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damneddamsy · 3 months ago

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falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part x)

DECOHERENCE—Meaning disperses, and the pieces no longer make a whole.

summary: Joel's been left to deal with the wreckage of a choice before, now he lets an important decision run him over once more.

a/n: MDNI, smut, rated 18+ and It's Christmas in March! you are simply not ready for this chapter. seated? tissues? fingers at the ready? alright, let's go.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

Here’s the thing about being a pillar hermit: people leave you alone until they don’t. They let you be—until moments like these, where the whole damn town is out, where everyone is watching, where people expect you to participate in something you don’t much care for.

Joel had always been like this—off to the side, out of the way, hands tucked in his pockets while the world spun around him. He didn’t dislike Christmas. Hell, he wasn’t that much of a grouch. He could appreciate the little things: the smell of pinecones in the air, the bright ribbons and ornaments draped around a jewelled tree, the crackle of a good fire, the steaming mugs, the soft hum of carols carried by the wind. He had good Christmases once. With Sarah. And then there were twenty years of nothing but ruined memories.

But this Christmas?

Well, this great Christmas marked the birth of his miraculous little ray of hope.

Maya. She was over by the tree, bundled up in two layers of coats on Joel's insistence, the little white bunny-ear beanie on Leela's insistence, bathed in the golden glow of the twinkling string lights, big, curious eyes reflecting the light like they were seeing magic for the first time. Tommy was crouched beside her, pointing out different ones, probably spinning some grand tale about the meaning behind each that made her giggle, her tiny fists wrapped in thick mittens, reaching for the lower ornaments. Joel’s heart did that stupid and fragile twist in his chest.

She was the best thing to ever happen to him. A love so profound, so damn big, he didn’t know how to hold it all sometimes.

And this morning had been one of those times.

Joel had barely finished his coffee before she was yanking at his pant leg, a determined little thing, dragging him outside, dragging him toward that swing he and Leela had built for her birthday, right under the big old oak in their yard.

Leela had painted flowers into it, just to make it look pretty, but Joel? He had been thinking about something else entirely. The kind of things fathers do. The quiet things. The ones no one notices—the ones meant to keep her safe. He’d spent hours carving the wooden seat just right, smoothing it over, free of splinters, making sure it was perfect.

Little feet thumping against the wood floor, her whole body vibrating with barely contained energy, her curls a wild mess from sleep, she had practically screeched it, beaming up at him, eyes wide and expectant—“Swing, Da-da!”

“She’s not gonna let you breathe until you do it,” Leela noted knowingly.

He'd laughed with her as he set his cup down. He scooped Maya up with ease, pressing a smacking kiss into her belly just to hear her squeal, her laughter bubbling out, wriggling in his arms.

“Alright, birthday girl. Your wish is my command. Go, get your jacket.”

None of that safety shit mattered because once Maya climbed up on that swing and he pulled her back, the little girl in front of him—his daughter—was nothing but delight. Carefree. Head tipped back, breathless, laughing. Joel had long since forgotten this kind of joy.

He had been gentle at first, keeping his hands right there, afraid to let go, afraid she’d slip. Joel chuckled, kneeling beside her, his fingers tightening around the ropes. “Hold on tight, bug. Can't let go.”

She hummed, her nose scrunching, her mittened hands gripping tight.

At first, he was cautious. Careful. He barely pulled her back, only giving her the softest push, his hands staying by her, just in case—but Maya wasn’t having that. She rocked her body forward, letting out an impatient, “Up, Da-da! Up!”

Joel huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Bossy little menace,” he muttered under his breath, but he was already pulling her back before she could whine again.

Then, he let go. And she went soaring like those birds she loved so much.

Not too high—he’d never let her go too high—but high enough that she tipped her head back, high enough that the wind kissed her soft curls, high enough that her giggle rang out in the crisp morning air, a song he didn't want to stop hearing.

He watched how her whole face lit up like a new lightbulb, watched the way her cheeks bunched under her eyes, how her little boots kicked out with each swing, how she laughed so loud, so bright.

She was his. His heart. His whole goddamn world.

Maya tipped her head back again, her little golden giggles turning breathless. “Da-da!”

He took a deep breath in, grinning.

And then he pushed her forward again. Again, again and again.

Until all he could hear was her laughter, all he could see was her so fragile and infinite at once, all he could feel was this. This big, big thing that definitely wasn't grief.

Now, standing here, it was that same feeling. That same terrible, wonderful thing inside him—so big, so damn big, he still didn’t know how to hold it all. But maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe it was okay to just feel it.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

His gaze flicked past Maya and landed on the next best thing in his life.

Another pillar hermit, just like him, though Leela never quite knew it.

She stood with Maria, who was introducing her to some couples—faces Joel recognized but didn’t care to remember. And Leela, well… she was trying her best—her polite, careful best.

She was smiling, nodding, fielding whatever questions they threw at her, but he knew her shorthand by now. The subtle language of Leela-isms. The way she kept tapping the back of her left toe—nerves. The absent scratching at the top of her ear—overwhelmed. The way her eyes flicked to Maya every ten seconds—ready to get the hell away. She was forcing herself to be here.

She needed rescuing. And Joel was waiting with his charger, white horse at the ready.

He exhaled through his nose, pushed off the post he was leaning on, and made his way to her, feeling that all-too-familiar clench in his stomach. That pull. That ache. It happened every damn time since that night in bed heaven—like a part inside him just locked into place, a restless nerve finally settling. It was instinct now, the need to reach for her, to touch her, to keep her close.

Because this girl—this woman—had torn down every damn wall he had ever built to keep him safe. And he had never, not once, been so glad to be ruined.

And tonight? Goddamn. Tonight, that girl was trying to kill his soul.

She had listened to him. That little suggestion he had made, all casual-like, about those unholy leather cowgirl boots? The ones that gave her just enough height that she could tilt her chin up at him all playful, stubborn and cute? The ones that made those fine legs look long as hell, in the long gypsy-inspired dress, hugging the curve of her ass, the adorable swell of her thighs under her coats?

She was all his. Not in the way that meant ownership, no—Leela was too independent for that, too herself to be possessed. No, he needed her to belong. Like a home does to an owner.

He eventually flanked her side, letting his palm rest at the small of her back, and it took everything in him not to let it slide lower, not to give her a squeeze that said exactly what he was thinking.

“Howdy, darlin',” he murmured, voice dipping into something only she ever got to hear.

Leela shot him a look, and he knew—knew damn well—just how much that molasses-smooth drawl affected her. Hell, if he didn't use it on her at home, just when he wanted to get something his way. Very proud of it.

But she melted into him all the same, her slender palm pressing against his chest, a quiet reassurance, warm even through his jacket. “Hi, Joel.”

And then she rose onto the tips of her toes and pressed the softest kiss to his jaw. That? Yeah. That would undo him every time, even if he hated to flaunt.

“I was just talking to, um…” Leela glanced at the man beside her, struggling to recall his name.

“Greg,” Joel filled in, giving him a curt nod, his fingers hooking into the belt loop of his jeans. He saw the guy out on patrols, too.

The conversation went on, but Joel had stopped caring about Greg the second he noticed the shift—the way the conversation turned into something else. Looking between Leela and him, and his arm on her, and her hand on him.

And then, there it was. The thing people always noticed.

“So, how long have you two been together?” Greg asked, clearly dancing around something.

Leela glanced at Joel, as if waiting for him to answer. When he didn't, she went ahead. “A long time now. Right, Joel?”

“Over a year,” Joel fixed smoothly.

“Huh.” Greg nodded.

He smiled, though a little too amused, something Joel recognized before the man even opened his mouth. “Didn’t take you for a cradle robber, my man.”

Fucking what? The laugh that followed was casual and easy, but Joel felt Leela stiffen against him, confused more than anything. And that was what really did it. Because she didn’t get it—not in the way Greg meant it.

Joel’s gaze flicked up, controlled and unbothered, but there was something else underneath it—slow, mindful, dangerous. The kind of look that made a man rethink his next words.

Greg’s smile faltered just a little.

Joel tipped his head slightly, like he was genuinely considering the statement, then let out a low, thoughtful hum.

“That right?” His voice was calm. “Well, I guess that makes you the poor bastard dumb enough to say it to my face.”

Greg let out a short, uneasy chuckle, shifting on his feet. “Just messin’ with you—”

Joel’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure you were.”

He let the undeterred silence sit solemn between them just long enough before tilting his chin up, slipping a little smirk into his tone.

“You have a good Christmas now,” he wished well. Because he was gentleman on top of being a asshole. Or so he thought.

Then, with a gentle squeeze at Leela’s waist, he steered her away—leaving Greg standing there, watching, knowing damn well who had the last word.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

She let him, followed without protest, but once they were far enough from the crowd, she looked up at him, brows drawn together in quiet confusion. “What was that all about? And what's a cradle-robber?”

Joel sighed, ran a hand down his face. Of course, she wouldn’t understand. Leela had never been on a real date, never had anyone whispering about what was ‘appropriate’ or not when it came to love. She had spent most of her early life just surviving, just trying to make it from one day to the next. Just like him. The idea that someone might see something wrong with what they had? It wouldn’t even occur to her. Precisely why she thought he hung the damn moon on her sky.

He stopped, turning to face her fully. His hands found her waist, thumbs tracing over her jacket. “Nothin’ worth wastin’ your time on.”

She studied him for a long moment, searching his face. “But it was about you, wasn’t it?”

Joel shook his head, one hand reaching up to brush her hair behind her ear. “People like to talk. Doesn’t mean they got any sense.”

He knew her well enough by now—knew that look. Knew she wouldn’t move on until she’d made sense of it, turned it over in her mind, figured out what it meant.

He exhaled and tipped his head toward the tree where Maya was still marveling at the lights. “C’mon. Walk with me.”

Leela followed easily, slipping into his space the way she always did, like it was second nature. And maybe it was. Maybe she had never really known anything else.

They walked in step, but then, finally—softly—she said, “Just so you know, I don’t mind that you’re older.”

Joel glanced down at her, a little caught off guard. “Yeah?”

She nodded, her breath curling in the cold air. “It’s… more familiar to me.”

His brows pulled together, and she must have seen the question in his face because she clarified, “I was raised by older people. My parents, my aunties and uncles… the few people who really looked out for me? They weren’t young.” She paused, glancing up at him. “You remind me of that. Of home. I feel safe.”

Safe. She found that in him. And she wasn’t saying it the way other people might, wasn’t calling him stable or dependable or anything that felt like a backhanded compliment. She didn’t just believe the words she said, but lived them.

Joel swallowed, the muscle in his jaw working. He wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure if he should say anything.

His hands flexed at her waist, gripping her just a little tighter, just enough that she might feel it through the layers. A silent answer. I got you. I always got you.

Only then—

“There’s my best girl! C'mere, come to auntie.”

Maria’s voice sliced clean through the moment, and just like that, it was gone.

Leela turned, her expression softening instantly, instinctively. And Joel—well, he exhaled like someone had cracked open a high window. Maybe he was grateful for the interruption. Possibly he wasn’t ready for what had just started.

A few feet away, Tommy was spooning Maya up, tossing her into the air just enough to make her squeal before catching her against his chest. She let out a high-pitched giggle, kicking her feet, nose twitching from the cold, mittens clutching onto her uncle’s coat.

“Kiss-mas, unca. Kiss-mas twee,” she chirped.

Tommy grinned, bouncing her once. “Yeah? Kissmas?”

Maya giggled, cheeks puffing out more steam.

“Alright, c’mon. Kiss-mas, I'll show you kiss-mas.” Tommy made a show of pressing a dramatic, smacking kiss to her cheek, loud enough that Maya shrieked in delight, kicking her feet in his arms.

Maria was standing beside them, arms crossed. “Y’know, if you rile her up too much, her daddy is gonna be the one stuck dealing with it.”

Joel arched a brow as they approached. “Damn right I am.”

Tommy turned back to Maya, brushing the snow off her coat. “You excited, peanut? It’s your birthday and Christmas. You got double the presents.”

Maya sucked in a breath, as if she was just now realizing. As if she understood every word Tommy had told her.

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. Baby girl was ridiculous.

Leela finally spoke, leaning in, playing along. “It’s all downhill from here, sweetheart. Next year you’re getting socks.”

Maria grinned, reaching out to tug on one of her tiny boots. “Mama’s just messin’ with you. I'll make sure you entire your terrible twos with a bang.”

Joel rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright. Let’s get this birthday girl inside before she freezes.”

Tommy pressed one last kiss to Maya’s curls before plopping her down onto her feet, letting her waddle toward Maria, arms stretched high, exactly like a baby bear.

“Leela!”

Joel heard the voice before he saw her.

A familiar call over the hum of the crowd, cutting across like a bullet through a fog. A name spoken in a voice he hadn’t heard in quite some time—every muscle in his body locked up.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

He never thought he’d have that reaction to hearing her. Not Ellie. Not the kid he’d sworn to protect, the one he’d fought for, bled for, lied for. And yet, here he stood, rigid, his fingers curled into fists at his sides, his stomach pulling tight like a knot looped too thin.

Leela had turned, glancing through the parting bodies, a big grin blooming on her face. “Hi, sweetie. Over here.”

She pushed her way forward, shoulders squared with that defiant set he knew too well, wind in her short hair, face unreadable.

Joel felt himself stop breathing. It was like looking at a ghost now. A taller, older phantom. A little sharper around the edges, he realized so late. The baby fat in her face had hollowed out, and her eyes—God, her eyes—looked at him like they didn’t know him. Like she was seeing a version of him she couldn’t place.

For a moment, the world just stopped.

Then, Ellie’s gaze shifted. To the arm Joel had around Leela. To Leela, standing there with that confused tilt to her head, the one she got when she knew something was wrong but hadn’t put the pieces together yet.

Ellie’s mouth parted, like she wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start.

Joel felt his throat close up. “Ellie.”

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

Jackson’s winter wind pierced into Joel’s jacket that night, growing through the seams and biting at his skin like something flesh-eating. The sky was rife with the promise of snow, greying clouds roiling over the town. However, Jackson was still awake in its quiet way—candles flickering behind curtained windows, the faint hum of conversation drifting from the mess hall, boots crunching against frostbitten dirt.

Joel should’ve been heading home. But Ellie was waiting.

She sat hunched on the steps of her porch, hood up, arms folded tight across her chest. He knew that posture. Knew the stubborn set of her shoulders, the tension in her limbs like a wound coiled too tight. Not just stubbornness—something else. A truth held in too long, stagnant enough to choke on.

Joel slowed as he approached, hearing those vindictive words aimed at him, boots scuffing against the wood. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, letting the frigid snows settle between them.

Ellie didn’t look up. Not at first.

“So you gonna tell her already?”

Her voice wasn’t sharp. Not yet. But there was an edge to it, dangerously close to fury, quiet and simmering.

Joel’s small smile tightened. “Tell her what, kiddo?”

A breath of laughter escaped her, humourless, cold as the wind slicing through the space between them. She shook her head.

“C’mon, man. Again with the bullshit?”

Joel barely had time to exhale before she turned, looking up at him, and there it was—that look. The one that saw straight through him. The one that didn’t need words to say I know exactly what you’re doing.

“How long were you planning on keeping this from her, huh?” she said. “Were you ever gonna tell her? Or were you just gonna let her—I dunno, let her live in the dark forever, like you did to me?”

The words landed like a strike to the ribs, but Joel didn’t flinch. Just breathed slowly through his nose. What could he say when she was looking at him like that? Like she already knew every goddamn thought running through his head. Like she’d seen the exact shape of the things he’d never say aloud.

She had every right to say what she’d said. But that didn’t mean he could let it go unchallenged.

“You don't know shit about this, kid.”

Snow still clung to the edges of Joel's new boots, leaving prints on the mat, but the second he crossed the threshold of the big, white house that now smelled of birthday cake and cinnamon, it was like stepping into something softer, something that held. Because, for once, he realized—he wasn’t leaving. This was his home.

His arms were full—Maya, slack-limbed and snoring against his shoulder, her tiny fingers curled into his shirt collar even in sleep. And Leela, tucked against his side, her hand warm within his jacket pocket.

It still hadn't fully sunk in. This house—this big, white house, the one he’d stepped into so many times before—was his now. Not a place he’d visit and have to leave before the night was over. No more boots set by the door only to be laced up again with that knot in his chest. No more catching glimpses of Leela through a window, of Maya’s tiny hands pressed against the glass, tearfully watching him go.

He got to stay. He got to wake up here. With the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath his feet and the knowledge that when he kissed Leela and Maya goodbye before heading back to patrol or another morning in the barracks, it would only be until he came home again.

Joel sighed, adjusting Maya in his arms as Leela reached past him to flick on the lights and lamps as they went in, the glow catching in her dark hair. “Baby girl out cold?” she asked, laughing under her breath.

“Like a rock,” Joel murmured, pressing a kiss to Maya’s temple. “A pretty cute rock.”

They had spent the whole afternoon celebrating Maya’s first birthday in the kitchen, and the remnants of the day clung like echoes of laughter and warmth—twinkle lights looped around the large island, the fraying, browning “Happy Birthday” banner Leela had strung between the cupboard handles, slightly askew now, edges curling where the tape didn’t quite hold.

And the cake—his cake. Tommy would have a field day if knew about Joel's little baking endeavour. Wouldn't let him live it down.

The half-eaten thing sat beneath the lights, pink frosting uneven, green letters smudged where he’d tried to fix his mistakes but only made them worse because his hands had never been made for finesse. He had busted his ass working on that cake— hours. Spreading, smoothing, wiping away, cursing, and starting over. Terrible.

But Maya hadn’t cared.

She’d smacked her tiny fist right into the centre, the second he’d put it down, giggling so hard she nearly tipped over the counter where he'd safely stationed her. And Joel—Jesus, he hadn’t even been mad. Just laughed, caught up in her sweet joy, snapping blurry Polaroids while Leela tried, through her own laughter, to salvage what was left of it.

“Maya, what did you do!” Leela gasped, half-laughing, half-scolding, already reaching for a towel.

Joel just stared for a second, his hours of effort reduced to a pink, squashed mess. Maya, unfazed, lifted her frosting-covered fist and squealed, “Da-da!”

He blinked, shaking his head with a huff of laughter. “Well, hell. Guess we ain’t needin’ a knife now.”

Leela let out a breathless laugh, nudging Joel’s arm. “Go on. You worked so hard on that cake, might as well capture the moment.”

Joel sighed, reaching for the Polaroid camera, but not before swiping a little frosting onto Maya’s nose. “Smile, sugar.”

She squealed, squirming.

The flash went off just as Leela threw her head back laughing, and Maya’s dimpled grin shone through the mess, knowing already that these would be the photos he’d keep close. Now, under the glow of the twinkle lights, the cake sat there, still dented, still messy, a perfect wreck of a memory.

And whilst in the living room—his gaze flicked over, quieting—Where there had once been blackboards stacked against the walls, books scattered across the coffee table, and notebooks stuffed with numbers and theories—now, all gone. Packed away.

It was so... empty. Not a trace of Leela's endless pursuit in evidence. If it weren't for the pencil stand and textbooks of Analysis in Euclidean Space and Ordinary Differential Equations on the mantlepiece, he wouldn't have known what Leela was really capable of.

A week ago, she'd done the purge herself. She’d sat cross-legged on the carpet, on purpose, flipping through each notebook, running her fingers over the faded scrawl of her father’s handwriting, the precise lines of logic and numbers her mother had etched into the pages. She’d held them to her chest, laughing softly at the curvy doodles and the scribbled notes left for her, the little photographs tucked between the pages—her parents, young and bright-eyed, caught in moments before the world had turned hostile.

Joel had sat on the staircase behind the living room wall that night, out of sight, listening to her sniffles, hands curled around his knees. He had let her press her forehead to her knees and cry through the quiet. This wasn’t a grief he had any part in. There was no fixing this, no way to take away the ache.

So he’d waited. Ready, if she needed him. She never called for him, never reached out—but he was there. Always. Even as she boxed it up, put a pin in it and sent it off.

And in the morning, when he woke up, it was to his home strongly scented of pine. In the place of numbers, a big Christmas tree stood by the wide windows, draped in ornaments and tinsel. Elegant, decorated like something straight out of a home magazine, all soft gold and deep red, twinkling lights woven through its branches. She’d strung the garland around in perfection that screamed Leela, hung the star at the top, and—most importantly—placed a single red stocking over the fireplace for Maya.

There weren’t any gifts beneath it—things were tight, and the world wasn’t what it used to be—but that didn’t matter. They had made do. They had done their best. And, goddamn it, it had been enough.

They had made it suffice for themselves, making sure her first birthday and Christmas were perfect. And Leela—she’d done all this. After everything, after the long, aching week of packing away the past, she’d still done this.

All for him.

She’d made his favorite lamb koftas, the ones he used to effuse about to her in passing, but she remembered. An overflowing casserole, those roast potatoes that he loved, a Christmas pudding so rich he swore he’d never eat again—only to go back for seconds and leave no leftovers. She’d done all that, while he’d figured old ham and ruined birthday cake would’ve been enough.

He’d said as much, somewhere between scraping the last of the pudding off his plate and leaning back with a groan, patting his stomach.

“You say that now. But you nearly cried eating those koftas,” Leela teased.

He snorted, tipping his head back. “I’m a simple man. Meat and love. That’s all I need.”

She laughed softly, leaned forward to brush a crumb from the corner of his mouth, and said, almost like it wasn’t anything at all—“Good. ‘Cause you’ve got both.”

Joel had made sure to capture everything and didn't leave anything out.

The camcorder had been rolling all through, his hands quick to snap photos, catching every moment, every laugh, every flicker of candlelight on Leela’s face as she smiled at their daughter. He’d flicked through the Polaroids already—some of them sat on the coffee table now, beside the two unfinished glasses of mulled wine sitting where Leela’s feet had been, curled up in his lap hours ago whilst his hands worked circles over her sore calves and aching heels. He had wanted to take care of her, needed to. After all the effort she had put in today, for them.

She had sighed when he’d started, a deep, bone-weary sound, the kind that told him just how much she had pushed herself today.

“Really, you didn’t have to go all out,” Joel murmured, his thumb depressing slow, steady strokes into her arch. As if this wasn't enough, he lifted to give her instep a kiss.

Leela hummed, eyes half-lidded as she set the glass down after a little sip. “I wanted to. It's my baby's first Christmas. Our first Christmas.”

“Still,” he huffed. “Shoulda sat down, let me help you more. Or you coulda just… let it be another day. No big deal.”

She cracked a tired smile. “You did plenty, Joel.” He really hadn't, but she held his gaze for a moment, searching. Then, gently, “You think I don’t want to do this for you?”

“What, be my wifey? Take up all my jobs around here?” Then, mumbled, “Should be callin’ me wifey.”

“Take care of you,” she snickered.

Joel worked his jaw, looking away. He didn’t know how to answer that without saying too much.

Leela shifted, pulling herself up, close enough that he could feel her breath against his cheek. “I love you,” she murmured, with a surety he could never say aloud. “And I love what we have together. That’s why.”

Joel let out a breath, nodding. Then, gruffly, a bare breath, still not used to hearing it—“Yeah, I um. Love you, too.” His fingers traced one last, slow pass over her ankle before he hauled her closer, tucking her in against his chest. He stroked a few fingers down her back. “But next year, you’re sittin’ your ass down, lettin’ me do the gruntwork.”

Leela smirked against his shirt. “We’ll see.”

And for all that Joel had ever wanted with her—the longing, the ache, the terrible, quiet craving—he never thought he’d get this. Not just the heat of her body beside his. Not just her palm clutching his when the night got too dark. But, this.

A rhythm. A routine. A system that ran like a slow-beating heart. Something sacred, lived-in. Something built—not struck like lightning, not born from a single moment—but grown, cultivated like a garden in drought, fed by every mundane minute. It was ivy creeping up the big, white house's walls—imperceptible until, before you knew it, the whole damn thing was covered.

It was normal. And, god help him, he loved it. The predictability. The predictability. The soft domesticity. The way she moved in sync with him, like they'd been together a lifetime. Like muscle memory.

He’d step into the shower last, warm water would run out halfway through, but he didn’t mind—he’d stand beneath it anyway, working out the aches in his back, the stubborn stiffness in his knees, and by the time he stepped out, shaking out his soaking hair, she’d be by the sink, brushing her teeth, a towel wrapped around her shoulders, her long hair damp, clinging to the curve of her spine.

And she'd hold out his towel for him, saying something to rile him up on purpose, like, “I think Maya prefers owls more than sparrows. You know what a group of owls are called, Joel? A parliament. They're so cool.”

Sighing, he tied the towel around his waist, rifling through the drawer for a Q-tip. He'd been feeling deaf as a post with this weather. “I told you, we're not getting an owl.”

She frowned around her toothbrush. “Dull.”

“If you want a pet that bad, get one that's big and furry. Eats all the leftovers. Sticks to its business.”

She reached up to pat his damp chest, toothbrush now hanging off her lips, muffling her words. “I already have one of those. He's quite handy, too.”

That earned her a sharp smack in the ass. “Wiseass.”

And he’d put Maya to bed—pressing one last kiss to her forehead, cheeks and palms, smoothing her curls back, tucking the blankets snug around her little body—he still couldn’t stop himself from doing that, even now, the same way he did the first night he had slept in their home—while Leela went through the house, turning out the lights one by one, checking the latches, rearranging things no one else would ever notice. It was her way of making peace with the night. Her version of prayer.

And sometimes, when the noise in her head got too loud, she settled into her own space—the basement, where her tools were, her projects, the half-assembled parts she liked to fidget with, or fixing up whatever had caught her interest that night—and he’d find her.

He never rushed her. Never told her to get up and come to bed. Just sat nearby, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the soft furrow of her brows as she worked, how a single curl escaped her braid, which she'd tuck behind her ear every now and then. If she muttered to herself, he listened. If she was quiet, he let her be. If she needed help, he'd be there, rolling up his sleeves.

And when she was finally done, he’d take her hand—always her left, where her knuckles were a little more sore, where he'd thoughtfully rub her ring finger and imagine a gold band resting—and walk her upstairs, one foot in front of the other, like he was guiding out of a storm.

Up to their space. Their bedroom. Amber-lit. Warm. Enormous but quiet. Soft shadows stretching long across the wooden floor. Hers in a way that made it his, too. Her notebooks were stacked neatly on her nightstand, pages folded at the corners. The book he’d been “reading” for the past weeks was on his, barely ten pages in. A jug of water beside her lamp, which he refilled every evening, without fail.

And now, watching her in the bedroom—seated at the vanity, running a brush through her hair—it hit him, like it always did—how easy it had been to fall into this life. How damn natural it felt. He was sure he'd been waiting, failing, outliving for this his whole, long life.

And how hard—how impossibly hard—it would be to let it go when the time came. When something came knocking again.

And yes, it already did.

Now, his love wasn’t loud. It was this, soft, unremarkable intimacy. The brushing of hair. The warmth of a towel passed to him. The sense of a playful baby curled between them in the morning.

And Joel knew—deep in his gut—that he’d claw through the earth to keep it. To keep them.

“We have a life together. A family, a baby, a future. I... It ain’t that simple right now for all this.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Ellie shot back, shoving up to her feet. Her breath curled in the air, hanging between them. “You know some people’d want to hear what she’s got to say. People who could actually do something with what she’s figured out. The right people.”

The right people. Those do-good fucking cunts.

Joel knew exactly who she meant. The Fireflies, or what was left of them. The idiot ones still searching for remnants of the old world, still clinging to the past like stubborn weeds, for answers to questions that didn’t matter anymore—not when the world had already moved on without them. People who hadn’t let go of the idea that something better could still exist.

Leela had never been one for fairy tales. But this was the closest thing she had to one. And she’d chase it, no matter the cost.

He could already see it playing out. The way she’d set out on some wild chase across the country, searching for ghosts in the ruins. The way she’d throw herself into danger, into unknown places, into hands that might not be as kind as she expected.

And for what? For a world that was already done for? For parents who weren’t here to see it? For something bigger than herself, because Leela never knew how to put herself first?

He couldn’t let that happen. Not as long as he breathes.

Joel folded his arms, gripping the thick fabric of his sleeves, ready to return like for like. “Enlighten me, kiddo. And how do you know they’re still out there?”

Ellie scoffed, shaking her head. “I hear things. You think I don’t listen?” She gestured vaguely toward the town. “Maria’s got scouts. People come through. Fucking Eugene. And maybe the whole world isn’t what it used to be, but not everyone’s given up trying to fix it.”

Joel let that sit in the cold air between them. But that didn’t mean it was real. And even if it was—

He sighed, running a rough hand over his beard. “Ellie, you don’t—”

“Don’t what?” she snapped. “Understand?” Her voice had teeth now, cruel, sharp ones. “I understand just fine. I'm not a kid anymore.”

Joel clenched his teeth. His patience was fraying, unraveling at the edges.

“You have to stop,” he muttered.

Ellie let out a breath, shaking her head. “Jesus. She deserves to know, Joel.”

His throat worked up. “And what if there’s nothin’ out there?” His voice was quiet now, but firm. “What if she goes searchin’ and doesn’t find a damn thing? Or worse—what if she does?”

Ellie stilled. Joel stepped forward, yielding the words into the space waiting between them.

“What if she finds the wrong people?” His voice was almost a growl. “You ever think about that? About what happens if it gets her helpless, in front of a gun? If she leaves everything good she’s got right here and doesn’t come back? Have you thought about Maya? Our kid who depends on her... delusional mama? Will you answer for her?”

His voice caught on those last words. The thought of them was objective in his throat, scraping raw on the way down.

Ellie’s jaw twitched, but she didn’t look away. “Whatever it is, that’s not your choice to make.”

Joel inhaled sharply through his nose.

Not his choice, yes. But wasn’t it? Hadn’t it always been? Hadn’t it always been him, standing between the people he loved and the things that would take them away? Hadn’t it always been his job to make those choices—ugly, unimaginable choices—because someone had to?

Hadn’t it always been him who paid the price?

Ellie took a slow step forward, voice quieter now but cutting deeper than anything she’d yelled. It dropped ten-tonne stones in his stomach.

“You did it to me. Not this time, Joel.”

Joel watched Leela in the mirror for a long moment, one hand braced against the frame, taking in the endless pull of the bristles through her dark strands, the way her mouth softened in concentration. How she winced when she smoothed over a particularly large snarl, and manoeuvred it in little pulses of the brush.

Then he stepped behind her, crossing the room, steeling his palms against the vanity, on either side of her, lips against the back of her head—

“Darlin’?” The word was muffled in her hair.

She hummed softly, big, dark eyes flicking up to meet his in the glass. And goddamn, she looked pretty. Undeserving of him. The golden light from the lamp traced over the delicate curve of her cheek, the slope of her nose, the deep, dusky gleam of her skin.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you look?”

Her mouth curled, amused. She dragged the brush down again, glancing at him through the mirror. “Including now? Seventy-three times.”

Joel huffed a quiet laugh. “You keep count, dork?”

“I keep count of everything.” She spun on the leather stool, ticking her fingers off. “How many times you walk up the stairs in a day, times you kiss me, times you call Maya with endearments or her name, times you use the bathro—”

Joel groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ. Stop.”

She simply grinned at him, all innocent. “It’s a pattern. Symmetry. Helps with the theory.” A beat, then softer—“Well… helped.”

Joel eyed her. That sadness, the loss. The piece of her that was still grasping at things that had slipped through her fingers long ago. He wasn’t about to let that take root.

Then—clearing his throat—he shook his head, voice wry. “I was workin’ up to somethin’, and now I’m just creeped out.”

Leela tilted her head, curious. “Working up to what?”

He leaned in, voice dropping, little rougher, little lower. “Well—” His eyes flicked to her mouth. “I was gonna kiss you real hard.”

A flicker of something crossed her face—delight, fondness, maybe a little bit of shyness. That part he loved. Her lips parted slightly, nevertheless.

His smirk deepened. “How many of those am I at today?”

She let out a quiet, breathy laugh, gaze lowering. “Seven.”

“Hm. I can do better.”

Joel reached for her, fingers curling under her chin, tilting her face up as he kissed her—incredibly soft lips brushing his, building and deep, taking his time, savouring the sweetness of her. She sighed into him, her fingers grazing against the explosive pulse on his wrist, slipping up into his hair, her body melting just a little.

Then—just as she did—he moved.

With a swift movement, he shifted, dipping down, hands gripping firm before he hoisted her up, throwing her over his shoulder like she weighed no more than a feather.

“Oh—Joel!” She yelped and earned himself a swat at his back along with a girlish giggle. “Put me down!”

Joel just grinned, gripping the back of her thighs as he carried her toward their bed. “No can do. Seven kisses, my ass. I'll make that seventy tonight.”

She was laughing. Laughing like she couldn’t help it, like it just spilled out of her, like it bubbled up from somewhere deep, warm, and real.

And shit, Joel thought—if this was his life now, if this was what he got to end his days with—then he was the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

Leela was still giggling her head off when he set her down on the bed, mattress dipping with her weight, her legs hanging a little off the edge.

Joel stood over her for a beat, his large hands dwarfing her thighs, squeezing into the warm, smooth skin. His heart was thudding that fierce, familiar rhythm—like it always did when he was close to her. Just like this.

Christ, she was unfairly beautiful. Her freshly combed hair tumbled wild over her shoulders, her nightdress slipping a little at the straps as if knowing what was coming, teasing the soft swell of her collarbones. And her legs—bare beneath the hem—were parted just enough to accommodate his broad form and step between them.

He did, dropping down to his knees, like a man come to confess, knowing damn well he was about to sin a hundred times more.

And from here—from this angle—he could see everything. His whole world condensed to that space between her legs. The way her nightdress pooled over her lap, the black fabric of her panties peeking out just beneath it, the little white bow at the waistband that always drove him insane.

Leela only hummed, slender fingers buried into his hair, combing through the damp, silver-brown curls, another reminder of how too fucking old he was for her. Joel exhaled, tilting his head into her touch. Her fingertips dragged lazily over his scalp, nails scratching just enough to make his skin prickle.

God, he loved that. The way she touched him, she was allowed to now. Like she wanted to. Like she owned him. Because hell if she didn’t, every damn broken shard, every scar, every weary, blood-worn inch.

He let his eyes slip shut under her touch, sinking into it, jaw flexing slightly with the effort it took not to simply fall apart in her hands. She noticed. Of course she did.

Her mouth curved knowingly. “You want to…? I thought today is a godly day and all that.”

Joel huffed, eyes blinking back open. “You know what the Bible says?”

Leela smoothed his hair back from his face. “What does it say, Joel?”

His hands squeezed her thighs. “To be fruitful and multiply.” He let his lips ghost over her knee, just barely touching. “From one godless person to another—I say we fuck seven ways til Sunday and call it worship. Just like the big man intended.”

Leela laughed, hands hiding her face, and Joel felt it like sunlight cracking through old stone.

She wasn’t always like this with him—so easy, so light. It had taken time, so much time, to bring her here, to let her settle into herself with him, to let her know she didn’t owe him a damn thing. Not her body, not her trust, not her affection. That he’d still want her, still love her, no matter what her body could or couldn’t do.

But now? Now she sat before him, knees fallen open, fingers tangled in his hair, looking down at him with fondness. His, in the way someone chooses to stay.

He ran his hands down, slow, tracing the gentle slope of her calves, the dips and hollows of her knees, until he reached her feet. He rolled her socks off one by one, tossing them over his shoulder.

Then he groaned. Because right there, around the delicate bones of her ankles, were those thin gold chain anklets. Wrapped around the bones of her ankles like they were made to live there.

He swallowed, fingers trailing over the fine metal, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the bone. “The shit you do to me.”

Leela bit her lip to fend off a smile, fingers playing in his hair. “I make you very, very happy?”

“Absolutely. And,” he pointed to the goddamn rock-hard monument in her name, right between his legs, “there's your proof.”

Leela’s laugh was still in the air when Joel pushed her knees up, folding her into the mattress, urging her onto her back. He gave those pretty gold anklets a kiss.

She didn’t just let him. She rose onto her elbows, watching him, that playful little grin still tugging at her lips.

Joel let his hands slide up her thighs, tracing a path over warm, bare skin before pulling back just long enough to grab the back of his shirt. Then, in one motion, he yanked it over his head. Didn’t care where the damn thing landed.

When he looked down again—her lips had parted, awed, curious, fingers already reaching for him.

He knew where she was going before she even touched him.

Knew the exact path her hands would take—starting from the thick, angry scar slashed deep into his torso, the one that never quite faded, the one that should’ve killed him all those years ago. Her cautious fingers traced along the pale, ragged edge of it, weightless, lingering—because she knew. Knew how close he came to never having this. Her.

Then—down. Lower. His stomach caved as her touch skimmed over the soft plane just below his ribs, down to where the trail of little tufts of hair disappeared beneath his waistband.

“Still got a thing against underwear?” she whispered, mocking.

“Knock it off. You have your patterns, I have mine.”

Joel wasn’t sure what had him losing his breath first—her touch, maybe it was the way she looked at him right now, lips parted, waiting, as if she already knew exactly what this was doing to him. Just a whisper of pressure before she hooked one single finger into his waistband—one. Didn’t even tug, just held him there, wanting permission.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, lips twitching slightly, instinct kicking in before he could even think about it.

“My turn first, darlin’.” His voice was collected, low despite the heat winding through his blood. “I wanna take a nice look at my stakes tonight. You mind?”

A hesitation—just a beat. And, slowly, she shook her head.

Hands sliding back the hem of her nightdress, he dipped his head to claim his said stakes, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh.

He took his time; he was about to taste every last bit of her tonight. Let his hands smooth over her hips, his thumbs skimming under the elastic of her panties, catching at the sides. The fabric worn soft against her skin, and he dragged it down, inch by inch—savouring the reveal of her, the friction, the soft unveiling of something that was already his.

And then he leaned down, eyes never leaving hers—flattening his tongue right into her belly button, teasing, hot, wet, possessing, before rolling it there like he was stamping himself into her, telling her exactly what the fuck she was in for.

Her head fell back, exposing her throat, as his stubble scraped at her, the delicate skin of her hipbones fluttering.

Joel knew it before he could venture downward, awaiting what was fit for a king.

The hesitance. The way her body reacted before her mind caught up, old ghosts whispering, instincts catching up—the quick snap of her knees closing, her fingers curling into the sheets, like she could hide, like she should.

Like she expected him to pull back, turn away, confirm whatever she’d already convinced herself was true.

“It's all ruined, Joel,” she whispered, too quiet, barely cupping his cheek. “It really isn't worth it. Just come up here and kiss me.”

A firm reminder of the patience he had to hold, no matter how much his control slipped past him, replacing it with something hot and aching and furious, because—who the fuck put that in her head? Who made her think that the resilience of her body, the proof of what it had endured, made her less than?

Who made her believe that change was a goddamn loss instead of something earned?

Although he knew what she saw now when she looked in the mirror. Knew the way her fingers traced over her own skin with careful, detached curiosity—like she was separate from herself, like she was still trying to understand what had happened to her.

So, he had to be careful now. Temper himself. Had to remind himself to slow down, hold back, not push, not snap with the heat—even though every part of him wanted to touch, to hold, to make her feel what he saw.

He ran his hands over her thighs, slowly warming her back into him, into this moment. Let her feel him. Let her know he was still here.

“Let me in, sweetheart.” His voice rough, full of something he didn’t have the words for but needed her to feel. Reassurance. A truth. “'S'okay, I promise.”

She was quiet. Fingers still tight in the sheets, body torn between wanting and fearing.

And Joel hated it. Hated that she was waiting for something bad to happen, for him to hesitate, to pull away, to confirm whatever bullshit lies had been inside her, planted deep and rotting.

And the marks left behind? The softening, the lines that claimed her, the change, the things she thought had broken her?

That was proof. Proof that she’d survived something brutal and still held onto love. That she’d carried something beautiful—someone—through pain and blood and numbness and came out the other side still standing. Hell, Joel had never been prouder of anyone in his whole miserable life.

So he did what he always did when words failed him—he showed her.

He spread her open again—took his time, no rush, no pressure, his fingers dimpling into the flesh of her thighs, easing, coaxing, waiting.

And she let him. Her breath wavered, shaky—but she let him.

So, he took her in. Saw everything he called his now. Jesus, and he wanted everything.

He dragged a hand slowly over the soft heat of her, his palm molding to her curves, his thumb brushing carefully along her folds—warm, wet, waiting for him. Felt the little stuttered breath as he traced his fingers along the slit, that dewy, sensitive nub of her clit, anticipating like the mother of pearl, parting through the folds, and he treated it like a man committing scripture to memory.

All his. He'd burn the fucking world, the goddamn galaxy, twice over for this.

He curled his fingers into the soft crease, just enough to feel her reflexively dig her feet into the mattress, anklets clinking, to feel her shiver and melt, just a little, into his fingertips.

And then he looked up at her from above her hips. Held her in place with nothing but his eyes, voice rough, gaze burning.

“Ain’t a damn thing ruined, darlin'.” His fingers flexed, his grip tightening, close to worship. “All I see is you.”

All he ever fucking wanted.

She brushed her thumb across his chin. “Joel.” As if that was the only word she could make out from her lips right then.

“Jus’ look at you,” he murmured, like gravel soaked in honey. “Fuckin’ made for me. Starvin’ me all this time.”

Joel didn’t rush a goddamn thing, as was his catchphrase for life these days. Didn’t tease. Didn’t press fleeting kisses or featherlight touches—no, he gave her everything.

Firm, unrelenting, deep.

He wasn’t fumbling, wasn’t searching—he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly what she needed. He’d learned the way her breath hitched when he latched his lips there, on the pearly bud—where she was warm, where she was soft, where she trembled at the first graze of his tongue.

Surrounded her with his mouth, covered her with the heat of him, and Leela broke beneath it. Shivered with his name on her lips, her breath catching, her thighs tensing just a little before she softened, liquefied for him.

God, that sound—that soft, choked little whine. Like she didn’t know whether to hold on or fall apart.

It hit him low, somewhere in his gut, aching, wanting, that had his own hips going off on a tangent, grinding right into the mattress beneath him. Fucking embarrassing, but he couldn't help himself. One-track mind here, and she was all of it.

He lingered this time, slower, mouth dragging over slick, sensitive skin, his nose brushing the hollow of her hip, right down to her warm slit, as he breathed her in, that scent, let himself sink. Wasn't news, but he was fucking done for.

And when his tongue flicked out—light, teasing, just enough to make her breath stutter—he felt her body jerk, spine curving toward him, soft, shaking, helpless as her elbows buckled, trying to hold herself together, trying to brace against what she already knew was coming.

“Joel—” She sounded ravaged already—close to a whimper, pleading.

“‘M right here, baby, ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he murmured over a mouthful. His fingers dimpled over her perfect ass, holding her close, spreading warmth in their wake.

Like hell he was about to fucking let up.

She was trusting him. Letting him touch her, take her apart piece by piece with every lave of his tongue, every twist of his fingers, breath by breath. He wasn’t about to let her regret it.

And then—he felt it. That quiet, beautiful surrender. Her body arching toward him, not just allowing, but asking. Needing. Her fingers carding through his locks—not to push, not to pull, just to hold.

And fuck, he wanted this for her. Needed her to have it.

So he gave it all to her.

He had the work cut out for his mouth, relentless, coaxing, toying. Soft when she cried, firm when she begged. He mapped her with lips and tongue and teeth, bit, rolled, traced her open with his fingers, worked her under, spreading out her soaked folds, wringing out every last breathy moan from her throat, every sweet little gasp, every sweet, desperate, whispered Joel. Music to his fucking ears.

And when his fingers traced down, teasing, ring and middle fingers easing inside—pressing, curling, giving her just enough, just right—

“Oh, my god—Joel—” and some nonsensical sounds for which there was no right spelling, which made him chuckle right into her.

She choked on the words, hands flying to clutch his shoulders, nails digging into healed wounds, breaking skin, breaking him. Good. Let her. Let her take a chunk of his flesh. Sink right in and pluck out his heart, bloody and beating. Take a piece of me, sweetheart. It’s yours.

A wicked little thrill curled in his gut when she whined his name, echoing off the walls. “Mm,” Joel hummed right into her, tongue working her through the vibrations, rasping, “there she is… That’s my good girl. Let me hear you, baby.”

Her body was shaking, her glistening thighs trembling, toned stomach tensing, hips rolling idly into the convex slope of his nose—chasing it, taking it. And he was simply watching her, an avid fanatic, drinking her in.

She was so close. He could feel it in the way she clenched around his fingers, suckering him in, in the way she tasted so much sweeter, in the way her voice went soft and shattered, in the way she whispered his name, over and over, a prayer for him, like she was half-lost, falling apart.

Yes. He wanted this for her. Wanted her to have this, to take it, to know—that he was here, that she was safe, that this was hers. All of it. Him.

So he pushed her higher, higher, dragged her right to the edge, pushed himself in, in, in, unstopping—until she crashed.

“There's my girl,” he rumbled, unfathomable. “There you go, baby.”

Held her up, took her in, eased her apart, let her come hard against his mouth, his hands, all over him. Let her shatter—hard, helpless, fucking beautiful—until she was unraveling all over him, gasping, crying out, tears in her eyes, curling around him.

“Joel!”

And he didn’t stop. Not yet.

So licked it through, sealed it with a kiss, worked her open, dragging her down, down, down—until she rode out every last tremor on his tongue, his fingers, sure hold of his hands. Tasted her, lapped her up, let the sweetness linger, soaked his nose and beard.

When she finally sagged back against the sheets—loose-limbed, trembling—he pressed one last, lingering kiss to the inside of her thigh.

He lifted his head, and looked up at her—past her swollen lips, stomach tensing and caving, sweating, wrecked, absolutely fucking ruined—Joel swore he’d never seen anything more perfect in his life.

Leela stared unseeingly back at him, blinking the wetness from her lashes. Joel grinned at that. Smug, slow, feeling too damn good about himself.

“Wow... that was...” She trailed off, breathless. Then she blinked again, locked eyes with him. “I don't know what that was.”

Joel chuckled, pressing his mouth to her thigh again, scratching his beard against sensitive skin, loving the way she twitched beneath him.

“Somethin’ good, I’m hopin’. You happy?”

She let out a weak, disbelieving laugh—then gasped as her gaze landed on the state of him.

His hair was a mess, thick curls sticking up where she’d yanked at them. His shoulders bore the sharp crescent moons of her nails, blood beading in little spots where she'd really lost herself.

Her eyes went wide. “I did that?”

Joel looked down at himself, at the evidence of her all over him—his skin, his lips, his stubble, his fucking soul.

“Technically,” he mused, meeting her gaze, making her squirm a little, “I did you.” That grin of his was pure sin. “Mark me up all you want, darlin'. Next time, plant those pretty nails right on my neck, I want the whole fuckin' town to know.”

Leela was still blinking at him, looking stunned, lips parted like she was trying to find words but couldn’t quite pin them down. Her chest rose and fell in sharp little breaths, the aftershocks still working through her limbs, loose and boneless beneath him.

She swallowed hard. Then—

“I liked feeling that. Felt so... liberating,” she admitted, almost in awe, like she was holding some shimmering thing in her hands and turning it over in the light.

His fingers traced the sharp dip of her waist, a promise to himself. “Get used to it, then,” he murmured. “Plan on givin’ you plenty more of that.”

Leela let out a contented little sigh, stretching her arms over her head, her ribs shifting beneath his touch. That lazy smirk curled at her lips, all pleasure and mischief.

“Don’t wanna overwork my machine,” she teased, with the comfort she only let herself have with him.

Joel smirked right back, tilting his head over her thigh, watching her through the low burn of hunger—the kind that never really left him, not when it came to her.

“Nah,” he muttered, dipping down, dragging his mouth over the taut skin of her belly, letting his teeth scrape against muscle, feeling the shudder ripple through her. “You promised to fix me up. Hundred-and-twenty years guarantee, remember?”

Leela quieted a laugh, sighing as he nipped at her side, her fingers sliding lazily into his hair again. “Might’ve exaggerated the warranty terms.”

Joel grunted into her skin. “Figures. You rich girls are all charm and no fine print.”

She hummed, running her nails over the back of his neck, aimless. “Don’t lump me in with your admirers.”

“You ain’t in the same class,” he said without hesitation, lifting his head to look at her. “They’re just noise. You’re the whole damn signal.”

Leela closed her eyes, her smile too soft. “God help me.”

“Don’t need god, baby,” he rasped, mouthing against her hip. “You’ve got me.”

“You took away my choice. And now you’re doing it to her. I won't let it happen.”

Joel hated when Ellie did this. When she carved him open with words and left him standing there, raw and exposed, with nothing to hold onto. When she infected the space with silence, the kind that didn’t just sit in the air but sank into his bones, into the spaces between his goddamn heartbeats.

Ellie exhaled, eyes burning, breath curling white in the cold air. Her fingers twitched at her sides like she wanted to ball them into fists but hadn’t quite committed. “You always say it’s about protecting people,” she murmured. “But maybe it’s just about you. About what you can’t handle. About how you're too fucking scared to admit it.”

Joel clenched his jaw so tight it ached. It would’ve been easier if she’d just screamed at him. If she’d thrown a punch. Cursed him out. Told him she hated him.

Instead, she looked at him with those sharp, unforgiving eyes and waited. Waited for him to give her something real, to use against him.

Joel swallowed, his voice rough. “It ain’t like that.”

Ellie’s eyes flashed, a cold, sharp flicker. “Okay, what the fuck else is it, Joel?”

His jaw flexed, the muscle jumping. But the words wouldn’t come.

Because what the fuck else was it like? That was the goddamn problem.

It was too much and not enough all at once. It was him waking up every morning with the gnawing fear that something would take this life, his love, all of it away from them, that all this peace was just borrowed time. It was the ghost of what almost happened to Ellie still sitting in his ribs, a wound that never really closed, and he never bothered to check. It was looking at Leela and seeing someone else teetering on the edge of a choice she didn’t fully understand—one that could swallow her whole, just like it would’ve swallowed Ellie.

It was knowing that if he let it happen—if he stood by and watched—he wouldn’t survive it.

Joel sighed, like he could push it all down. “It’s just different.”

Ellie let out a sharp, breathless laugh. “Bullshit.”

His eyes snapped to hers, and something in his expression must’ve shifted, because she stilled. The fight was nonetheless in her, but she was really watching him now.

He wet his lips. His mouth was dry. “I ain’t doin’ this to hurt her.”

Ellie’s face flickered, something cracking just beneath the surface. “Yeah?”

Joel nodded once, firm. “Yeah.”

She tilted her head, voice dropping quieter. “And when you lied to me?”

The ground might as well have been yanked out from under him.

Joel felt it in his gut, the way his stomach twisted all that time back, the way his hands twitched at his sides under her stare. The brutal memory slammed into him, relentless.

Salt Lake City. The cold, sterile hum of machines. The blinding white of hospital lights. The dripping consequence of innocent blood on his hands. The drive back. The silence in that goddamn car. Ellie looking at him, uncertain—Swear to me. And him, looking right back, the lie already fixed in his throat.

Joel’s mouth opened, then shut. There was no answer he could give her. Not one that wouldn’t taste like ash on his tongue.

Ellie sighed, shifting. “You know what this fucking means to her,” she muttered. “You know, better than anyone else, how long she’s worked for this. How much she’s lost for it.”

Her voice wavered slightly. But she caught it, swallowing it down, steadying herself.

“If you take this from her—if you make that choice for her...”

Joel’s hands flexed at his sides, then curled back into fists. Whatever was at the end of that sentence, should she finish it, was a bomb to his nerves. And he wasn't ready for the explosion.

Ellie wasn’t angry anymore. No—this wasn’t just anger. This was something old. Something that had never left her, no matter how much time had passed.

She wasn’t fighting for Leela. Not just for her.

She was fighting for herself. For the girl she used to be. The one who had woken up in the backseat of a sedan, stitches still fresh, lungs surging with breath she hadn’t agreed to keep. The one who had been fed a lie, one meant to protect her, but a lie all the same.

The one who had never gotten to decide.

Joel swallowed hard, his throat working against the lump rising there. This was fucking agony.

He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t the same. That this was different. That he wasn’t making this choice out of selfishness, but love—a love so deep it bordered on terror. That he wasn’t trying to take anything from Leela—he was trying to keep her safe, keep them safe, because for the first time in years, he had something he couldn’t bear to lose.

But he knew it wouldn’t matter. Not to Ellie. Not after what he’d done.

She’d already made up her mind. And maybe the worst part—the part that chewed at him—was that she had every right to.

Ellie wasn’t waiting for an answer. She took a slow step forward, eyes locked onto his, and there was no hesitation in her voice when she said, “If you won’t tell her, I will.”

He took a step forward before he even realized he was moving. “Ellie.” His voice was low, edged with warning. “Don’t even think about it.”

She didn’t back down. Didn’t even blink. “Try and stop me.”

Joel clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. His nails pressed deep into his palms, fists tightening like he could squeeze the fear right out of them.

Yeah, she goddamn meant it. Stubborn kid.

Ellie had always been a storm—a force too wild to be controlled, only barely tempered by the years between them. She was his unfortunate mirror. But this? This was her line in the sand.

She wouldn’t ask again. She’d do it. She’d tell Leela everything. She’d make sure she knew exactly what Joel had been trying to keep from her. She’d rip open the truth and let the chips fall where they fucking may.

And Leela—she would leave him. Leela would walk right out of Jackson, surrender herself to death for bullshit science, just like Ellie almost had. Just like Sarah would’ve, if she’d lived long enough to grow up and push against him like this. Just like every goddamn person Joel had ever loved. And maybe Leela wouldn’t come back.

And fuck—maybe the kid was right. Maybe he was a coward, or selfish, or just too goddamn scared of losing the people he loved to ever let them make their own choices.

But wasn’t that what love was? Protecting them? Keeping them safe, no matter what it costs? Even if it meant they’d never forgive him when he made the hard choices for them.

Leela's little giggles carried through the warmth in the glow, squirming under Joel, fingers threading into his hair, gripping without thought.

And that sound—he fucking loved that sound. He grinned against her skin, bit again, firmer this time, just to hear it again, to feel that little flash of light and joy in her, like she was finally letting herself be wanted. Letting herself be held.

And then he climbed, nosing up her ribs, her sternum, pressing his mouth over her heart, sensing it hammering against his lips, wild and unhidden.

Her hands smoothed over him, like testing the strings of a guitar, gliding through his curls, down his jaw, tracing the rough plane of his throat, over his shoulders, his chest. Touching him the way she knew he liked, the way that made him feel like something more than a man with rough hands and too many ghosts.

“Joel?” His name, soft, uncertain. Almost shy.

He lifted his head, finding her eyes, finding the way she watched him, the way she wet her lips.

She smoothed a hand down his chest, fingertips feather-light, following the rise and fall of his breath, tracing each ridge, each scar, committing them to memory. And then, quieter—hesitant, but knowing.

“Do you want to—um—put it inside?”

Christ above. That should’ve been an innocent few words. Put it inside me. Something to smirk at, something to tease her over. But God, the way she said it—soft, like she wasn’t sure she should be saying it at all, but wanted to. The way her lips parted, how her voice went quiet, how her fingers dragged over his ribs, winding into the fuzz there, down, down, trailing heat in their wake.

She reached for her nightdress, carefully plucked the buttons open, so much more sexier when she did it, lifted herself up a little, yanked it over her head and draped it aside.

His stomach tightened, his cock twitched, already aching from just looking at her like this—glistening everywhere, a dusky miracle, warm and ready, legs parted beneath him, wet and waiting.

Joel nodded—too fast, too eager, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Not when it came to her.

“Sure, honey. Yeah,” he rasped, voice rough, barely there, already fumbling with unbuttoning his fly. His hands were shaking, actually shaking, Christ, but he got it undone, got his zipper down, freed himself.

Hot, hard, already leaking against her stomach.

Leela’s breath caught, a small, instinctive sound in the back of her throat. Her lashes fluttered as her gaze flickered downward, wide-eyed, her lips parting, breath turning shallow.

“Please,” he tried, hoping she would take the hint.

She hesitated for just a second before her fingers wound around him—delicate, cautious, still learning him, still getting used to the stiffness and heat of him in her grasp.

Joel sucked in a sharp breath, his hips jerking into her fist, completely out of his control. The touch wasn’t even tight, wasn’t even sure, but fuck, it was his goddamn girl, and that did it for him. His fingers tightened against her waist, digging in, as if grounding himself in her, in this moment, in the softness of her skin around him.

And then she looked up at him—a little sceptical, but wanting him anyway. Wanting him.

That hit him deep. That did something worse than arousal, worse than need. It twisted through his ribs like a fish hook, unaware and sharp, leaving him breathless.

He leaned in, urging their foreheads together, drinking her in like she was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“You with me?” A plea as much as a question.

Leela nodded, her nose stroking his, breaths soft. “Always.”

And that was all he needed.

He kissed her then—deep, slow, sinking into her like he could crawl inside, like he could get closer than skin, closer than breath. His hands roamed over her, memorizing her like a man starved, like she was holy, transient, and he had to push her into his hands, his mouth, his memory before the moment slipped away.

She was all his warmth beneath him, quiet sighs and tremors, fingers tracing slow, aching patterns over his back and shoulders, waiting for him.

And Christ, he wanted to give her everything.

Joel settled between her legs, powerful thighs bearing up hers that bracketed his hips, and the heat of her—the sheer, impossible heat of her—made his head spin, made his pulse hammer in his throat, made his grip tighten against her like she might evaporate if he wasn’t careful.

The last shreds of restraint in him frayed, pulled apart by the way she looked at him, by the way she breathed him in.

His heart was a battering ram in his chest, slamming against his ribs, a rhythm only she could pull from him.

He wanted to remember this. Not just the way she felt beneath him, soft and warm and willing, but the way she looked at him—like she trusted him, like she wanted him, not just in this way but in a way he didn’t know how to name.

His hand slipped between their bodies, guiding himself, the other cradling her face, thumb sweeping slow over her cheek, tracing the corner of her mouth.

Joel clenched his jaw, swallowed thickly, and let himself memorize her. Because he had to remember this. He didn't know when he'd do this again.

And then—he pushed in.

Gradually. Painstaking. Inch by inch. Sinking into her. Into that breathtaking heat, that unbelievable tightness, into all of her.

A gasp tore from Leela’s throat, sharp and caught, her nails biting into his back, dragging up, her whole body tensing beneath him.

Joel groaned, rough, broken, the sound shuddering from deep in his chest.

His forehead dropped to hers, breath uneven, harsh, like he’d just been knocked off his damn feet. Because, no, not even after a decade into this would he get used to it.

He felt everything. The heat, the softness, the cushioning stretch around him, the way her body clung to him, wrapped around him, pulling him in. Taking him in, welcoming him in.

“Goddamnit, baby…” His voice came out strained, barely there, just breath and heat.

Leela shuddered, exhaling in a stuttering breath against his lips.

Her fingers curled into his hair, gripping tight, and he could feel her trembling beneath him, every little hitch in her breath sending him to a free fall. But she didn’t pull away.

No—she arched into him instead, drawn to him, pressing herself closer, holding onto him like she needed him just as much as he needed her.

Joel clenched his jaw, forced himself to still, to breathe, to let her adjust. His hands soothed over her, one stroking slow along her hip, the other slipping into her hair, cradling her, holding her.

Yeah, he wasn’t some young buck anymore. And Christ, he felt it now. Felt it in the deep-set aches in his joints, the dull protest in his bad knee, the slow burn in his lower back where years of hard labour and harder living had left their mark. Felt it in the way his breath came harder, rougher, how his body was slower to catch up to the fire in his blood.

It wasn’t new. Wasn’t something he complained about—because what was the use? His body wasn’t what it used to be. That was just a fact.

And Leela—well, she was younger. Not some girl, not by a long shot, but still, there were nights he glanced at her beside him, and caught himself wondering—what the hell was she doing with him? With a man who hurt more than he moved, whose reflexes weren’t what they used to be, whose hands bore the years in thick, rough calluses.

Joel didn’t know how to explain it—what was happening to him in that moment. What was settling deep in his chest like a slow, burning ember, lighting him up from the inside in a way that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with her.

No person on this shitty planet deserved any of what she did for him.

The way Leela moved beneath him, not with urgency, but with a kind of quiet knowing—like she understood him down to the marrow.

It wasn’t just the way she adjusted her body so his weight wouldn’t bear down too hard on his back, accommodating him to rest on her, or how her legs curled tighter around him, drawing him in, deeper, to give his knees something solid to press into. It was how she didn’t make it a conversation, or a concern, or some goddamn mercy.

She simply… let him be. Let him be a man with age in his bones, with pain in him and knots in his shoulders, and still, still, looked at him like he was the only man she wanted. He was enough for her, making her feel this.

More than the fucking, this felt a lot more like love.

Joel grinned a lazy one, nipping a kiss to her jaw, murmuring against her skin. “How’d you know?”

Leela’s fingers curled against the back of his neck, threading into the softer curls there. “I just felt it.”

Of course, she did. She always did.

Joel groaned against her throat, his thrusts growing deeper, surer, like he was trying to carve himself into her, leave something of himself behind. He wanted to thank her in the only way he knew how.

He kept to the tempo. Circle, push, circle, push.

Until Leela gasped, nails biting into his back, her body rising to meet his. Her breath was uneven, her voice the barest whisper.

“Joel—!”

Right there, yeah. He found that sweet spot. He breathed her in with a victorious grin, nose tracing against her shoulder, low and ragged, his chest pressing to hers, his hands wandering in adoring sweeps—over her hips, her waist, the curve of her spine.

“Wanna give you everything. Everything, take everything,” he said, the words rough and meant only for her.

At that exact spot. Circle, push, circle, push, circle, push.

Because he knew what it took for her to open up like this. Knew what kind of ghosts she’d had to stare down just to let someone in—to let him in. She wasn’t a woman who gave herself lightly. She didn’t owe him this. She didn’t give because she was afraid of being alone or needed something to fill a space.

Joel—God help him—he felt like his heart couldn’t hold all of it.

His lips brushed against her cheek, the bridge of her nose, slow, reverent, until their mouths met, and he kissed her—tongue roaming, teeth knocking, like he was trying to pour something real into the space between them.

“Feel so good,” he murmured into her mouth, voice frayed, like barbed wire catching on skin. “So damn good, baby. You don’t even know.”

A gentle pull at his curls and an echoing moan had him reeling. He groaned, forehead pressing to hers, sweat beading at his brow, spine screaming at the strain—but he didn’t pull away. Not yet. Not when she felt like this, sounded like that.

Circle, push, circle, push, circle, push, push, push—

Joel could feel her getting close. Best damn thing in his life, that's for sure.

He could feel it in the way her breath hitched, in the little shudders that ran through her body, in how she clenched around him—tight, fluttering, like she was right there, teetering on the edge. This might just be it.

And this time, this time, there was no pulling back. No hesitation. No slipping out of reach like before—where her body had tensed and her eyes had gone glassy and distant, that wall confusedly sliding back into place, shutting him out without a word.

No, tonight was different.

Tonight, she stayed with him. Held onto him. Let him see her.

And Joel felt his own climax building—not just in himself, the tight, coiled tension in his spine—but in her.

He slowed, deepened his thrusts, each one thick with ache and purpose, his breath coming hard and uneven, gruff voice encouraging. “You gonna come for me, baby? You feel that?”

Leela nodded, fast, her mouth falling open, a whine catching in her throat. Her hands were in his hair, holding him close, her thighs locked around his hips, skin slick, hot, quivering.

“Say it f'me, now. Need that smartass head of yours to know. Tell me.”

She started in a whisper. “I'm gonna—” one greedy slam of his hips and she cried out, “gonna come!”

“Yeah, you are. Gonna make a mess all over me.” Joel gritted his teeth, a fresh wave of heat breaking over him. He was sweating hard now, the kind of sweat that came with effort, with strain, with love like this—not frantic, not desperate, but fierce. Devoted. He had this in the bag.

A bead of sweat slid down his temple, another dripping from his jaw, splashing hot against the swell of her pulsing breasts. God, so fucking sexy. Unfairly sexy.

She gasped—not from discomfort, but from how deeply he filled her, how close she was, how it all felt.

Her body arched, and he felt the tension spiral tight—so tight—under his hands.

“Thaaat’s it,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, “come on, let go f'me. Such a good girl.”

The air between them was thick, the rhythm of their bodies like a heartbeat, their skin slapping softly, wet and warm and intimate, it felt too surreal. The sounds were bare, natural—Leela’s tiny gasps, Joel’s deep grunts, the slick slide of skin on skin, the creak of the bedsprings beneath them.

“You’re doin’ so good,” Joel rasped, his hand cradling her cheek, thumb brushing under her eye, “that’s it, darlin'. I got you. Come on.”

And then—she broke.

“Joel!”

Her body seized around him, back arching, a high, wrecked whimper tearing from her throat—raw and real and so damn incredible it hit him like a freight train. Joel felt her come apart underneath him, clenching, fluttering, her limbs trembling, thighs tightening, fingers digging into his back like she didn’t know how else to stay tethered to the earth.

Her release hit hard around him, rolling through her in wave after wave, hips jerking, breath catching, chest pushed tight to his. And Jesus, she held on. Clung to him like she wasn’t afraid anymore.

All it took was that. Joel was undone.

The way she came for him, the way she gave him that—trusted him with that—a broken, breathless sound ripped from his chest as he followed her over the edge, everything tightening—his thighs, his spine, the aching stretch of his lower back—and he spilled into her, wrung all of him out, deep, full, trembling like a man who hadn’t known softness in years. He held her close, rested his forehead to hers, breaths harsh, the kind of release that didn’t just steal his strength—it stripped him down to the bone.

There was no disappointment this time. No silence. No turning away. No false promises.

Just Leela, breathless and dazed beneath him, her arms still around his neck, her heart thudding wildly against his chest.

Joel stayed there, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin, his hand smoothing down the side of her thigh. He couldn't let go; if he did, he’d lose the one good thing he still had. Within him, he felt raw, scraped clean. As if something old had finally broken open and something new had taken its place.

He was feeling the burn right in his bones, alright. Worth it. Every slow ache, every deep pull of soreness? Worth it.

How was this time much better than the first? Maybe it was how he knew the terrain of her body, all the dips, the curves, the valleys. Maybe this was the way it was going to be, the next one always besting the first. Good, he could use a bit of that excitement from time to time.

“Goddamn,” he mumbled. “That's my girl.”

And she smiled—barely there, exhausted and dazed and flawless. One of those little Leela-smiles that barely tugged at her mouth but said everything.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, gaze hazy and warm. She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

For the first time in too many years, Joel didn’t feel like he was chasing something he couldn’t hold. He didn’t feel like he was trying to fix what had already broken. He didn’t feel like he was failing someone.

He felt like he’d given her a new reality. And she'd taken it. Held it. Come apart with it.

Her thumb lingered at the edge of his mouth, tracing over the rough bristle of his beard. Joel let her, watching her through half-lidded eyes, too damn comfortable—too damn content—to move just yet.

Then, deliberately, he dipped his head and caught her thumb between his teeth. Just a little pressure, just enough to make her giggle.

Leela shifted beneath him, her fingers still trailing over his jaw, drifting down the column of his throat, tracing absent-minded shapes into his damp skin.

Then, her gaze flicked downward. He watched her, half-lidded, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips as her brows lifted just a little. He could practically see the realization dawn on her face, could feel the way her body tensed just slightly beneath him.

“Why are you still inside?” she whispered.

“Wanna keep feelin' you. Best nook in the world.”

“Nook!”

And then—she dropped her head back and laughed. A real big laugh, one that could've woken Maya right up. Breathless and unfiltered, shaking both of them right where he still was—deep inside her, buried in the heat they’d made together.

Joel propped himself up on an elbow, watching her with the kind of fond disbelief that had been sneaking up on him more and more lately. The kind that made him feel like he was standing too close to the sun, and somehow, it wasn’t burning him alive.

Her laughter fizzled into breathless stupor, and she reached down between them, fingers grazing her own skin, the slick mess he’d left inside her. She was flushed and glowing and completely disarmed—this beautiful, brilliant creature half-dazed from how thoroughly he’d loved her.

“I am so wet,” she giggled, almost amazed—like she was taking inventory, like she was cataloging the sensation, her big science brain working even now. Marveling at her own body, her own pleasure—his doing.

Joel huffed a laugh, watching her hand linger where he was still seated inside her. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmured, hoarse. “That’s ‘cause I filled you right up. Feel that?”

He slid his hand over hers, guided it lower, toward that soft pressure, until she felt exactly where they were joined—her swollen, sensitive folds stretched around him, the sticky heat dripping out around his length.

“I’d be worried if you weren’t,” he added, lips brushing her jaw, his voice dark and a little smug now, all gravel and honey. “Felt you take every drop. My girl.”

She shivered.

He was still hard, still inside her, and now he rolled his hips just once—willful, greedy as fuck—letting her feel the way she squeezed around him, the aftershocks still rippling through her.

Leela moaned, body twitching with oversensitivity, but her eyes fluttered open—glassine, gentle and loving. And fuck if he didn’t want to sink back into her all over again.

He liked this quiet after with her. The comedown. The afterglow. Oh yeah, he was luxuriating. It wasn't silence—not really—but that comfortable kind of quiet, where everything was still warm, where he could just be with her, where their breath was still slowing together, tangled up in something that felt more real than anything he had words for.

Leela turned her head, sighing, meeting his gaze, brow furrowing slightly.

She was thinking. And fuck. Joel knew that look.

That faraway gleam in her eye, the way her mouth twisted like she was mid-thesis. It meant she was about to crack the entire moment open with some clinical, over-intelligent monologue that would have his brain short-circuiting—turning this molten, messy, perfect aftermath into a goddamn science lecture.

And he just couldn’t have that. Not now. Not when he was still inside her. Not when she was glowing and flushed and breathing like that.

So he cut her off the only way he knew how—his mouth, slow and unhurried, trailing down the delicate column of her throat, dragging over the heat of her skin, still damp with sweat. Let his mouth roam over her breast, tongue flicking lazily, tasting the salt on her skin, leaving a wet track, the warmth still lingering there, and he groaned against her. Possessive. Content. Still hungry.

“Oh, Christ, you’re gonna start talkin’,” he muttered, words muffled by the perfect weight of her in his mouth.

She ignored him, playing with his curls absently. “You know what? I think I finally understand the physiological means at play—”

Joel growled, deep in his throat, rolling his tongue around her nipple. “Don’t do it,” he warned.

She kept going. Of course she did. “Listen, it’s not just blood flow, Joel. Amazing, right? It’s the whole nervous system—my body registers stimuli—”

He bit her.

Not hard. Just enough to make her yelp. Just enough to leave a little mark. A love bite. A warning. She swatted at his head, already giggling as she squirmed beneath him.

He grinned against her skin, running his tongue over the spot in apology, soothing the mark. “Thought I told you to knock it off.”

Leela huffed, exasperated but smiling, palm flat against his chest like she might push him off of her. But no, never. Not really.

Joel caught her wrist, slow and firm, and pinned it to the mattress beside her head. Brought his mouth back to hers, hovering just above.

“Next time you start talkin’ again,” he rasped, brushing the words against her lips, “I’m gonna make sure you can’t get a single word out. Just like this.”

He dipped his hips, just enough to remind her he was still there, thick and deep, still throbbing inside her.

“Sounds fair to you, smartass?”

And the look in her eyes when she nodded? Had him grinning like a damn fool. Another open-mouthed kiss to the underside of her breast before he was going easy on her, pulling out of her and back, bracing himself above her again.

Leela let out a contented sigh, stretching like a purring cat beneath him, and he just took a second to look at her. All sprawled out. All soft, spent, smelling of him and filled with his come. Why would he ever move when his view was this good?

But he should probably move. Should probably clean her up, maybe get some more food in his system. He was utterly sapped, but when he felt her curious fingers drifting, absently over his shoulder, his back, tracing back up to his jaw, the trail of hair down his chest, stroked across his ribs then—

“Don’t start with me,” he murmured, preemptively, because he knew that look in her eye.

Leela blinked, all too innocent. “What?”

“At least let me grab somethin’ to eat before we get to the clinic.”

Leela propped herself up on her elbows, anxious eyes flicking over his face. “Oh my god. Did I send you into cardiac arrest? Was it that intense?”

Joel snorted, rolling onto his back beside her with a tired grunt, relieving the pangs up his spine. “Figure of speech. I’m not dyin’ with ‘killed in orgasm’ on my epitaph.”

Leela dropped her head against his shoulder, shaking with laughter again. She exhaled against his chest, still grinning. “Why do you talk about death so much after...?”

Joel groaned. “I do not—”

“You do.”

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Christ.”

Leela lifted her head off him, her fingers skimming absently over the scar on his stomach, delineating a slow, thoughtful path on the uneven edges.

Joel shot her a look. “Leela.”

She blinked up at him, all naïveté, though her fingers were still moving.

“I just think it’s fascinating,” she mused. “Is it because of the endorphin drop? Or maybe it’s more of a psychological—”

Joel rolled them, pinning her beneath him again with a huff, pressing his forehead against hers. If she wanted a third, she was getting a third. It was Christmas, he'd give her a fourth and fifth, too, and face all the consequences in the morning.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, dropping an unhurried kiss to her lips. “Now, you've really done it.”

“You don’t have to lose this, Joel.”

Ellie saw it in his eyes. All of it.

Saw the way his shoulders had gone tight, the way that darkness, so raw, dashed behind his eyes. The way his whole body coiled like he was bracing for a blow he couldn’t take.

And for a second—just a second—she softened. The anger didn’t vanish, not completely, but it damped the edges. Beneath the frustration, the hurt, the sheer stubbornness of it all, there was understanding.

Because for as much as she wanted to push against him, for as much as she wanted to be right—she still fucking cared about his ass. About him. About the life he’d built here. About every step he'd taken to give himself that. And she knew he cared, too. Too much. That was the problem.

Ellie exhaled, her breath curling in the cold. The space between them stretched, thin and brittle, like the ice that formed along the edges of the rooftops in winter—one wrong move and it would crack, and there’d be no stopping the fall.

She tipped her head slightly, studying him. Like she was trying to see inside his head, figure out how the gears turned, how the walls had been built so damn high.

His jaw clenched. The muscles ticked, the tension burning through him like a slow, smoldering fire. “Kid, I don’t need you to—”

She shook her head, cutting him off before he could finish. “No, I know. You think if she finds out, she’ll leave you.” Her voice wasn’t unkind. Just certain. “And maybe she will. But maybe she won’t.” She hesitated. “You don’t know that.”

Joel swallowed hard, his throat working against the lump rising there. His hands flexed at his sides, clenching and unclenching, like they needed something to hold onto. Like they were looking for a fight, but there was no fight to be had.

His voice came out rough, hoarse. Quiet. Like he was afraid saying it too loud would make it real. “And if she gets herself... killed?”

Ellie’s gaze flickered.

There it was. Not just the stubbornness. Not just the fear of repeating the past.

The grief. The bone-deep, gut-wrenching terror of watching someone else die for something they believed in. Joel had been here before. She knew that. She also knew it didn’t change the truth.

Ellie let out a slow breath, shoulders shifting with it. When she spoke, her voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even particularly strong. But the firmness couldn't be denied.

“Then you trust her to make the right call.”

Joel’s pulse thundered in his ears.

Trust. That was what she was asking for. Not just for Leela. For him. To trust that if he let go—even just a little—the world wouldn’t fall apart. That not every choice had to be his.

He couldn’t breathe.

Because the truth was, he didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust himself.

He knew what happened when you let go. When you left things in someone else’s hands. The Fireflies had proven that. Salt Lake had proven that. He’d come too close to losing Ellie—to losing everything—and he couldn’t. God, he couldn’t ever.

Fear had constructed a home inside him a long time ago, and he’d let it stay. Let it bow into his bones, let it keep him moving, keep him surviving, keep him from making the kind of mistakes that got people killed.

This was not about survival. It was about choices. And he was stealing it from her.

His hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling, uncurling. His breaths came quick, his whole body was coiled, taut, like something about to snap.

Ellie studied him a moment longer. And then—quietly—she gave him an out.

“You tell her, Joel. I don't care when, but you're gonna tell her before I do.”

She didn’t say it cruelly. Didn’t wield it like a weapon. Just a fact.

A choice. A small, simple one. But a choice, all the same.

She turned for her door before he could answer, before he could say a damn thing at her, leaving him there—standing in the cold, alone. Watching the space between them widen

Pushing him away. Again, again, and again.

Joel felt every damn inch of last night in his body.

His back ached, deep and determined. His thighs burned like he’d run halfway across Texas. And his arms—hell, they’d felt strong enough to hold up the whole damn world last night, but now? Large. Leaden. Like he’d spent the night hauling lumber instead of ploughing his girl down into the mattress and making her moan.

Still worth it.

He pushed a hand into his eyes, scrubbing sleep out before Leela's aggravated exclamation pierced the stillness like an ill-timed cuckoo clock.

“No, no, no—don't make me wake Daddy up!”

Joel winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. But still, that stupid smile bloomed on his lips.

Maya had her own shrill objection in return. “No, Mama!”

“Then get in here and finish your breakfast right now.”

Oh yeah, their baby girl had definitely slunk off into the blackberry brambles outside the kitchen door. It hadn't taken him too long for them to sprout once he set them in the beds a few months ago, especially after he found out it was Maya's favourite snack.

Joel eventually forced himself upright, taking longer than he wanted to admit, shoving the covers off with a grunt, rolling his complaining shoulders until his back gave a nice, satisfying crack. That was how he knew he was sleeping better. Real sleep—the kind he hadn’t had in decades. His ears didn’t ring, and he didn’t have to sit there for ten full minutes, waiting for the will to drag himself up.

It still felt strange, some mornings. Waking up without the usual dread clawing at his throat. That didn’t mean he took it for granted.

Eventually, he hauled himself into the shower, knees popping, let the water beat down on him, sadly washing away all the sex, sweat and Leela off him. He dragged on something half-decent, and while combing a rough hand through his damp hair, he crossed the room, caught movement outside his window.

Maya, right where he thought she'd be. That little menace. Out in the yard, barefoot in the snowed down grass, thoughtfully picking at the blackberry bushes like she wasn’t covered in scrapes from doing the same thing yesterday. He knew those nasty thorns. Knew her damn stubborn streak even better. And, sure as the sun, before he could even get the window open to warn her—

“How many times do I gotta tell you? Wait for me. Honey, you’re gonna get—”

“Ow!”

Joel sighed, hanging his head. “—hurt. Goddamnit.”

But she didn’t cry. Didn’t run inside calling for her mama. Just sucked at her scratched-up fingers, picked the thorns off her jacket sleeves, and went back to stuffing her mouth with berries—ripe, unripe, no difference at all to her.

“Yum-yum-yum,” he heard her whisper.

Leela was gonna have her ass if she came in covered in scratches again. And he was going to be the one to clean her up.

Joel shut the window and took off downstairs, shaking his head. And nearly swerved right into the wall at the kitchen entrance. Because—damn.

Would he ever get over this? Over her?

Leela stood at the stove on the island, in front of a sizzling griddle of bacon, dark hair twisted up in a towel, skin fresh and bare, scented with lemons.

The nightdress she wore today from her usual rotation was soft grey, thin-strapped, slipping from the curve of her shoulder. Matched his shirt, the one he’d buttoned on this morning without thinking. And her face—

Jesus, there were a thousand ways to love her, but this? This was the one that got him in the gut. When she was just that sleepy, persistent, clever girl. Stripped of all the careful edges she carried through the day. When she was still shower-warm, soft with sleep, her face stark and beautiful in the morning quiet. He was a lucky, lucky bastard.

She glanced up and caught him staring. A slow, lazy, heart-breaking grin. Her voice warm as honey, came out with, “Good morning, Joel.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, smiling. “Mornin’.”

He made it to her side, hands finding her hips, pressing close, pressing in, letting his nose graze against the damp skin of her nape before kissing the spot, slow and deep. He saw her skin prickle up when he did, bowing his neck to hide a smile.

“What's our number now, hm? Five? Six? Damn near broke me last night.”

Leela bit her lip, trying to hide a smirk.

“And I said I'd fix you,” she said, flat, not an ounce of sympathy in her voice. Casually flipped the bacon over. “See? I'm fixing you a big, fat breakfast.”

Joel gave her ass a playful squeeze. “So wifed up for Daddy.”

He leaned in again, lips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath her ear. But then—she whipped the spatula up between them, blocking his next move, eyebrows arched. “Joel.”

He deadpanned. “Leela.”

She smacked his chest lightly with the spatula. “Hands off, please.”

Joel hummed, letting his teeth scrape lightly along the shell of her ear. “You loved my hands last night.”

She turned back to the stove. “I love not burning breakfast.”

Joel reached past her and plucked the spatula from her fingers. “I got this,” he murmured, tugging her even closer. “You just take it easy.”

Leela glanced him up and down, assessing. Gave him one last suspicious peek before backing away. Joel shook his head, grinning to himself as he took over the stove, the sound of bacon sizzling beneath his hand.

She smothered a laugh, already reaching for the coffee pot. “Look at that—Joel Miller making something that isn’t coffee for once.”

He huffed, shaking his head. “You’ve been around Tommy way too much. Sounding like that little fucker.”

Not that Joel was showing off. But—yeah. He was. Look, he'd been practising for weeks just to impress her.

He cracked two eggs, smooth and clean, and whisked them up quick with a fork. Salted them good, peppered them up. Poured them into the pan, waited just long enough for the edges to set, then, wrist flick—cue the flip. Boom. Scraped them right onto her plate, firm, perfectly golden, just the way she liked them. Unlike the way he liked them—over-easy, yolk spilling out over the toast.

Leela, however, unimpressed, lifted a brow.

Joel leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, chin ticking up. Go on. Say it.

She just smirked, cutting into the eggs. “Do you want a medal for making eggs?”

He reached up to brush a thumb over her bottom lip. “A gold one to bite on.”

She rolled her eyes. But the corner of her mouth twitched, betraying her.

Joel turned away, glancing out the screen door behind him. A fresh dusting of snow was still coming down in slow, lazy drifts.

Maya was still tangled in the blackberry brambles, completely ignoring the fresh scratches blooming on her wrists and a tiny cut on her cheek. She was in deep, reaching further, wincing every now and then, but never stopping. Stubborn little thing.

“Maya, get your peanut butt in here before you freeze,” he called.

She turned to look at him, grinning wide, cheeks puffed out, berry-stained. “Mmmmno.”

Joel clicked his tongue. “Mm. Fine.” He reached for the screen door lock and latched it shut. “Stay the hell outside.”

For a second, she just blinked at him, unbothered. But then—realization. Her little fingers flexed in the air, and suddenly she was moving. She ran to the deck, curls bouncing, using all her might to clamber up the three little steps, baby boots thunking, hands full of berries.

“Da-da?” she called like she'd just been betrayed.

Joel ignored her, reaching for the coffee pot instead. Poured himself a slow cup, breathed deep, and let the steam curl up in ribbons into the morning air.

“Da-da!” Maya exclaimed. Then, for backup—“Mama, mama!”

Joel barely glanced up. “Mama's on my side. You got yourself into this, baby girl. Shoulda listened to me.”

Joel hid his smirk behind the rim of his mug, watching from the corner of his eye as Maya tiptoed, huffing and whining, arms stretched high, teeny arms attempting to stretch for the knob. Not a single bit of regret.

“Oh, Joel, open the door. Poor thing,” Leela murmured to him.

He pointed at her from his mug-holding hand. “Don't fall for that. It's what she wants. Goddamn spoilt for trouble.”

But he was weak. Weak and pathetic. But it was about to happen, like the countless other times before.

Maya had made a calculated decision: push Daddy’s patience right up to the edge. Dangle her toes over the line, and make eye contact while doing it. Then—the grand fucking finale.

A full-bodied, betrayed-to-their-core meltdown. Bottom lip trembling, berries angrily tossed to the wooden boards, brows screwing together, a cry pulling straight from her little belly. She was a genius little manipulator. Joel could practically see the gears turning in her head—how long she could hold out, how fast she could weaponize those big, Bambi-brown eyes.

And, she won. Every single time.

Joel sighed, already defeated, and set his coffee down. He reached for the lock, slow, resisting, but really? He was already gone.

The second he nudged the door open, Maya barreled inside, practically collapsing against his legs, her whole little body shaking with the effort of her Oscar-worthy sobs.

She clung to his jeans, damp little fingers curling into the fabric like she’d just narrowly survived the harshest winter known to man.

“Da-da,” she wept, mouth wide, tears wetting her cheeks, dramatic as hell.

Joel sighed, rubbing a rough palm over his face before scooping her up. “C’mere.”

The second she landed in his arms, Maya melted. Like the tragedy of the last thirty seconds had never even happened.

She sank into him, berry-stained mouth pressing into his collarbone, curls tickling his neck, those sticky little hands smushing his face between them, kneading at his scruff and cheeks like he was made of playdough.

Joel sighed, tilting his head back against the fridge. “You’re playin’ me every time, baby girl.”

Maya beamed up at him, all wet cheeks and gap-toothed triumph. It was disgusting, the absolute glee. She hadn’t just won—she’d obliterated him.

Leela, across the kitchen, was no help whatsoever. Just sipped her coffee real slow, entirely too pleased.

Joel huffed, shaking his head, but pulled Maya closer anyway, pressing a grumbling kiss to her curls. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t even say it.”

Leela smirked, the corner of her mouth twitching up as she lifted her cup to her lips. “Didn’t have to.”

Soon enough, he'd ushered himself to the breakfast nook, settling back, bench creaking softly beneath him. The cushion had lost some of its firmness, the corners curling, fabric rubbed raw from the times Maya had clambered across it in her little socks, chasing sparrows like a puppy.

Leela paddled close behind, carrying her breakfast and Maya's, baby girl at her feet, clutching her dress, face wiped clean now, and coughing a little from the cold.

Joel shifted, noticing that cough, rubbing a hand over his thigh. “Heater’s kickin’ on kinda slow again.”

Leela set the bowls down, gave him a look. “You mean the one you said didn’t need fixing?”

“Didn’t need fixin’ last week,” he muttered.

Grabbing his fork, ready to dig into his plate, piled high with a nice strip of sausage, two still-warm eggs, bacon crispy the way he liked ot, and a slice of sourdough toast, butter melting into the notches.

An arm outstretched behind Leela, he took in his surroundings.

His kitchen ahead, he singled out as the best space in the house.

Leela's favourite room, even if she spent half her time holed up in that damn basement of hers. He loved how neat she kept it, how it spoke of her quiet rituals and the neatness that came from knowing where everything was. Labelled jars and boxes stacked just right in her lazy cursive scrawl, the intricate little mushroom motif on the backsplash tile, the clean knives slotted in by height, the copper pots and pans hanging scratched and gleaming from the rack above the island.

And his favourite—the wall of ceramic cups, all different colours and shapes, none of which she ever used, but kept up there like some kind of shrine. Collecting dust in their cubical brackets.

He had his own, though. A deep green mug, wide enough to sit firm in his palm, heavy enough to make him feel like he had a real grip in the mornings. She always made sure it was there for him, even if she never said it outright. Just like how she never touched his coffee spoon when she was rearranging the drawers, or how she was working on fixing up that old, fancy cappuccino machine for him.

Their things sat together now. His mug was next to hers on the rack, the dark red one with the tiny chip at the rim, the one she never let go of. His plate stacked alongside hers—hers finer, older, precious, from a set that had belonged to her mother.

Maya’s, though, had their own space. Lined up tidy and sterile, like Leela wanted to keep them untouched by the rest of the house. Kid-sized bowls and ceramic cups, all in soft, neutral colours, because Maya didn’t like anything too bright.

His plate sat untouched. The coffee had gone lukewarm. But he couldn’t take his eyes off them—his girls.

Leela sat across from him, knees drawn close under the table, her nightdress brushing her thighs. Her face was turned down toward Maya, and her hands moved steadily—one curled around a little ceramic bowl, the other bringing a tiny silver spoon up to Maya’s mouth.

Blended porridge. A morning essential for baby girl. With blackberries smashed into near-purple. He winced internally—so many seeds. Maybe he shouldn't have planted those things, it could hurt her little stomach. But Maya took it all. Obedient for once, chewing thoughtfully, her sticky fingers tapping against the wood of the table as she babbled to her mama between bites.

She was pointing to her scratches. “Ow—... mm-mean be-lli-es, Mama. See, see. Ow.”

“I know, baby,” Leela murmured, brushing a thumb across Maya’s cheek where a thorn scratch had already crusted over. “You were so brave. But you’ve got to wait for Da-da.”

“Wait fo' da-da,” Maya repeated dutifully, even as she reached for another bite.

Joel grinned into his mug.

He wanted to take a picture. Not with a camera—Christ, no. That’d be too easy. He wanted to etch it with a chisel. Burn it straight into his soul. Freeze this one sliver of morning like amber, hold it somewhere eternal, so even when time came clawing, when the world turned crueller—this would still be there. Untouched.

The light was soft, pouring in through the frost-laced window, silvering everything it touched. It kissed the slope of Leela’s cheekbone, caught the copper in her lashes. And Maya—God, Maya. Her curls were lit like a halo, tiny nails still carrying the stains of her berry mischiefs, lips sticky as she babbled away.

The record player crackled from the living room, some funky rap tune threading through the air, not to his taste. Yet, everything felt warm. Real. Good.

It was so much. Too much.

And he knew, with that dull ache behind his ribs, that it wouldn’t last forever. Mornings like this—soft, slow, untouched by worry—were the rarest kind. The kind the world didn’t let a man keep. So he held onto it. White-knuckled.

He watched as Leela licked the corner of her thumb and gently wiped a smear of berry from Maya’s chin. Watched as Maya leaned into the touch, eyes half-lidded, content as a cat in the sun. No resistance. No fear. Just easy love.

Joel leaned back slightly, coffee cooling between his fingers, the other hand resting low over his stomach—where the echo of last night still thrummed. Her. All her. He would die for that trust if he had to.

“Eat your food, Daddy,” Leela warned, not looking up, voice lilting with that dry affection she saved just for him. “You’ll be a shell of a man by noon.”

Joel grunted, winking when that little honeyed nickname hit him. “You sucked the life outta me, girl. Least you could do is let me sit here and suffer.”

Leela huffed a sigh, but her smile lingered, tucked in the corner of her mouth like a secret.

He finally dug in, scooping a forkful of still-warm eggs, letting the bite settle on his tongue. The bacon was perfect—salty, crisp, just the way he liked it. Maya was halfway through her toast, now telling her mama some long, winding tale about a squirrel she saw yesterday, and Leela listened with full attention, humming at the right parts, dabbing honey from the corner of her mouth with a towel.

Joel soaked it all in, and he didn’t want to move.

Didn’t want to breathe too deep, like the air might shift and knock it all loose—the quiet, the sweetness, the warmth bleeding in through the windows.

But Joel wasn’t the kind of man who got to stay still for long, was he?

Eventually, he set the mug down carefully, as if the sound of it touching the table might wake the morning from whatever fragile spell it was under. Then he pushed up from the bench with a grunt, his hand bracing the table as his knees cracked under him.

“Joel? Want me to get something for you?” she asked, confused.

He waved her off. “Nah, carry on, sweetheart. I'll be right back, gonna check on this damn heater.”

She smiled at him, knowing. “I'll do it later. Come, sit, relax. Sun's so nice today.”

He swallowed, shaking his head. “I got this.”

He crossed behind Leela, brushing her shoulder as he passed—just enough to feel the slope of her bones under his palm—and slipped down the hall, heading for the closet under the stairs.

The latch always stuck, just a little. Had to lift it from the bottom and pull at a slant. He didn’t turn on the light. Just let the shadows welcome him in.

The pack was right where he’d left it, tucked behind the empty storage crate of Christmas stuff they hadn’t gotten around to putting back in the attic. He dragged it out, careful not to let the canvas scrape the walls or alert Leela to check on him.

It was already half-packed. It had been for weeks now.

He crouched, fingers moving over the supplies like a checklist he’d memorized. Water tabs, ammo, and the last map Tommy drew for him. Flashlight. Spare batteries. A couple of cans of rations to last him a few weeks.

Joel lingered, fished in the side pouch for the small tin of oil he used for the revolver. Checked it, capped it, slipped it back.

It wasn’t that he wanted to leave. But he didn’t know what waited for him in LA. Didn’t know if there was anything real left to hope for at all.

And if it went bad… he wouldn’t let it come back here. Wouldn’t let it bleed into his house. Into Leela’s clean little kitchen, or the sound of Maya’s laugh echoing down the hallway.

He tugged the zipper closed and stood. Paused, just for a second. Just to look around. The light from the kitchen reached a little down the hall, spilling across the hardwood. He could hear Leela’s laughing voice, trying to follow the lyrics to the rap song while Maya jabbered along with her.

He squeezed his palm to the wall, breathing in, breathing deep, breathing through, breathing out. He rubbed at the space near his heart, feeling that invisible crack, soothing it.

No turning back now.

Then he turned, and quietly tucked the bag back into place.

Joel hadn’t slept. Hadn’t even laid down. There was no use pretending.

Behind his shaking shoulders, the house was still.

That rare kind of stillness that only came in the dark hours before dawn, when even the wind didn’t stir and the world felt like it was holding its breath, suspended, waiting for someone to move first.

Joel didn't.

He stood by the front door, dressed head to toe, gear strapped and jacket zipped. Boots laced tight. Holsters fitted snug, a silent verdict. His pack was full—every inch packed with supplies he might need, every pocket loaded with things he couldn’t risk forgetting. His rifle was slung across it, waiting.

He wasn’t.

His hand flexed at his side, then curled into a fist. He looked at it like it belonged to someone else. Now, if he picked it up, he wouldn’t be Joel anymore. Just a man on a mission. Just another ghost on the road.

He should’ve been gone already, nearly an hour ago. Hell, he told himself he’d leave before the light even touched the windows. He’d promised himself it’d be clean. Sharp. One quick motion. No dragging feet. No second thoughts. No lingering.

But his boots didn’t move.

Instead, he turned—slow, heavy-footed, drawing himself down the hallway, deeper into the house. Like his body was already mourning something his mind refused to name.

He didn’t need to count doors and stairs. His feet knew where to go. He’d walked this very path a hundred times—midnight walks with a bottle in one hand and a wailing baby in the other. The boards beneath his feet creaked like they remembered him.

The nursery door sat half-open, the smallest sliver of the blue blush of pre-dawn bleeding out from the crack beneath. He paused just outside, staring at the grain of the wood like it might rise up and stop him.

His hand hovered over the doorknob for a long time. Too long. Like the wood was hot. Like if he opened it, he wouldn’t be able to walk back out.

Then, with a soft creak, he pushed it open.

The room was quiet but not silent. The hush of the old white noise machine whirred low, and the radiator let out the occasional soft ping, heating the small space with its familiar rhythm, the faint scent of powder and old baby soap. Warm. Lived-in. Gentle.

And in the center of it, curled on her side beneath a blanket patterned with little stars, was Maya.

Joel's heart cracked wide open, giving a low throb.

She was chaos and peace, both at once—one sock halfway off, curls sticking up in every direction, her pacifier lost somewhere on the mattress. Her tiny hand was balled into a fist near her face, her mouth slightly open as she breathed in soft, fluttery snores.

His little miracle.

He stepped in quiet, like the floor itself was sacred, like the air around her might shatter if he breathed too loud. He crouched beside the crib, elbows resting on the railing, just watching her.

A full year of her. Not enough time, not nearly enough. A whole year of firsts and fumbling through fatherhood again. Every moment—her first laugh, her first steps, the first time she reached for him—etched into him like blotches.

And now he might miss the rest.

He wouldn’t see her walk to school with her funny backpack. Wouldn’t hear her say daddy like she really meant it. Wouldn’t see her sing, or scowl like her mama, or run barefoot through the summer grass without holding his hand.

And just like that, the consequences came crashing down.

All the things she’d never know.

If he didn’t come back… she wouldn’t remember him. Not really.

She’d grow up with photos from the Polaroids, old videos on the camcorder. Stories Leela would try to tell—how he always smelled like cedar and flannel, how he was the best singer in Jackson, how he played her favourite ‘comma, comma’ song every night on the porch, soft and slow, until she was giggling her head off on his lap.

Maybe she'd even recall the scratch of his beard when he kissed her cheek goodnight. The feel of his calloused thumb brushing her palm as she fell asleep. Remember how he had brushed her teeth with the gentlest fingers, even when she hated it, or how she liked to hold the clippers when he trimmed her tiny nails, so she felt like she was helping.

But not him. Not the way he knew her.

Not the way he knew how she loved the blackberry brambles behind the house. How she'd squeal and wiggle when he pretended to eat her fingers. How she'd copy everything he did—from the way he wiped his mouth after a sip of beer to the way he said goddammit when he stubbed his toe.

She'd grow up. Learn to read. Learn to argue. Learn to sing. Maybe pick up a guitar like he always swore he’d teach her. And she'd be brilliant. Smartass like her mama. Strong like her too.

And maybe… maybe she’d find bits of him in the quiet moments. In her love of old country songs. In the way she counted the stars. In the way she looked at her hands and wondered where she came from.

He reached down, brushing her tiny fist with his fingertip. None of that would be him.

Her palm twitched, then curled her fingers around his in a soft, instinctive squeeze. Still asleep.

Joel closed his eyes when he felt them sting. “Hey now,” he murmured, barely a whisper. “Don’t do that.”

He leaned down, nose brushing her cheek, and pressed the gentlest kiss to her skin.

She made a tiny noise in her throat, face scrunching as she rolled away, curling into her blanket again.

Goddamn it all. Goddamn this world. Already, his baby girl had carved a place so deep into his soul he couldn’t tell where she ended and he began.

He wiped at his face with the heel of his hand, stifling a chesty cough, then reached down, rolled up her sock again and gently tucked her foot back under the blanket.

“Be nice to your mama ‘til I get back,” he whispered, voice thick, broken down to gravel. His throat closed around the rest. The part he couldn’t say. If I don’t come back.

He went on quietly, breaking. “You hear me? Be good, baby girl.”

He slowly stood back up, bones aching from more than just age, shoulders screaming beneath the weight he hadn’t even picked up yet.

Back at the door, he paused. Turned for one last look. Maya, curled up safe. Unknowing. A piece of his heart he couldn’t take with him.

He stepped back into the hall and turned his eyes toward their bedroom.

The door was wide open. It was worse, somehow. If she’d closed it, maybe it would’ve hurt less. Of all the times he despised open doors...

Leela. His partner. His wife. The smartest goddamn person he’d ever known. And she didn’t even know he was leaving. Didn’t know that he was taking her work—the most beautiful thing she’d ever made, apart from their daughter—and walking it straight into the fire.

Yet there she was—sound asleep on her side, arm resting in the warm, empty space he should’ve been. Her braid trailed over the pillow, thick and unraveled, like a line drawn he couldn't cross. The curve of her waist beneath the blankets rose and fell with every slow breath. Her hand twitched, like it always did when she was dreaming.

He didn’t go in. He didn’t kiss her goodbye.

It was too much. Too cruel.

If he kissed her now, he wouldn’t leave. If she opened her eyes, if she asked him to stay, he’d give up everything. Just to crumble and crawl back under those sheets and pretend the world or these fucking Firefly shits in LA didn’t exist. Pretend the world hadn’t started turning again, like it always did—hungry, relentless, cruel.

The responsibility of the decision sat in his chest like a millstone.

He couldn’t tell Leela.

Because if he did, she’d go. She’d insist. Perhaps, fight back. She’d kiss Maya goodbye and pull her braid back, swing on a measly backpack, and look him in the eye and say, “If there’s a chance to make the world better, I’m going.”

And he’d never stop her. Couldn’t stop her.

So he didn’t give her the choice in the first place.

He’d take the burden instead. The road. The fire. The chance of death. Whatever waited in LA.

If the Fireflies were even real. If this wasn’t just another cruel lie—bait strung up on rusted faith. If all of this wasn’t just another fucking false hope strung up like bait.

But Joel had already seen the ending. He'd already stood in that surgery ward, gun in his hand, red lights flashing, Ellie bleeding somewhere behind a locked door while surgeons prepared to carve hope out of her brain.

He wasn’t doing it again. He couldn’t.

That’s why he didn’t tell Leela.

Why he packed the notebook in secret. Wrapped it in cloth and slid it between rations and bullets, behind the photo of Maya with jam on her cheeks.

Because this wasn’t just numbers. It was her life's work. Her mind. Her goddamn heart, her family's legacy, scrawled in ink—proof that she’d cracked something open the world had long given up on. Proof that she could change everything.

He didn’t know what was left anymore. All he knew was that he couldn’t let the two people he loved most take that risk.

So it would be him. Not Ellie. Not Leela. Him.

If someone was going to carry that discovery to L.A.—risk being gutted, betrayed, used—it was going to be him.

Not the girl he’d once saved. Not the woman he loved. Not his baby girl.

Because they deserved to live. Deserved to wake up in warm beds. To feed Maya mashed pears and read her books, and braid her hair. Deserved time and softness and mornings without fear.

The man who started it. The man who lied to keep Ellie safe. The man who couldn’t bear to see that look on Leela’s face if she had to choose between her family and her fight.

He’d choose for her.

If Leela found out—if it broke her, if she hated him for it, if she never forgave him—so be it. At least she’d be alive.

Accepting that, however half-hearted, Joel stepped out, easing the door shut behind him until it clicked. He stood in the hallway for a second, just breathing deep. Eyes on the wood.

Then he bent down, shouldered the pack, swung the rifle into place.

And without another sound, with the first breath of dawn just starting to warm the sky, Joel Miller walked out into the dark, leaving behind the only thing that ever made him believe the world might still be good.

Leela darling,

I’m sorry. I had to go. It’s something I need to do. NOT you.

I took the notebooks and the recorder. I know you’d want to be the one to carry it. I know you’d try but I can’t let you. Not with Maya. Not after everything.

I - I lo - I wanted to find the right -I wish things were -Don't hate -I

This isn't about not trusting you. It’s about loving you too goddamn much to let you die.

If I don't make it back - If I die - If -

I can’t risk you. Not again. I’d rather it be me. So let me do this for you.

Please keep our baby girl safe. I’ll find my way back to you in a bit. I promise. I love you.

—J

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