turned instinctively toward him.

Joel watched you shift your weight, caught in that half-second of indecision. Then you glanced back at him, your expression unreadable for a moment, like there was something else.

Zach raised a hand in a casual wave. His posture was easy, unbothered. A half-smile played on his face. Joel nodded in return, barely lifting his chin.

“Well,” you said, adjusting the strap of the cloth bag in your hands, “I have to go. See you tomorrow.”

You smiled again, like it didn’t cost you anything. And Joel didn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Just a quiet nod. And that was it.

He stood there, watching as you walked away.

Then he exhaled and shook his head, faintly annoyed at himself.

He could’ve asked what was in the bag you were holding. He could’ve told you he’d finished fixing the necklace, that it was ready now, resting in the bottom drawer waiting to be returned.

But, as always, the words stayed where they were.

Jackson’s office. Morning.

Joel was ignoring you.

No—he was really, really ignoring you now. You were sure of it.

It had been a week and a half since that morning at the school. Since your voice had nearly cracked in front of him and Erin, and he had reached for your necklace without saying much, promising he'd fix it. Since then, you'd kept your mouth shut about it. You hadn't asked once. Joel was good with things, fixing them. You trusted that. What you didn’t understand was the way he’d started acting around you after that.

As if being near you was even more unbearable than before.

He barely stayed in the office anymore. Came in, glanced over the patrol schedules as if he didn’t already know them by heart, shuffled some papers, made coffee, left. Sometimes tea. Always something hot. Always with his back turned.

When the two of you had to work together, he walked ahead without a word. Then, the moment it made sense to split up—he did.

“If I need you, I’ll let you know,” he’d said once, over his shoulder.

And that was it.

At lunch, if you entered the dining hall, he’d move. Subtly. Quietly. Two tables over. No eye contact, no words.

It didn’t even feel rude anymore. Just… quiet. But it was still rejection. Still confusing.

And, worst of all, it made you want to know him more.

It wasn’t logical. He was avoiding you, and your brain knew what that meant, but your body—your instincts—kept watching him. Noticing how he walked with that worn-out kind of weight in his shoulders. How he kept his gaze low until it wasn’t, until he looked out of the corner of his eye and something flickered there.

There was something he wasn’t saying. And you felt it every time he entered a room.

Joel was a mystery you had only secondhand clues about. People in Jackson talked, but always in shorthand.

Tommy’s brother. Used to run with dangerous people. Quiet, but decent. Helpful, if you caught him on the right day. Polite, in that old-fashioned way.

He had favorites, apparently—people he looked out for more than others. And he had a reputation for doing the right thing when it really counted. But still—there was a heaviness to him. And you wanted to know why.

You took the stairs to the second floor, the wooden steps creaking softly beneath your boots. Voices floated down the hallway before you reached the office. When you stepped inside, the room was already occupied.

“Why? What are you doing tonight?” Joel’s voice came first, slightly exasperated.

Ellie was standing in front of his desk, her backpack slung over one shoulder, arms crossed tightly over her chest like armor. She turned her head when she heard you come in.

“Hey, Snow,” she said, her mouth twitching into a grin that softened her whole face.

“Ellie,” Joel called again, firmer this time, but she didn’t respond.

You paused for a second, catching his eye briefly before moving past them to your desk, placing your bag down with more care than necessary.

The weather had been kinder today. Cool in the morning, with just enough sun to warm your sleeves. You’d left the house without a coat, letting the air settle on your skin like linen. But you knew it wouldn’t last; by the time noon arrived, the sun would be sharper, unforgiving.

“How are you?” you asked, your voice light as you turned back to Ellie.

“Just heading out,” she replied, adjusting the straps of her bag. “Just came to ask Joel something.”

Joel stood from his chair, already halfway through whatever caution he was about to issue. “Ellie, I need you to—”

“Jesse’s waiting,” she cut in, breezing past him. “Relax. I’m not gonna do anything reckless. Don't worry.” Her tone was playful but practiced. She reached out and gave him a quick, familiar hug before heading toward the door.

She smiled at you once more, and then she was gone.

Joel was still in the middle of the room, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the spot where she’d just disappeared. He was wearing a cream shirt today, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and dark jeans that hung low on his hips.

“Everything okay?” you asked.

He blinked, as if waking up from a dream, and took a small step back, almost instinctively.

“Yeah,” he said, voice clipped.

You nodded, turning your attention to the notebook you’d been holding. It felt oddly heavy in your hands. You flipped it open to a page filled with rushed notes and meandering doodles—lines drawn out of boredom or nerves, hard to say.

You let your eyes skim the paper, pretending to search for something important. Then you looked up again.

Joel had moved back to his desk. You watched him open a drawer, his broad shoulders turned to you.

Your gaze drifted to the back of his neck; a few strands of silver curling against his skin. The contrast was startling, beautiful in an accidental kind of way. You didn’t look away. Not immediately.

He turned around just as you dropped your gaze. You cleared your throat, a sound too sharp in the quiet.

Then he crossed the room. No words, just the measured sound of his boots against the floor until he stopped in front of your desk.

You looked up.

Joel was standing there, holding a small wooden box between his hands. Rectangular, maybe the size of a glasses case. His eyes flicked to yours for only a moment before he placed it gently on the desk in front of you.

“I finished it yesterday,” he said.

You reached for the box. The wood was smooth under your fingertips, clearly sanded with care, varnished until it caught the light. In the center of the lid was a carved heart, filled with tiny flowers, winding vines. You recognized the pattern instantly. It matched your necklace exactly—every curve, every petal.

Your thumb traced the edge of the carving, and something inside you stirred, something quiet and warm that made your chest feel full all at once.

You lifted the lid with care, your fingers almost reverent.

Inside, nestled on a small black pillow, your necklace lay fixed. The silver chain gleamed faintly, polished to a brightness it hadn’t had in years.

“I polished it a little,” Joel said, already turning back toward his desk. “It’s silver, so it wasn’t complicated.”

You leaned in, opening the heart. Your brows furrowed.

The paper inside was now sealed beneath a delicate layer of something transparent, almost invisible. It held the content in place, protecting them from air, from moisture, from your clumsy fingers.

You didn’t say anything for a second. Then you gently laid the necklace back inside the box, careful not to disturb the arrangement. But you didn’t close the lid. You didn’t want to.

You stood, chair scraping softly behind you, and walked toward him. He had his back to you, hunched slightly over some paperwork or maybe just pretending to be busy.

“Joel,” you said. Your eyes stayed on the box in your hands. “This is beautiful.”

He paused, then straightened up and turned. He looked at you.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“Did you make the box?”

He gave a short nod. There was something in his expression you hadn’t seen before. Not quite embarrassment, but something adjacent. A flicker of self-consciousness that made you want to reach for him.

You blinked quickly, feeling the sting behind your eyes. You swallowed it down.

“It’s beautiful,” you said again, running your thumb over the wood. “You did a beautiful job. Thank you so much for this.”

“It’s nothing,” he repeated, quicker this time. “I just thought—you could keep it in there when you’re not wearing it. If you’re not gonna wear it. I mean... at some point.”

You smiled, nodding, letting his words settle between you.

“I am going to wear it,” you said, lifting the chain gently from its place. “It turned out perfect. I can’t even tell where the break was. And it’s so clean now, it looks brand new.”

“Do you want me to put it on for you?”

You looked at him. Instantly, he seemed to regret saying that.

“Or not,” he added quickly, already backpedaling.

But you reached out anyway, holding the chain between your fingers, offering it to him without a word. There was a brief pause before he took it, his hand brushing yours.

Then you turned around and gathered your hair, lifting it off your neck.

You could feel him hesitate behind you—not visibly, not audibly, but in the charged stillness that settled between your bodies. And then, he moved closer. He hadn’t touched you yet, not really, but you could feel him. The warmth of his presence.

“You’ve touched my neck before,” you said, voice light, teasing. “No need to be shy now.”

Behind you, Joel clicked his tongue. “You’re gettin’ too smart for your own good.”

You laughed.

He brought the chain around your throat, his hands steady as he lined up both ends at the nape of your neck. When his fingers finally made contact with your skin, you felt it—an involuntary reaction that started in your spine and bloomed outward. Your cheeks went warm.

“Done,” he said, his voice softer now.

You turned back around slowly, letting your fingers find the charm resting at the center of your chest. You looked down at it, tracing its familiar shape, then looked up again.

“Thank you. Really. It was kind of you to do this for me, Joel.”

“It was nothing.”

But you kept your eyes on him.

“No, it wasn’t. In fact,” you said, narrowing your eyes playfully, “I think I might reconsider breaking your fingers after all.”

A sound escaped from his chest. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.

“What?” you asked, squinting at him. “What was that look?”

“What look?”

“That look. That face.” You tilted your head, crossing your arms. “Don’t you think I could break your fingers?”

Joel shook his head slowly. “Didn’t say that.”

“Ah,” you said, your tone suspicious, “because I can.”

He mirrored your stance, folding his arms across his chest.

“I’m sure of that,” he said with a nod. Then, after a pause, he narrowed his eyes just slightly. “How many fingers we talkin’? You got a record?”

You lifted your chin. “Enough. Why? You doubting me?”

“Not at all.”

You looked at him without speaking, your expression steady. Something flickered behind his eyes—amusement, maybe, or disbelief—but underneath it, you could tell: he didn’t believe you. Or maybe he did, just not fully. Not enough to take the idea seriously. Not enough to imagine you actually winning.

Joel shifted his weight slightly, leaning back against the edge of his desk, arms still folded across his chest.

“Yeah, well. I don’t believe you,” you said, stepping closer. “I can see it in your face. You don’t think I could take you. But I could. I’m faster than I look.”

Joel tilted his head, a crooked smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m sure you are. Though, correct me if I’m wrong, I found you bleeding in the snow not that long ago, didn’t I?”

You nodded, unfazed. “Yeah. I won. You should’ve seen the other guy.”

Joel snorted. “Don't be smug.”

You rolled your eyes and took a small step back, still mirroring his stance with your arms crossed. You let your gaze rest on him for a moment, then sighed with exaggerated disappointment.

“Fine,” you said, shifting your weight. “Try me.”

“What?”

“Come on.” You uncrossed your arms and took another step back, as if you were clearing space between you. “Try me. You really think I couldn’t get you off me if I wanted to?”

He frowned, clearly caught off guard. “I’m not gonna fight you.”

“I never said fight,” you replied with a shrug. “Just… see if you can hold me down. See if I can get you off me. That’s all.”

He raised a brow. “You said you weren’t gonna break my fingers.”

“I said I’d consider not breaking them.”

Joel huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. No.”

You exhaled, loud enough for him to hear it, and walked backward until your legs bumped against the edge of your desk. You leaned against it, arms folded, mirroring the posture he’d worn moments ago. Your eyes narrowed in challenge.

“What’s wrong? Afraid your knees can’t take it?”

Joel raised his chin. “Watch it.”

“Or is it your hip? Getting stiff with age?”

“I’m not that old.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Don’t tell me it’s because I’m a woman. That’d be disappointing.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, standing up and brushing a hand down his face. “You were more tolerable when you weren’t talking. Go back to that.”

“If you win, I’ll stop bothering you.”

“Sure you will.”

“No, really,” you said, stepping away from the desk, slowly making your way toward him. “You win, and I’ll leave you alone. Cross my heart.”

Joel stared at you like you were some strange creature that had wandered in off the street.

“You’ve lost it. I’m not wrestling you in the middle of the damn day.”

“I’m not talking about a fight,” you said with a shrug, tone light, almost cheerful. “It’s just a matter of resistance. You keep me still, hold me down—I lose. Simple.”

His brow furrowed, like he was trying to make sense of what exactly you were proposing.

“And what exactly do I get out of this?”

“I’ll leave you alone,” you repeated, stepping a little closer. “Peace and quiet for as long as you want it.”

Joel looked away, scanning the room, then glanced toward the hallway. He hesitated.

Then, without saying a word, he turned toward the open door, stepped forward, and shut it quietly.

The moment the door clicked shut, something shifted in the air. Your pulse kicked up, wild and uneven, like it had been startled out of rhythm. That familiar sensation swept over you again—not fear exactly, not anything close to it. This was the kind of tension that made your skin prickle, made your hands itch for contact. Not dread, but something closer to anticipation.

It reminded you of being sixteen, back at military school, all raw edges and unspent energy. Those stretches of time between lessons, when everything was too quiet, too orderly. When you and Frances would sneak out and throw yourselves into sparring matches with the girls—knuckles bruising, lungs burning, laughter catching in your throats between hits. There was something honest about it. Something beautiful, even. A release, like exhaling after trying not to cry.

You stepped forward. Joel had already turned, and when his eyes met yours, it was clear he’d made up his mind. He started toward you and you felt your mouth pull into a crooked smile, something sharp and giddy dancing just beneath your ribs.

He took another step. You didn’t move.

And then, suddenly, he lunged.

His hands found your waist with startling precision, and before you could even breathe in, your body was twisting through the air. He tried to spin you, to pin you down, but you caught his shoulder mid-motion. Your fingers clung tight, and using the force of his own momentum, you dragged him with you.

You hit the desk together with a loud thud, his chest pressed to yours, his forearm braced against the surface just beside your head. His face was close, so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. His breath was rough against your cheek, and his skin was already flushed.

But you moved before he could settle into the hold. You twisted sharply, arched your back, and ducked beneath his arm. Your elbow connected with his side—hard enough to hurt, hard enough to throw him off. He grunted, body curling instinctively, and you shoved him back, planting your feet beneath you again.

Joel laughed. A real laugh, rough and surprised. His eyes flashed.

Then he charged again.

You moved to duck out of his reach, but Joel was faster this time. His fingers caught your wrist, and in one clean motion, he spun you around and pressed you against the wall. Your chest met the surface with a dull thud, your cheek flattened to the cool paneling. His hand splayed across your back, anchoring you there, and for a moment you were both still; breathing heavily, lungs working in tandem, hearts pounding hard enough to hear.

“Give up?” he murmured near your ear, voice low and hoarse with effort.

You smiled. Without answering, you slipped your leg behind his and kicked, a quick, precise motion that knocked him just off balance. He faltered. That was all you needed. You twisted out of his grip and turned, shoving him backward until his back hit the edge of the cabinet near the desk.

Joel caught himself before he could fall, but you were already on him. You grabbed his right arm and forced it behind his back. It wasn’t meant to hurt, just to bend him forward, remind him you were quicker than you looked.

“You’re out of your damn mind,” he muttered, breath catching.

“And you’re not keeping up,” you shot back.

That made him react. In a burst of motion, he twisted, yanked his arm free, and shoved you square in the chest with his forearm. You stumbled, landing on the floor with a thud. But you didn’t stay down long—you rolled onto your hands and knees, already scanning for your next opening.

Joel was coming at you again, but you caught him mid-stride. You swept a leg beneath him, throwing his balance, and before either of you could recover, you both hit the ground—him first, then you on top.

You tried to pin his wrists, aiming to lock him beneath you, but he anticipated it. He moved with you, not against you, using your momentum to flip the two of you over. In an instant, he had you pinned, one arm on either side of your head, your wrists trapped beneath his hands. His weight pressed into you, heavy and solid, anchoring you to the floor.

You wriggled beneath him, more out of instinct than strategy. Your pulse was wild, thrumming all through your body. It was overwhelming, how aware you were of every point where he touched you.

Joel’s face hovered above yours, his breath ragged.

“You giving up? Or do you want to walk out of here covered in bruises?”

You smirked, breathless. “Is that a threat? Or a promise?”

And just like that, while his grip loosened ever so slightly, you took your shot—wrenched one wrist free, slipped your fingers around his neck, not forceful, just enough to throw him off. Then you shoved up with your legs, wedging one thigh high between the two of you, pressing it into the space beneath his hips. He grunted as his balance tipped again. You felt the shift before it happened.

He was losing control. And you weren’t done yet.

Joel let out a low, breathy laugh as you scrambled to your feet, the sound rough around the edges. You caught a glimpse of him pushing up from the floor, a small groan slipping past his lips. Still, he moved after you, slower than you but with a steady, unmistakable intent.

You took a step back, your hands instinctively lifting as if to say easy now, but it didn’t matter—he didn’t pause, didn’t flinch. Joel lunged again.

You twisted, sidestepped him just in time, but he pivoted with you. The air between you turned charged, every motion a tug-of-war for control. His hand caught your arm. Before you could brace yourself, he pulled you hard against his chest, spun you, and pressed you back—your front connecting with the wall beside your desk. The force of it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You were pinned.

His body caged yours completely, your back flush to him, the heat of him impossible to ignore. One of his hands flattened beside your head, bracing his weight. The other gripped both of your wrists, holding them firmly above you. You could feel his breath at your ear, warm and uneven, the tension between you taut like wire. His jaw was clenched, and his proximity felt almost unreal.

“Is that really all you've got?” he murmured, voice pitched low, brushing against the shell of your ear.

You parted your lips to say something back, something sharp or reckless, but the moment shattered.

The door slammed open without warning.

Tommy strode in casually, mid-thought, but stopped cold as soon as he saw the two of you. His brows drew together instantly.

You jerked away from Joel like the wall had burned you.

You reached up quickly, fixing your hair, trying to find your breath. Joel took a wide step back. He turned away, already halfway to the desk, picking up a stack of papers like nothing had happened.

“Tommy… hi,” you said, voice higher than usual, not quite steady. You didn’t dare look directly at him as you crossed the room and sank into your chair, pretending to shuffle through your notebook, your pulse still thrumming under your skin.

Joel said nothing. Tommy still hadn't moved. And your skin still tingled where Joel had touched you.

"I... I just came to check how everything was going," Tommy said, stepping farther into the room with a kind of casual purpose, though there was a flicker of curiosity behind his eyes. He had a rifle slung over one shoulder and wore a plaid button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms.

Joel didn’t turn around. He kept his back to both of you, flipping through the same stack of papers he'd already looked at twice.

“So, everything okay in here?” he asked, letting his gaze rest on you before switching to Joel. “Joel.”

Joel didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” he said, sharper than necessary, like the words had been waiting behind his teeth. He stood upright and walked around the desk, lowering himself into his chair. “Ellie’s not joining us for dinner tonight.”

Tommy gave a small nod, then turned to you, his tone shifting into something warmer.

“That’s actually why I came by. Maria and I were wondering if you’d like to come over tonight. Dinner with us. And Joel and... Just Joel.”

You felt Joel’s stare, the weight of it—how pointed and immediate it was. Like he was trying to will you into silence with his eyes alone. Still, you smiled.

“I’d love to,” you said simply, letting the warmth reach your voice but not overdoing it.

Tommy beamed. “Great. We’ll see you at seven, then.”

“Seven o’clock it is,” you confirmed.

There was a moment of quiet as Tommy lingered, his eyes flicking between the two of you again. His lips pressed together in a half-smile. Then, with a small nod, he turned and left, the door falling shut behind him.

You let out a long breath, the kind that only comes after holding something in for too long. A smile, amused and quiet, tugged at your lips.

Joel made a noise—something between a snort and a sigh—and shook his head, not looking at you.

Tommy and Maria’s house. That same day. Evening.

Something had shifted.

Not entirely new, things had been off from the beginning. But now the strangeness had taken on a different texture. Joel noticed it immediately. It was in the way you didn’t look at him after lunch. Not overtly. You weren’t dramatic about it. But he noticed.

Hours after Tommy had wandered into the office and caught the two of you mid-wrestle, you were both in the dining hall. Joel stepped backward without checking his surroundings and collided with you.

He winced. You smiled. You both startled, your shoulders brushing.

“I’m sorry,” you said at the same time.

He turned to you, already bracing for your annoyance. But you were smiling—kind of. Your expression was hard to read, like you were caught off guard too. And your cheeks—he swore they were flushed. He turned to look at you again, a crease between his brows, but you were already walking past him, quiet.

Later, out in the stables, he stood beside Tommy, brushing dust off his jeans, watching Shimmer paw at the ground. Tommy was mid-thought about something else entirely when he changed course.

“So what’s going on with Snow?” he asked casually, resting both arms on the fence.

Joel didn’t answer right away. He hoped Tommy would just let it hang there, floating into nothing.

“What’s going on with what?” he asked anyway, noncommittal.

“You know,” Tommy replied, shrugging, not looking at him.

“No, I don’t.”

Tommy hesitated, as if trying to phrase it more gently, but then gave up.

“Okay, look—I don’t really know how to dance around this, so I’ll just ask. Why the hell did it look like you had her pinned against the wall? Is this... is there something going on? Or has this weird tension finally morphed into something we should be having an official discussion about?”

Joel shook his head immediately. “Forget it. It was nothing.”

“So you admit it’s something weird.”

“There’s nothing weird.”

“Then what was that?”

Joel squinted at him. “I told you to assign her somewhere else.”

Tommy let out a laugh through his nose. “Yeah? You didn’t look too bothered about it earlier.”

Joel turned toward him. His jaw tightened. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Tommy grinned, unbothered.

Joel didn’t smile back. Or maybe he just didn’t get it. Or maybe he did—and didn’t want to.

Now, hours later, Joel straightened up from where he’d been leaning against the kitchen counter, posture stiff, pretending to do something useful. The front door had opened—he heard it. And then your voice. Light. Warm. Cheerful like you didn’t know how to be anything else.

He closed his eyes briefly. That voice had become a kind of headache lately. Persistent, impossible to ignore, and entirely your fault.

He lingered in the kitchen longer than necessary, arms crossed, gaze fixed on nothing in particular. But eventually Maria came into the room, arms folded, one eyebrow lifted.

“What are you still doing in here?” she asked, not unkindly. But the subtext was clear: Move.

He sighed and pushed off the counter, dragging his feet into the living room. You were there, sitting, mid-laugh. Your eyes flicked up when he entered, and the conversation stopped immediately.

Joel took the armchair by the window, the one slightly turned away from the others. He didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

There was a stretch of silence, not uncomfortable exactly.

“So,” Maria said eventually, turning toward you with a smile. “How’s work going?”

Joel looked at you, his expression unreadable. Part of him—some petty, irrational part—wanted you to say it was terrible. That you were miserable. That working with him had become so unbearable you were ready to quit.

But you didn’t say any of that. Instead, you smiled.

“Great, actually,” you said brightly. “I think I’m doing really well.”

There was a pause. You tilted your head toward him, your tone still pleasant but edged now. “Of course, I might not be the best person to judge that. Right, Joel?”

He stared at you, caught. Opened his mouth, closed it. Then opened it again.

“If I were you,” he said, finally, “I’d keep my options open.”

Maria blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tommy jumped in before the silence got heavy again.

“Snow’s doing a good job,” he said, trying to smooth things over. “Right, Joel?”

Joel looked down at his hands. Said nothing. Pretended there was something under his fingernail that needed attention.

You exhaled a short laugh, not quite amused.

“He’s not going to admit it. He never does. He’s only vocal when I mess something up. Otherwise, he’s quiet. That’s how I know things are okay—because he doesn’t say anything at all.”

Maria laughed, the sound easy. “Well, communication is pretty key to keeping any machine running. Like gears, you know? If one’s silent, it’s usually broken.”

Joel felt your gaze on him then, like heat against the side of his face. He didn’t look up. Didn’t give you that satisfaction. He avoided your eyes, even when you all moved to the dining table.

Unfortunately for him, that didn’t matter, it didn't work.

You sat directly across from him anyway.

Dinner began easily enough. The conversation, at first, revolved entirely around Jackson—its people, its systems, its small, hard-won triumphs. You listened intently, asked questions with genuine interest. Joel could see it in the way your eyes lit up, your posture leaning just slightly forward, your voice rising when you spoke to Tommy and Maria.

You admired them. That much was obvious. It came through in everything you said; how you referred to the town, how you seemed to understand its structure without needing it explained twice. Joel had suspected, in those early weeks, that your endless curiosity was partly performative, a subtle way of getting under his skin. Now he saw it differently. It wasn’t about him. This was simply part of you.

“I know I’ve said this before,” you began, your plate empty now, your voice quiet but sure, “but I really am grateful you opened your doors to me.” You were looking at them when you said it. Only them. Not at Joel. “I honestly never imagined a place like this could exist in the kind of world we live in.”

Maria smiled at you. “Well, it’s very nice having you here. You’ve really blended into Jackson beautifully.”

You tilted your head slightly, a small, uncertain smile tugging at your lips. “Do you think so?”

Joel caught it—the hesitation behind your question. The need for reassurance. You were good at hiding it, but not from him.

“Of course,” Maria said. “At first I thought it might take you longer to settle in. Actually, I assumed you wouldn’t want to start working right away.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Oh no, I had to. I couldn’t let myself stay here without contributing something. It wouldn’t feel right. I needed to earn it.”

Tommy nodded thoughtfully. “No, but it makes sense. Your situation was... well, it wasn’t easy. Needing some time would’ve been perfectly natural.”

Maria looked at you then, more closely. Her tone softened. “But you’re okay now, right?”

You took a sip from your glass before answering. There was a pause—brief, but thick enough for everyone to notice. You set the glass back down carefully, then smiled.

“Yeah. My days are about as peaceful as they can be.”

Maria nodded, still watching you. “If you ever want to change jobs, just know you can. That’s always an option.”

Joel looked down at his plate then, his fingers resting against the fork but unmoving. Something about the offer scratched at him.

Tommy, sensing the shift, jumped in lightly. “It’s just a thought. Personally, I think you’re great where you are.”

Joel lifted his eyes toward you then, just in time to catch your moment of hesitation. It was brief. Still, he saw it.

“She’s fine,” he said, his voice level but faintly defensive. “I’m not a monster.”

Maria waved him off with a gentle smile. “It’s not about that, Joel. No one thinks that. It’s just important to make space for choice. Because, Snow, I was thinking—maybe there’s something else you’d rather be doing. Something you haven’t told us. Now that you’re feeling stronger, it’s worth asking.”

The table went quiet for a moment. You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes widened slightly, a reflex, and your eyebrows lifted in thought.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” you said. A faint smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as your hand moved, almost unconsciously, to the delicate heart charm resting against your collarbone. You touched it with the tips of your fingers. “But I’ve always liked children.”

Across the table, Joel shifted in his chair. He leaned forward, resting both elbows on the wood and clasping his hands together. His gaze remained fixed on you.

“Really?” Tommy asked.

You nodded, still touching the charm.

“There’s always a need for volunteers at the school,” Maria offered gently. “Would you be interested in something like that? Teaching, I mean?”

Your smile wavered. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d need time to prepare. I mean, I don’t really know how to teach anything. I was under twelve when everything changed, so... I guess I missed most of what school used to be.” You laughed softly, almost apologetically. “I do like kids. I just don’t know if I’d be any good with them, not in that way.”

Tommy leaned back slightly. “Benji really likes you.”

Your head tilted, “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “You can always tell with kids.”

“They’re transparent,” Maria added, nodding. “That’s the thing about them. You always know where you stand.”

You smiled then, brighter, a flicker of genuine happiness. “Yeah. They are. They're... really honest. Sophie is always very—”

You stopped. The brightness faded just enough to leave your features bare. The air seemed to catch in your throat. You looked down.

“I’m sorry,” you said, adjusting slightly in your seat. You cleared your throat, like that might undo the moment. “Sophie, my kid—she was really honest. Transparent, too. All the time.”

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He was watching you now with a quiet intensity, and though he said nothing yet, he caught the way your eyes dropped, your fingers retreating from the charm at your chest.

Tommy and Maria didn’t speak for a beat. The silence wasn’t awkward, just careful.

Tommy smiled eventually, voice warm. “Sophie’s a beautiful name.”

You looked up again, the gratitude in your eyes unmistakable. Your expression shifted, something between relief and sorrow, and you nodded.

“It is,” you said quietly. And then, after a breath, “I’m sorry. This is... the first time I’ve said her name out loud.” You looked down at your plate. “I—I—”

“You’re pretty transparent,” Joel said, and his voice surprised him.

You looked at him, eyes wide again, but different now. He didn’t falter.

“And honest, too,” he added. “I’ve seen that. It’s nice that Sophie brought that out in you.”

You held his gaze. There was nothing performative in your silence. Then you smiled.

Joel didn’t look toward Tommy or Maria. He didn’t need to.

You nodded slowly. “Thank you,” you said. “It’s nice to think that.”

“That’s right,” Joel murmured, reaching for his glass again. He took a sip and looked down at his plate.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, your voice quieter now. Joel glanced up at you, expecting the apology to be aimed at him, but you were looking at Tommy and Maria instead. “I didn’t mean to make dinner uncomfortable—”

“Oh, please,” Maria interrupted, shaking her head. “Don’t say that. You felt safe enough to say her name. That’s not something to apologize for. That’s a gift.”

You nodded. Joel could tell you were trying to end the moment there.

But then your voice returned, softer now. “Thank you. I just think about her all the time. About how much she would’ve liked it here.” You smiled faintly. “I mean, I’m still freaking out over everything. She would've been ten times worse.”

Tommy chuckled. “Anything in particular?”

“Movies,” you said instantly, and your face changed. Something brighter flickered through you. “I love movies. Always have. When I was a kid, I’d spend whole summers watching them on this tiny little TV with built-in VHS. And with Sophie, I used to tell her about them. She didn’t get to see many, but every night I’d describe one to her like a bedtime story.”

Maria’s eyes softened. “What kind did she like?”

You let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Romantic comedies. Mostly because they were so bizarre to her. The idea that the worst thing that could happen to you was getting your heart broken by some guy? She thought it was hilarious.”

Joel noticed the way your mouth curved to the side, revealing the smallest dimple in your cheek.

“I remember once I told her the plot of Bridget Jones’s Diary. Sophie thought it was absurd. She was like, ‘That’s her biggest problem? Who to kiss?’ Meanwhile, we were running from infected. She said the people in those movies were weak and lame.”

Tommy laughed, shaking his head. “She wasn’t wrong. Unfair.”

“Totally unfair,” you agreed, your tone playful. You rolled your eyes dramatically and looked down for a moment, like you were laughing at your past self.

Joel sat very still.

There was something in the way you were telling the story, open, light, even funny, but with something fragile just beneath it. Like you were holding the memory in your hands, carefully, so it wouldn’t crack.

“How old was she?” Joel asked before he could stop himself.

The question caught the air between you like a thread pulled too tight. His own voice sounded strange to him.

He regretted it instantly.

But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t shrink.

“Twelve,” you said.

Joel didn’t say anything. He met your eyes, and something in his chest gave a quiet, private ache.

You held his gaze, your expression unreadable. Not guarded, just... steady.

Then Maria spoke again, gently breaking the quiet.

“I’m sure we’ve got some rom-coms tucked away, if you ever feel like watching one.”

Your head turned to her, and the smile that returned to your face was genuine. “Really?”

Tommy started listing the titles they’d collected over the years—things they'd found in the ruins of forgotten living rooms, in cardboard boxes in basements, in abandoned stores where dust clung to every inch of hope. The rom-coms had been surprisingly easy to find. People used to keep them everywhere.

Joel didn’t say another word.

He sat back, the conversation moving on around him, but his mind stayed anchored to a single name.

Sophie. Twelve years old. Gone.

And yet, somehow, still part of the way your voice softened.

When dinner ended, Joel stood without thinking. He hadn’t said much—he realized that now, in hindsight—but it didn’t feel strange. Words hadn’t felt necessary.

Tommy said something as Joel moved toward the door. Something friendly, about the patrol schedule or maybe the new fencing around the east perimeter. Joel nodded automatically, barely absorbing the words. His attention had drifted elsewhere.

You were already at the door, arms wrapped around Maria in a warm, familiar hug. Then you stepped back and smiled at Tommy, and he smiled at you, and the exchange—though simple—was soft in a way that made Joel look down at his hands.

He followed your lead, hugging Tommy, murmuring something kind in Maria’s direction. It was automatic, habitual.

By the time he stepped outside, you were already moving. You descended the porch steps, boots touching the ground with quiet rhythm, and walked ahead, your silhouette folding easily into the stillness of the air.

The night was beautiful. Mild, hushed, the air washed clean by an earlier rain that left everything smelling of cedar and damp earth.

Joel started walking too.

Not after you. That wasn’t the idea.

His house was in the same direction. That was all.

Still, as your shape shifted through the soft shadows in front of him, he found himself watching. Not intentionally. Just… observing. The swing of your arms. The way your hair moved when a breeze caught it. The way your head tilted slightly, as if you were listening to something he couldn’t hear.

He felt curious.

The word landed inside him like something unfamiliar, or maybe something long-forgotten. And he wondered... strangely, stupidly, if curiosity made him more like you. If that was something you felt all the time. If that’s why you spoke the way you did, asked the questions you asked, looked at the world like it still held mystery.

Then you stopped. Just like that. No warning.

He stopped too, instinctively.

You turned around, arms crossing over your chest as your eyes met his. Your expression was neutral.

“Are you following me?”

Joel blinked.

“No,” he said quickly, too quickly. “My house is this way. I figured you knew that, since you’ve already been there—against my will, I might add.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Oh. Right.”

There was a beat of quiet. Then, with one eyebrow raised, you asked, “But did you have to walk behind me like that?”

The corner of Joel’s mouth twitched. “What was I supposed to do? Jog ahead and pass you like we’re racing?”

You didn’t laugh, but your eyes flickered.

“Why? Would you like that?”

Joel let out a sharp breath that sounded vaguely like a laugh, more out of disbelief than amusement. He shook his head once, almost imperceptibly, then turned and kept walking, brushing past you without looking back.

“I think we’re done with all this nonsense of yours,” he said, his tone flat. “Will you leave me alone now?”

He could hear your boots scraping against the ground, you followed him. Of course. Not ready to drop it. You picked up your pace until you were walking beside him again.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I beat you,” he muttered, eyes forward.

“You beat me? At what?”

Joel exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for too long. “You said you’d leave me alone if I beat you. And I did.”

You laughed. “You didn’t beat me at anything, Tommy came in just as I was about to—”

“What?” He glanced sideways at you, eyes narrowing, though he didn’t stop walking. “Beat me? You weren’t going to succeed.”

You smirked. “I was being kind to you, Joel. I could’ve gone hard if I wanted.”

Joel let out a sound, something between a scoff and a low chuckle, shaking his head.

Sure. You, kind. That was the story you were sticking to.

He didn’t say anything. Just months ago you’d been barely able to walk. A knife wound under your ribs, barely stitched together, and a body that refused to bend or stretch without complaint. And him... he was easily twice your weight and all of it muscle and scar tissue. If this was a joke, it was a good one.

“Well,” he said eventually, “I was being pretty gentle too. Wasn’t exactly trying.”

“Why?” you asked, cutting in quickly.

His eyes flicked toward your house, which was coming into view just a block ahead.

“Don’t tell me it’s because of my accident,” you said.

He didn’t respond, but the silence between you sharpened.

“I don’t need your pity,” you said quietly as you approached your street. Then, abruptly, you stopped walking.

Joel took a few more steps before realizing, then turned to face you.

“Seriously,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward your porch. “Don’t you have anything else to do besides follow me around and pick fights? Go home. Rest. You’ve done enough for one day.”

You tilted your head, the smallest curve of a smile forming on your lips.

“Don’t play dumb,” you said, stepping toward him, the distance between you shrinking.

He furrowed his brow. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I know you enjoyed this,” you said, voice softer but no less certain. “You had fun today.”

Joel stared at you like you’d said something entirely out of touch with reality. 'Cause you did.

“You laughed,” you said, your voice almost playful. “More than once, actually. It’s obvious you find something funny about all this—fighting and pinning me down. Am I wrong?”

The way you said it—light, teasing, like it didn’t matter at all—made something in Joel itch to start another argument.

“There’s nothing funny about it,” he said, his jaw tight. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “It’s what people do to survive. What’s so damn amusing about that?”

You didn’t answer right away. He saw the pause in your face, the moment you looked off to the side, maybe trying to find the right language for something that didn’t quite fit into words.

“Nothing about surviving is fun to me,” you said, your voice quieter now, but still clear. “But there’s something… I don’t know. There’s a kind of satisfaction in realizing you’re strong. That you can hold it, use it, control it. Especially when everything else feels impossible to control.”

Joel exhaled through his nose and looked away, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he was still standing here listening to this.

“You get all poetic and shit,” he muttered. “But you’re not convincing me.”

He turned and began walking again, putting space between you without ceremony. Today, for some reason, you seemed harder to tolerate than usual. Maybe it was the look in your eye when you said things like that—like you wanted him to unravel everything he spent years refusing to look at. And sure, he understood the point: control, strength, power. All those big abstract things. But he had lived long enough to know they were just words, sometimes.

He’d used force his entire life. And though he never liked admitting it, there had been a time when it came easy—when his body knew exactly what to do and didn’t hesitate. When each punch took something out of him, sure, but also put something back in. A brief quiet. An emptiness, even, that felt better than rage. But that was before.

You caught up to him, your steps quicker now, passing him with ease as your house came into view.

“Okay, but just so we’re clear—you didn’t win,” you said, glancing back at him with a smirk. “No matter how badly you want to believe that, cowboy.”

Joel stopped walking. Something about the way you said it, the way you tossed it over your shoulder like a challenge, made him freeze.

You were already climbing the steps to your porch. He watched the sway of your hips, the certainty in your walk. And then—

“Hey,” he called out. His voice came out louder than expected, sharp in the quiet street.

You stopped instantly and looked back at him, one hand on the railing. The look on your face was unreadable.

Joel pivoted sharply and moved toward you, his steps clipped and purposeful, each one heavier than the last. He climbed the porch stairs, and you took a small step back.

He didn’t stop until you were nearly pressed against the wall, your shoulders brushing the wood. His chest rose and fell with restraint.

“Open the damn door,” he said, his voice tight, almost too loud.

You blinked at him, confused. “What?”

He gestured toward the door behind you. He was practically radiating frustration now.

“Open it. You want to do this? Fine. Let’s do it. Right now.”

You stared at him for a second too long. Joel could feel his irritation gathering at the back of his neck, crawling into his jaw. But then you tilted your head slightly, and your mouth curled into something that looked dangerously close to a smirk.

He hated that look.

Just as he opened his mouth to snap again, you cut in with faux sincerity: “Wow, Joel. I’m… flattered. But I don’t think this is the time—”

“Oh, shut up,” he muttered, practically groaning the words. His face twisted into something caught between disbelief and pure exhaustion.

You laughed quietly, then gave a small nod. You stepped aside, brushing against his arm, and turned the doorknob.

But Joel didn’t wait. He crossed the threshold before you could, brushing past like he couldn’t stand being outside one second longer.

He was done—done with the quips and the constant back-and-forth. The way you seemed to enjoy needling him, like every interaction was just another chance to poke at his patience and see what came loose. And yet, there were moments where you were soft-spoken and startlingly sincere. Where your eyes stopped dancing and looked at him with that... damn look. That contrast, that unpredictability, it drove him mad.

He didn’t understand you. And that might’ve been the most irritating thing of all.

When Joel stepped inside, he walked into the living room and stopped abruptly, his boots pausing on the rug like they’d landed somewhere unfamiliar, even though it wasn’t. Not entirely.

He scanned the space—his eyes moving across the room, over the furniture, toward the corners. The last time he’d been here, the place had been empty. Just walls, half-painted. A mattress leaning against a wall. Tools scattered near the back door. That had been weeks ago, before you'd moved in. Before the place had turned into yours.

He remembered working on the cabinets in your kitchen, running his fingers over the fresh grain of the wood, smoothing it down until it felt good enough. He’d spent a full day polishing the doors in your bedroom and bathroom, fixing hinges that didn’t align properly. He wasn't going to tell you about it.

Now, the room looked like someone lived in it—really lived in it. There were clothes draped over the arm of the couch, a sweatshirt with one sleeve nearly touching the floor. A mug sat on the coffee table, the ring of dried tea barely visible from where he stood. On the side table: an unlit candle, a closed paperback with a bookmark jutting out crookedly, like you'd walked away mid-paragraph. And the air carried something —something that was distinctly you. Not perfume, not any of the herbal scents you brought home from the greenhouse. Just your home.

“Would you like something to drink?” you asked as you walked around the couch, your voice soft, a kind of hospitality that made him uncomfortable.

He frowned, his body stiff. “No. Can we just get this over with?”

You laughed under your breath. “Sure.”

You didn’t move right away. You just looked at him. There was no aggression in your expression, but the intensity was worse. You watched him like you were trying to figure something out. And he hated that. Hated the way your gaze landed on him and stayed.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You sighed, not dramatically, just tired. Then you started walking toward him, your steps easy, measured. Joel’s shoulders tensed as you closed the space between you. Instinct made him shift back a little.

“Okay,” you said, shrugging. “You go first. Like before.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward.

His movements were sharp at the start, measured, like he was solving a problem in real time. His hands came up—careful, open. He watched how you adjusted: the slight movement of your feet, the line of your shoulders, the angle of your hips as you leaned to the side and dodged.

He was analyzing you, trying to anticipate the next second before it happened.

So, the first move came from Joel—a firm hand, angled toward your shoulder, an attempt to push you back and gauge your footing. It was measured, controlled, a test more than a threat. But you caught his wrist midair, your fingers curling around bone and tendon, and with a swift pivot of your hips you tried to twist his arm behind him.

He didn’t let you.

With barely a shift in expression, he anchored himself lower, grounding his weight like a reflex. Then, in one smooth, practiced motion, he turned, used his hip as leverage, and sent you flying backward onto the couch.

You landed with a soft thud, your spine bouncing slightly against the cushions. A quiet laugh slipped out of you—quick, breathy, involuntary. Not mockery. Not quite amusement either.

You aimed a kick toward him from where you lay, a low sweep meant to startle or provoke. Joel stepped easily out of its path. Your smile, small and visible just for a moment, told him everything he needed to know: this wasn’t sparring anymore.

You launched yourself forward, your whole body pushing into him with sudden momentum. Your hands met his chest with a shove, driving him backward—once, then again—toward the coffee table. Joel’s boots scraped against the rug. He adjusted, recalibrated, eyes locked on yours. You hooked your leg behind his knee, tried to tip him, take him down.

He caught you mid-motion.

His arms closed around you, arms that felt like steel wrapped in something deceptively human. You could barely breathe. For a beat, you were suspended there—weightless in his grasp—and then he let you fall.

The floor met you hard. Your back hit the rug, air punched from your lungs in a quick gasp. He hadn’t thrown you with cruelty, but there was nothing soft in it either.

Joel knelt above you, one arm braced on either side of your ribcage, his body practically vibrating with effort. His face hovered close, unreadable but not distant.

“Did that hurt?” he asked. His voice was flat.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, jaw clenched. The burn across your back was fading already, replaced by something sharper, something electric. In one swift motion, you twisted your hips and drove your weight upward, catching him off balance. He tipped sideways with a grunt, landing against the floor.

And then you were up again—standing, poised, heart drumming in your ears.

Across from you, Joel rose too, with a grunt. His movements quicker now. Tension in his shoulders. His eyes alert.

The second round was messier.

You met in the middle of the room with force, your bodies colliding as if trying to prove something to yourselves rather than each other. Every movement felt sharper now, every breath louder. Joel caught you first, backed you up against the wall by the fireplace, one hand planted firmly on your shoulder, the other gripping your wrist tight. His forearm pressed against your chest, pinning you just enough to provoke a reaction.

You gave him one.

A hard jab of your knee to his side—angled just enough to throw him off. His grip slipped. You shoved him, palms flat against his chest, and he staggered back, nearly lost his balance. His heel clipped the side table and sent it lurching, books and a candle crashing to the ground.

But he didn’t fall.

He righted himself, eyes locked on yours, face flushed, jaw tight. There was something fierce and unsaid behind the way he moved now, something past irritation, past play.

He lunged again, his hands finding your waist this time, lifting you clean off the floor like it cost him nothing. You weren’t prepared for it. You beat your fists against his back as he carried you across the room, ignoring the hits, setting you down roughly on the floor near the armchair.

Your bodies tangled again, your elbow against his chest, your foot hooked behind his knee, trying to trap, to flip. You fought dirty but Joel was solid, grounded. More than you could match. He slipped free of the hold and rolled to the side, then caught you again before you could get to your knees.

His left arm curled around the back of your neck, firm enough to hold you in place. Your torso twisted against his, your breath catching as your spine arched, trying to create space between your body and his.

“You’re holding back,” you whispered, your voice rough from the effort.

Joel didn’t reply. His jaw tensed. His arm didn’t loosen.

You went still for a beat—your head pressed to the carpet, one knee bent beneath you, the other leg outstretched. Beneath him, your muscles ached with resistance, but you didn’t move. It wasn’t surrender. It was calculation.

Because seconds later, you twisted again, harder this time, using the floor, your hips, your momentum. And Joel had to shift with you, adjusting his grip, holding you down with more certainty.

Joel felt the shift in your body before he fully registered it; how the tension in your muscles softened just enough beneath him. Not surrender. Nothing that definitive. Maybe a pause.

His forearm remained braced under your neck, steady and measured. It wasn’t meant to hurt, just to hold. Your faces were so close that your breath mixed with his, hot and uneven in the narrow space between. He could feel the rise and fall of your chest. Hear it. And for a second, he frowned, unsure what to do with the closeness, unsure why it felt like something he hadn’t prepared for.

But before he could react, you moved.

Your legs snapped around his waist, and with a sharp twist of your hips, you flipped him. It happened so fast it startled him; not the force of it, but the precision. His back hit the carpet with a muffled thud, and a grunt escaped him, less from pain than sheer disbelief. His arms went instinctively to brace himself, but it was already too late.

You had him.

Your hands closed around his wrists and pushed them to the floor above his shoulders, pinning him with confidence, not strength. You straddled his torso, knees planted on either side, anchoring yourself with perfect balance. It wasn’t aggression. It was control. And worse: it was calm.

He tested your grip, pulling at his arms just to see how far you’d let him go. You didn’t budge. Your grip held firm, fingers tightening in response. You didn’t gloat. You didn’t grin. Your face had gone quiet, intent, almost studious. Your eyes scanned his like you were watching something inside him move.

Joel stared back, expression hard, unmoved. That was his default: blankness under pressure. But inside, something caved. He was impressed. Admittedly. Unwilling to say it out loud. But it was there.

You shifted your weight a little, subtly lowering your upper body toward his, enough to narrow the space again. Your hands were still locked around his wrists. Your forearms strained. But your face—your eyes—seemed to be reading him like a puzzle you were getting closer to solving.

And then he felt it.

The change was small. Barely there. A faint pressure from your knees against his ribs. The slight turn of your hips, not enough to throw him, just enough to unnerve. Just enough to let him know that whatever this was it wasn’t finished.

Joel twisted his leg, aiming to catch yours and throw you off balance. But you read it before it happened. Without hesitation, you released one of his wrists and reached for his face, pressing your palm to his cheek and shoving his head sideways, pinning him harder against the floor. Your other forearm slid across his neck.

He grunted, his breath catching in the space between effort and disbelief.

“Is that all you’ve got, Miller?” you asked, panting slightly, voice frayed from exertion but still unmistakably amused.

Joel felt his teeth press together, not from anger. It was something closer to provocation. Your words didn’t come laced with arrogance, but with heat. A challenge. And it worked. Not just physically. Mentally. You were inside the fight, and inside his head, and that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

He shifted under you again, muscles contracting as he tried to use the momentum of his torso to knock you off. You responded immediately, adjusting your weight, closing your legs around his middle, anchoring yourself deeper. You moved with precision, resisting every attempt he made to gain leverage.

Joel let his head drop against the floor, exhaling hard through his nose. Not giving up. Just calculating. Resetting.

“You’re not staying up there all night,” he growled, voice low and tight.

You leaned down slowly. Your hair spilled across his face, brushing his temple.

“I can try,” you whispered.

He felt your breath skim his skin. Warm. Barely there. And something sharp lit up in his spine. Not pain. Not entirely desire either. Something deeper, lodged between the physical and something else.

Joel closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Not in surrender. In preparation.

You were winning. You knew it. And still—he let you believe it.

He softened just a little. Let the fight drain from his arms. Let his body settle into the floor. It wasn’t defeat. It was strategy. He shifted his weight, exhaled loudly through his nose, let out a frustrated snort that sounded convincing enough. He angled his gaze to the side like maybe he was checking out of this.

You adjusted. Not fully, not foolishly, but enough. You lifted your body slightly, changed the grip on his wrists. A tiny recalibration. Subtle. A misstep.

Joel waited. One heartbeat. Two.

And then he moved.

Clean, practiced, inevitable. His arm snapped free, hips twisting as he planted one boot against the ground. He grabbed your waist with both hands before you could retreat. Your eyes widened, he felt it in the shift of your weight, but it was too late.

He had you.

With a sharp twist of his torso, Joel flipped you beneath him. Your back hit the carpet hard, the impact blooming across your shoulder blades. Before you could react, he was already on you—one knee wedged between your legs, anchoring you in place. His arm slid under your neck again while his other hand kept your wrist pinned above your head, fingers tight around your pulse.

You exhaled sharply, chest rising in uneven gasps. You tried to shift, to push upward with your core, but he pressed you back down. He was in control again. The tide had turned, and he wanted you to feel it.

Your eyes locked with his, the heat between you immediate and impossible to ignore. There was frustration there—yes—but also something wilder.

“You were letting me win,” you said, voice tight with effort, your breath threading through clenched teeth.

“Maybe,” he replied, unfazed.

“And now?”

Joel leaned down, close enough for you to feel the heat of his breath against your cheek. His voice was quiet, nearly lost in the hum of your shared breathing.

“Now I have you.”

You twisted beneath him again, instinctively, as if your body refused to accept the words. But his weight shifted subtly, his thigh pressing in. He knew how to keep someone still. Knew the angles, the pressure points, the silent language of resistance. You felt it in every inch of him: the calculation, the restraint, the knowledge of exactly how to hold you without crossing a line.

Your breath stuttered in your chest. His, too. The rhythm of your exhales mingled in the quiet room, ragged and metered. The lamplight softened everything it touched, gold at the edges, and the night outside pressed gently against the windows, waiting for none of it.

“You’re heavy,” you muttered, panting.

Joel didn’t respond. He just looked at you, eyes locked on yours.

And still, he didn’t move.

You could feel every part of him. The press of his thigh. The tension in his grip. The way his body curved just slightly above yours, not crushing, not hovering—just there. Held at that thin, dangerous line where dominance turned into something unspoken.

He released your wrist slowly, letting your arm fall beside your head. But he didn’t shift away.

Not yet.

He remained above you, breathing hard, chest rising and falling against yours. Your gazes never broke. Not when his fingers loosened. Not when the fight paused.

You kept looking at him like you were daring him to try again.

Eventually, Joel sat up. He planted his palms flat on the carpet, pushed himself to his knees, and rose, his body creaking in quiet protest. He was older, yes, but intact. He glanced down at you. You were still on the floor, your chest rising in fast, measured bursts under your fitted T-shirt, jaw clenched like you refused to give him even the satisfaction of breath.

He didn’t say anything. Just reached forward and grabbed the collar of your shirt, his hand rough as he tugged you upright with a single, ungraceful pull.

But you didn’t let him finish the motion. You growled—a low, primal sound—and shoved him hard in the chest with both hands. Joel stumbled back, barely catching his footing before you launched forward.

You collided in the middle of the room, bodies slamming together like something inside had finally snapped. It wasn’t a fight anymore. Not exactly. It was pressure meeting pressure. Frustration meeting friction.

Joel tried to get a grip on your arms, but you twisted, lowered your stance, slid beneath his hold. You were quick. Too quick. You collided again, arms locking, torsos pressing, breath catching. The air between you was gone, replaced by heat, skin, movement. There was no room for hesitation now.

Joel caught you from behind—finally, solidly. His arm locked across your chest, pulling you back against him. His other hand wrapped around your wrist, anchoring it tight. You twisted instinctively, searching for leverage, but he adjusted, pressed his chest against your back, held you flush to him.

Your body bristled. You gritted your teeth, let out a noise between frustration and fire. You lifted both legs, planted your feet against the wall in front of you, using it like a springboard. Joel felt the tension ripple through your body a second before you kicked back.

The impact sent both of you stumbling backward. His boots scraped the floor, his center shifting—but he didn’t let go. Not even close. His grip stayed firm, like you weighed nothing, like you belonged there.

“You’re not getting off that easy,” he murmured, his voice brushing your ear. His tone was low, taut, almost tired. “You’ve been riding my nerves all day. I’m not about to let you go now.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

You writhed instead—elbowing, pushing, testing his hold in every direction. Every breath was a clash of bodies, your heart pounding in rhythm with his. Then, in one sharp motion, you drove your right elbow into his ribs. He grunted, the breath catching in his throat. It hit hard. Not hard enough.

In response, Joel shoved you against the nearest wall, his arm still wrapped across your chest, the full weight of him pinning you from behind. His breath was hot on your neck now; heavy, ragged. You could feel the way his chest moved with each inhale, pressed tight against your back.

Joel let go of your wrist, only to slide his hand into your hair, finding the base of your skull with practiced certainty. His fingers curled tight, and he pulled—firm, controlled, a line of tension drawn through your spine. You arched in response, instinctively, your throat exposed, lips parting with a soft exhale. The movement wasn’t violent. But it was unmistakable.

It was a message.

You tried to twist free, but he had you locked between his chest and the wall—one arm looped tight across your middle, anchoring you in place. It was a precarious hold; if either of you shifted too far, the moment would fracture. But right now, Joel had you.

He could feel your pulse under your skin, thudding like a warning. The space where your bodies touched radiated warmth, unbearable and magnetic. He tightened his grip, not to hurt, just to remind you—he’d taken back control. You had lost ground. And you knew it.

And then... you laughed.

Barely more than a breath. A soft sound, but sharp enough to break through the haze. Joel’s brow furrowed instinctively. He tilted his head down, tugged at your hair to shift your face toward his line of sight, to see what this was. What the hell you were thinking.

You were smiling.

Not a smirk. Not sarcastic. It was quiet, honest—like you were exactly where you wanted to be, like this tension, this stalemate, was some kind of private victory. Not over him. Just… for you.

Joel felt something tighten in his chest, deep and unplaceable. Something not entirely rational.

What the fuck is she doing? The thought came quickly, then repeated, distorted, like a static hum in the back of his mind.

The uncertainty unsettled him more than anything you'd done physically.

And then you moved.

Sharp. Certain. Not hesitation—decision.

You turned your head just enough. Lifted your face.

Found his mouth with yours.

The kiss landed hard. Not hesitant, not curious. It was purposeful, physical, urgent, full. Your lips crashed into his with the same force you used to fight him, teeth grazing, breath tangling, intention spilling out unchecked.

And Joel—froze.

For two full seconds, maybe three, he didn’t move. He didn’t respond. His body felt suspended, like his nerves had short-circuited and left him standing there, chest to back, absorbing the weight of your mouth, the taste of your breath. He couldn’t tell if he was resisting or simply stunned.

And then—something gave.

He let go.

All at once.

His hands left your body, dropping from your back, your neck, as if contact burned. He stepped backward, a full pace, the space between you reappearing in a sudden gust. His brow was drawn, eyes unreadable, hands hovering uselessly at his sides.

He looked at you, lips parted like there was something forming behind them—but no words came.

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was filled.

You didn’t speak either.

You just stood there, breathing each other’s air from a distance.

You turned fast, your back hitting the wall with a soft thud as you faced him again. It was instinct, mostly. Like you needed a barrier behind you, something solid to keep from unraveling. Your gaze met his as if daring him to move, to try again.

But Joel didn’t move.

He stood completely still, not even breathing, it seemed. His eyes were on you, unreadable, like he wasn’t in his own body anymore but watching from somewhere just outside of it. You saw the tension in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw. And then—he saw it too.

You braced.

And then you lunged.

But Joel moved faster this time. Faster than before. With nothing left of hesitation. His hands caught your shoulders and slammed you back against the wall with enough force to steal the air from your lungs. A rough sound escaped you—part shock, part surrender—but it was swallowed by the way his body moved in close, claiming space you had no time to defend.

You struggled again—your legs shifting, your arms jerking. But he adjusted. His hands dropped, locking your wrists against the wall beside your head. His leg slid forward, pressing firmly between your thighs, anchoring you with terrifying precision.

And then he looked at you.

Really looked.

Your cheeks flushed, chest rising unevenly, eyes locked on his.

You should’ve let go. That would’ve been the logical thing. The safe thing. But you didn’t.

Your body stilled, except for your breath. Your eyes held his, and Joel felt it cresting between you like a wave he could no longer stand against. He should’ve stopped. But he didn’t want to.

He leaned in.

And then his mouth was on yours.

No preamble. No question. Just contact. Firm, fast, overwhelming. The kind of kiss meant to silence. And it did. Your moans flattened against his lips, swallowed whole. He braced for resistance—prepared for you to shove him back, to spit something bitter into the space between you.

But instead—you opened. Your mouth tilted, your head angled, and you kissed him back. Fiercely.

His leg pressed harder between yours and the sound that escaped you—low, helpless, involuntary—nearly undid him.

Everything else fell away.

Joel released your wrists, and your hands flew to his hair, fingers digging in like you needed something to hold onto. He matched your urgency, one hand grabbing at your waist, dragging your hips tighter against him, the other finding your hair and pulling hard enough to make you gasp. You didn’t pull away.

You moaned again.

And then he felt your tongue, bold and certain, slipping into his mouth like a dare. He welcomed it without hesitation, kissing you harder, deeper, everything in him crashing forward like a dam finally split open.

You moved your hips against him, a slow grind that answered every inch of pressure he was giving, and then—this time—it was Joel who moaned. The sound came from deep in his chest, unfiltered, raw. His body pressed you harder against the wall, like he needed you closer than physics would allow.

And still—it wasn’t enough.

Something in him broke.

Joel reached for the waistband of your jeans, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric, anchoring there as he dragged you closer. You pulled away from his mouth with a sound that was slick and breathless. Your chest rose sharply against his, and then his lips were at your neck—open, hungry. The sound that escaped you was half gasp, half surrender.

He didn’t know what he was doing. Not really. Not in a way he could name. His body moved faster than his mind, his instincts taking over in jagged flashes. He pressed himself against you like it would somehow steady the storm inside him. His fingers found the button of your jeans and flicked it open. Thoughtlessly. Desperately.

Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was the ache still humming in his ribs, the echo of your elbow, the bruises from the floor. Maybe you’d knocked something loose in him—something he hadn’t used in years.

He didn’t pause.

His hand slid under your jeans, past the waistband of your underwear, until he reached skin—soft, hot, impossibly tender. He swore under his breath, just barely. Something about the heat of you, the way your body yielded to his touch, sent a shock straight through him.

And then he found it. That first wet trace of you.

Joel froze, lips still against your throat.

He lifted his gaze.

Your eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils wide and shining. Your mouth hung open, breath catching with every beat of his hand. Your skin glowed with heat and tension, cheeks flushed deep pink. And your hands—your hands had found their way to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, grounding him like a lifeline.

He pushed a finger inside you.

The warmth was immediate, overwhelming. You arched slightly, pressing your head against the wall, exposing your neck. He watched the line of your throat as you tilted your chin up, heard the way your breath stuttered in your chest.

Joel should have stopped.

He told himself to. More than once. He thought it with urgency—Stop. Stop. Stop.

But he didn’t.

He added another finger, easing deeper, and you responded instantly. Your hips shifted, rolling toward his palm. His thumb brushed over your clit, and you gasped—one hand tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck, the other fisted in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto or else you'd fall.

Your moans were quiet but insistent. They made his head swim.

Joel couldn’t think. Not clearly. Not the way he was supposed to. It had been too long, too fucking long.

Everything in him was unraveling—recklessly, selfishly. And he knew, deep down, this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Which, somehow, only made him want it more.

Because it wasn’t allowed. Not you, not you.

And that’s exactly what made it feel like it was right.

You kissed him again, your mouth open, your breath tangled with his as you moved your hips against the rhythm of his hand. The moans you let slip found their way into his mouth, wet and uncontrolled, as his fingers worked inside you, steady, urgent, paced like something unsustainable.

Joel could feel it—how you clenched around him, how everything inside you seemed to pulse and tighten. His knuckles were slick with you, and yet all he could think about was how close you were, how impossibly warm your body felt under his hand.

You broke the kiss, gasping against his cheek, your breath hot and uneven.

“You’re a damn—” you started, but your voice caught in your throat. Your back arched. “Joel—”

Your head tilted back against the wall, mouth parted, eyes closed. Your chest rose sharply, then dropped again, a stuttering pattern. You barely touched the floor anymore.

Another thrust of his fingers and you fell apart—small, stuttering cries leaving your lips as your body shuddered against his. He felt the aftershocks inside you, spasms clutching around his hand, drawing him deeper into the heat he wasn’t sure he could survive.

And still he watched you.

Not just the way your face looked in pleasure, though that alone could undo him—but the way you held onto him after. Your hands slid shakily down his arms, fingers curling around his elbows like you needed something steady.

You stood there in silence.

The kind that arrives after something has changed.

Both of you breathing hard. Still pressed together. Still too close.

Joel slowly pulled his hand from your jeans, the wet sound between you both sudden and deafening. He looked at you, waiting for words that didn’t come.

“Joel,” you murmured, voice low. Maybe you were going to ask something. Or insult him. Maybe you were about to thank him? Maybe nothing at all.

But he didn’t wait.

He stepped back like he’d been shocked, like the heat of your skin had finally seared too deep. Then he turned and left—without warning, without explanation.

His boots were too loud on your floor. His hand on the doorknob was too fast. And when the door flung open, the night greeted him with too much softness—like it hadn’t just witnessed everything he’d done.

Warm air brushed across his face, lifting the damp curls at his temples.

He walked. Fast. Away. Away from you.

His mind was spiraling. A tight, circular storm of questions he couldn’t answer: What the fuck did I just do? Why? What is wrong with me?

His jeans were still uncomfortably tight, painfully so. He cursed under his breath, glancing once behind him to make sure no one was out on their porch, no one watching him try to disappear into the dark.

The walk home was short. But it felt endless. And when he finally got there, in the suffocating quiet of his bathroom, with water streaming down his chest and his forehead pressed to the tile, he gave in.

He wrapped his hand around himself like it was the only way to get your name out of his system.

But it wasn’t.

Because as he came—jaw clenched, eyes shut tight—it was you he saw.

You, and only you.

And later, on his bed...

Your face.

2013. Hollow Pines. Sometime after midnight.

“You fucking lied!” Joel said, voice rough and low, almost more breath than sound. His hands were pressed against the man’s chest, shoving him hard into the crumbling plaster wall. “You’re a goddamn piece of shit.”

Tess’s voice cut through the air like a match sparking against stone. “Joel, enough—stop. You’ll get us both killed.”

Suddenly, her arms were pinned by the other man, his grip tight, fingers curling like roots around her biceps. She twisted, not to get free exactly.

Joel didn’t hear her. Or maybe he did and chose not to care. His fist cracked across Declan’s face with a kind of ugly precision. The sound echoed around the decaying little house—short, brutal, like someone slamming a metal door shut.

The place they’d found was barely a structure at all anymore. Half the roof gone, windows eaten by moss and rot. But it had walls, and that was enough for shelter. Still, Joel had known that the most dangerous thing inside Hollow Pines wasn’t what waited beyond the tree line.

About thirty miles west of Boston, Hollow Pines was the kind of place people stopped talking about long before the outbreak. It hadn’t been a real town for years, just a scatter of empty homes tangled in brush and silence. Trees taller than buildings pressed close together like they were guarding secrets. You could barely see the next house until you were standing in front of it. It made the perfect place to disappear. Or to do something you couldn’t afford to be seen doing.

The job was supposed to be easy. Routine. They’d done it before. Joel could still list the steps in his head the way you memorize prayers even after you stop believing in them.

There were five of them in the group—two men, three women. One was visibly pregnant, the kind of detail you weren’t supposed to notice, let alone feel anything about. Declan and Jeremy had picked the target. Joel and Tess were just the hands that carried it out.

Declan had said it like it was nothing.

"They’re soft. They’ll cave the second they think they’re in real danger. We go in. We take what we need. We’re gone before they even think about getting brave.”

It was supposed to be clean. Functional. A transaction, not a scene.

And Joel, who had long since stopped mistaking instinct for conscience, had done exactly what was asked of him. Just like always.

With their faces covered by bandanas, they began the mission around midnight.

The cabin was two stories, built from sun-bleached wood and time. Its frame leaned ever so slightly to the left, as if the forest had been trying to reclaim it for years and the structure was finally thinking of giving in. Dry vines clung to the facade like brittle fingers, twisted and brown, while moss had crept across the base. The roof sagged under the weight of its own years, the shingles fractured in places.

A wide porch wrapped around the front, its wood creaking even in silence. On it, an old rocking chair sat tilted slightly off balance, one leg shorter than the others. It looked like someone had once used it every night and then, suddenly, not at all. A rusted shotgun hung from a nail on one of the porch columns. It was a warning, or maybe just the remnant of a person who once needed to be prepared.

The windows were boarded up from the inside, but between the slats, the edges of curtains could be seen. Yellowed, frayed, swaying just barely.

A little farther back, hidden behind tall weeds that looked like they hadn’t been cut in a decade, sat a collapsed shed. Inside, the air was thick with the metallic scent of rust and forgotten things. There were dull tools scattered along the floor, broken car parts half-covered by dirt, a bucket full of something long hardened and gray. The kind of place that told you exactly what it was: unimportant, forgotten.

They didn’t enter the house quietly. There was no care to it, no sense of restraint. Declan fired at the door hinge, the shot tearing through wood and silence alike. The sound echoed off the trees like a warning bell, and then he kicked the door in with the kind of force that said he didn’t expect anyone to fight back.

Inside, Tess and Joel moved upstairs without speaking or paying atention to the loud voices inside. They didn’t have to. Declan and Jeremy stayed below, their voices sharp and rising—commands, maybe, or threats to the group living there. The rhythm of scuffling feet and broken furniture followed them up.

Joel reached the first bedroom. The door opened with a reluctant groan. It had the feel of a child’s room, or what remained of one. Faded wallpaper, small ghost footprints in the invisible air. On the desk was a bottle half-filled with clear liquid and a rag beside it. There was a nearly empty box of .22 caliber bullets tucked beneath an overturned chair. Next to it, a notebook with a handful of childish drawings on the first pages—trees with too many leaves, a sun far too close to the earth. Toward the back, the handwriting changed: more compact, urgent.

If we come back, take the river route. Not the highway.

He folded the page down and kept moving.

The second bedroom was larger. The master, he figured. The bed wasn’t made, but the sheets were still warm with the shape of someone who’d left in a hurry. On one side, clothes had been folded neatly, like someone had been trying to keep some sense of order, even here. The nightstand held three shotgun shells, a multitool, and a bottle of antibiotics that had been opened but not yet used. He checked under the mattress and found a map—creased and worn thin at the folds. Several routes had been marked and then crossed out with heavy pencil strokes. One was circled twice.

He didn’t pause to consider where it led. He didn’t have time. Voices were still rising downstairs. For now, everything sounded under control. But Joel knew better than most how quickly that could change.

He found Tess in the last room at the end of the hall.

The door was open, the hinges barely holding. Inside, the air felt warm and faintly sweet, the remnants of a candle still burning out on the nightstand. It had melted into itself, a soft pool of wax cooling into stillness. The blankets on the bed were tangled.

“Look at this,” Tess said, not turning to face him. She was crouched on the floor in front of a wooden box with its lid swung open.

Joel stepped closer. He looked down and saw them: four grenades, clearly handmade. A revolver with a full cylinder gleaming like it had been polished recently. Two pistols, their triggers untouched. Clean bandages rolled tightly, sterile gauze still sealed. A bottle of disinfectant, a box of oxytocin, latex gloves, a nearly full bottle of isopropyl alcohol, the label starting to peel.

He reached into the box, touching everything. His fingers hovered, pressed, moved on. He recognized the preparation. The intention behind each item. It wasn’t chaos. It was care.

“She’s going to give birth soon,” Tess said. She was holding a notebook, the spine bent and several pages torn out. It had been left open on the nightstand.

Joel stepped beside her and read over her shoulder.

Week thirty-seven. Contractions tonight. Gabriel wants to go out to find food, but I told him to wait.

Week thirty-eight. Bubs boiled water and we cleared the stove. If the baby comes today, we’re ready. There’s no turning back.

Week thirty-nine. It’s starting. There’s quiet now. We heard voices near the forest. If they come in, we’ll hide everything. Robert said don’t shoot unless we have to.

Joel let the words settle in his chest like stones. He looked at Tess. She had that expression she sometimes wore when she was trying to make sense of something human.

“It seems like—” she began, but her voice was cut short by the sharp, unmistakable sound of gunfire.

One shot. Then another.

They moved fast. Instinct more than choice.

Down the stairs, boots heavy on the wood, no time to ask what they were running into.

In the living room, Declan and Jeremy had their weapons raised. Their faces blank, unthinking, the kind of blank that meant they’d already made their decisions.

Two bodies were on the floor. A man and a woman. The blood was fresh, soaking into the wood like ink spreading through paper.

Near the wall, the pregnant woman crouched, arms wrapped tightly around her stomach like she could hold the baby inside by force if she had to. Beside her stood another woman, rigid with panic, her hands out like she could shield them both.

In front of them, a man was standing with his gun still drawn, as if daring someone to make a move he could answer.

Joel’s chest was heaving. His voice came out loud, rough.

“What the hell d—”

The man raised his gun and fired.

The sound cracked through the room like lightning splitting a tree. The first bullet caught Declan in the leg, sending him staggering back—his face twisted in shock, not yet pain. Then another, but it didn't hit him.

Jeremy didn’t hesitate. It was one clean shot, and then the man dropped, suddenly weightless, as if the air had been pulled out of him and he was only skin and gravity. A shot in the head.

Everything blurred after that. Time bent in on itself.

Screams erupted—raw, panicked, human. Both women, their voices cracking under fear. Jeremy was already moving, his boots thudding against the floor, and he reached the pregnant woman first. The other woman threw herself between them, arms out, shielding her like instinct more than decision. It didn’t matter.

Jeremy grabbed her by the waist and yanked her up like she weighed nothing. She twisted in his grip, kicking, her fists connecting with his ribs. He grunted in pain, cursed, but didn’t let go. His arm tightened around her and the knife found her throat—sharp, immediate, threatening.

Tess moved toward him, yelling something Joel didn’t catch. She tried to pull Jeremy off balance, clawing at his arm. For a second, it worked—he lost focus. But then his fist landed hard against the side of her face, and she crumpled against the wall, her knees buckling. She didn’t stay down long. She pushed herself up again, blood on her lip.

Joel moved forward and hit Jeremy with everything he had. The force knocked Jeremy backwards. His body collided with the edge of the coffee table and crashed to the ground. The woman he’d been holding slipped from his grip, falling forward with a gasp. One hand flew to her throat.

Her fingers came away red. The knife had caught her, just barely, but enough. Enough to remind them that all that some things, once done, couldn’t be undone.

Violence had claimed Joel’s life long before he ever had the chance to understand what else it might have looked like. Not in a single moment, not in one decision or act, but gradually, like dust gathering in corners, like a stain that spreads until you stop noticing it’s there.

Survival had become his answer to everything. The only one that ever really worked. He hadn’t chosen it in the way people choose jobs or partners or cities to live in. It had chosen him. And after a while, he stopped resisting.

In the beginning, Tommy had followed him everywhere—through ruins and quiet towns, across fields that once held crops, through buildings that smelled like rust and rain. But lately, he had pulled back. He didn’t say much anymore, but Joel didn’t need him to. He saw it in the distance between them. The quiet judgment. The disappointment Tommy wasn’t quite ready to name out loud.

Joel didn’t blame him. There was nothing admirable in what he’d become.

Because Joel had learned to fight like a cornered animal. He tore through threats with teeth bared, fury his only compass. He didn’t flinch at the sound of a neck breaking or a bullet piercing soft flesh. He knew how to steal what he needed, how to end lives without ceremony. Mercy wasn’t something he afforded anyone, not even himself.

He’d forgotten, somewhere along the way, what it meant to be gentle. Kindness felt like a language he used to speak fluently, but now couldn’t remember more than a few scattered words of.

There wasn’t a moral framework anymore. There wasn’t room for one. You ate or you didn’t. You lived or you didn’t. And Joel, despite everything, still wanted, or needed, to live.

But he would remember her face for the rest of his life.

The way her eyes locked with his with sheer, paralyzing fear. Her mouth open in a scream that seemed to echo even after it stopped. Blood already coating the curve of her jaw, her neck almost sliced open, a hand lifted in one last, useless attempt to plead for mercy.

They left them both there. All of them. Dead and alive.

They shouldered the stolen ammunition, bags heavy against their backs, and walked out into the dark without speaking. Behind them, the house exhaled pain—shouts, cries, the quiet horror of what they'd done. Joel kept his eyes on the ground, tuned everything out. Tess’s voice rose and fell in argument with Jeremy, with Declan. Declan groaned in pain every few minutes, cursing each step like it was betrayal. The brothers barked insults at him, but Joel didn’t hear them. Not really. His head was somewhere else. Somewhere behind them.

And when they finally reached the half-collapsed house they were using as shelter, everything broke apart.

He ended it all.

And then, he didn’t say anything. He just picked up his rifle, told Tess to wait for him there and left.

There was no discussion, no plan. Just the unshakable certainty that he had to go back.

They had taken everything—guns, ammo, even the medical supplies. The women were defenseless, left behind with nothing but grief and trauma and the sound of death.

It took him over an hour to return. His legs moved like they belonged to someone else. As he crested the small hill near the house, he stopped short.

A sound carried through the trees: the thin, piercing cry of a newborn.

He froze.

His heart seemed to tighten in his chest as he approached the porch. The boards creaked beneath his boots. He stepped up, each movement cautious. The night was almos pitch black.

He stepped inside. His fingers curled tight around the gun, though a part of him already knew he wouldn’t need it. Not now.

The air inside the house was thick with the metallic scent of blood.

Four bodies. They were scattered in the living room just like before—two men, two women. Scarlett liquid under them.

The pregnant woman lay sprawled near the fireplace, her body twisted, her pants soaked through and torn in places that felt too cruel to be real. Blood pooled around her, catching the silver glow of moonlight filtering in through the broken window. Her eyes were still open. Still glassy.

Joel stood there, motionless, heart pounding beneath his ribs. The baby was still crying.

And she was lying next to the body.

The woman held the baby against her chest, her arms curled protectively around the tiny, wrinkled form. Her face was caught in a state of suspended shock, as if the sheer weight of the last hour hadn’t fully landed yet. Her lips moved rhythmically, whispering something to the newborn in a voice so faint it sounded more like breath than words.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, again and again and again, like a prayer she didn’t believe in but had nothing else to offer. “It’s okay, it’s okay…”

Joel didn’t mean to move, not really. But his boot shifted a fraction forward, pressing into the wood. A creak cracked through the silence like a warning.

Her head snapped up.

Their eyes met.

“No, no—please, no,” she said, voice catching like it had been scraped raw. Her hands clutched the baby closer, cradling it with instinct, desperation, love. She started to push herself backward, heels scrambling for traction against the blood-slick floor. Her body shuddered as she dragged herself toward the wall, leaving red smears in her wake.

Joel didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

He just stood there and watched her try to put distance between them, her expression fractured by panic. Her skin was mottled dried blood, hair stuck to her face in wet strands. The baby cried—high-pitched, piercing—and she flinched with each sound, trying to shush it.

He would remember her face for the rest of his life.

The way her eyes locked on him with a terror so raw it seemed to consume her whole. Her mouth trembling, her arms shaking. Every part of her recoiled from him like he was the monster at the end of a story.

And maybe he was.

He was.

“Please don’t do it,” she said, her voice so quiet it barely reached him. “Please don't.”

Joel stopped moving. The sound of her voice—shaky, hoarse, already worn thin by everything she'd endured—wrapped around him like a wire pulled tight.

He lifted his hands, palms facing her, fingers slightly apart. A gesture he’d learned long ago to mean I’m not a threat. But he wasn’t sure it meant anything here. Not now.

She was shaking all over. He could see it in the way her mouth trembled, her chin twitching with the effort to stay strong. Her arms curled more tightly around the baby, almost as if she was bracing herself for a final blow. Her eyes never left him, not even to blink.

Joel took off the backpack. The motion was steady, calculated, every part of him aware of her watching. He dropped it gently to the floor and nudged it toward her with the toe of his boot. Then he stepped back, retreating a few feet. A silent offering.

He thought that would be the end of it. He could turn around, walk away, and leave her with whatever small comfort that might bring.

But something rooted him to the spot for a moment longer.

He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his pocket knife. It was a practical blade—small, sharp, well-used. Without a word, he crouched, placed it on top of the backpack, and straightened again.

She didn’t say anything. She just stared at him, her whole body tense like a wire on the verge of snapping. And Joel looked at her through his covered face, like a coward.

He left.

Outside, the cold air hit his face like punishment. But it wasn’t enough.

Because the sound of the baby’s cry stayed with him, even as the house disappeared behind him. That thin, helpless wail—new to the world and already surrounded by grief.

And her face.

Her face.

He would carry the image of her forever. Eyes wide with horror. Skin raw and streaked with blood.

He would remember her face for the rest of his life.

Your face.

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