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httpsastral · 11 days ago

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It Only Falls Into Place When You're Falling To Pieces

Summary: There are a lot of people you thought would live forever. You swore Joel would be one of them.

Pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ HEAVY ANGST, Fluff, Crying, Tears, Sadness, Apocalypse, Cordyceps, Infected, Major Character Death(s), Funerals, Grief, PTSD, Depression, Kissing, Blood, Morgue, Star-Crossed Lovers, TLOU 2 Spoilers,

Word Count: 7.7k

A/N: Fml. I know that you know I don’t usually write angst, but fuck man, I need to mourn and maybe so do you… God I'm so sad. Like we knew the story and how it would end for Joel. Even if you think you're ready... But I know this from experience, but even if you've braced yourself, brutality like this... will hurt a lot.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Still by Noah Kahan

Joel Miller Masterlist | MAIN MASTERLIST |

WYOMING, JACKSON — 2029

The mornings were slow in Jackson. Slow in a way that made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t living in the end times anymore.

Joel had a habit of waking up before you. Not out of routine or discipline, but out of muscle memory. The kind that sticks even when the world’s long since changed.

Sometimes, he made coffee. Sometimes, he just sat at the table, plucking at his guitar in soft, incomplete chords while the sun started to push through the windows. The house you shared wasn’t big or fancy. But it was warm. It was quiet. It had his coat always draped over the same chair, his boots by the door, the scent of cedar and pine from the little woodworking studio in one of the rooms.

It had Joel.

You found yourself drifting toward him more often than not. Whether he was sanding a piece of maple or trying to shape a leg for a rocking chair he swore he’d finish someday, he let you linger. You’d sit on the bench next to him, fingers curled around a warm mug. He’d hand you scraps to practice carving, smiling softly when you accidentally broke off a corner.

“‘S alright,” he’d murmur, brushing sawdust off your cheek with a thumb. “Takes time.”

Everything with Joel took time.

Loving him. Learning him. Earning the space between his heart and the pain he never quite put into words.

But the quiet in Jackson gave you time. Time to laugh with him over burned dinners, to slow dance in the kitchen when he played a familiar tune, to lay on the couch with your head on his chest while he told you about old country songs and the guitar he lost in Austin.

And it gave him time, too.

Time to lower his walls. To see you not as a danger, but as something steady—something soft he could rest in. Time to share pieces of himself he rarely offered to anyone, fragile corners he'd kept locked away.

He would look at you and think, If I were braver. If I could just say it.

He’d imagine the words on his tongue, how they’d change everything the second they left his mouth. But he wasn’t ready—not brave enough, not honest enough.

So he just looked at you instead.

And maybe you knew. Maybe you always knew.

Because he did love you.

In quiet, consistent ways. In the way he made your coffee just how you liked it. In the way he memorized the sound of your laugh. In every glance, every softened breath, every moment where he didn’t walk away.

He didn’t love you because he was lonely—Joel had long since learned how to survive in the silence.

He loved you because your light made the dark seem less like a prison and more like a place he could leave behind.

It started small.

A found thing—half-buried in the snow behind the stables. You’d been looking for spare nails in a busted old toolbox when you saw it: a film camera. Dusty, scratched up, but the click still worked. You brought it back like a prize.

Joel looked up from the guitar he was restringing, brow furrowed. “You went diggin’ around in that old junkyard again?”

You grinned, breath fogging the air. “Found treasure.”

He squinted at the thing in your hand like it might bite him. “You sure that ain’t just some broken plastic?”

“Only one way to find out.”

He watched you tinker with it all afternoon, wiping the lens clean with your sleeve, warming the roll of film between your palms to bring it back to life. You caught him staring more than once—chin propped in his hand, fingers idle on the frets of a guitar he’d been meaning to finish tuning.

When it finally worked, you snapped a picture of the sunset from your porch. Then one of his back as he worked, his brow furrowed in concentration, sleeves rolled up, calloused hands steady over the worn wood.

You took one of his profile too. He’d been humming low under his breath, unaware.

“Hey,” he said, catching the click. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“You’re handsome when you’re focused.”

He huffed a laugh, but he didn’t stop you when you raised the camera again.

Later that week, you asked him for one together.

“C’mere,” you said, tugging at the front of his jacket. “Just one. You might like the memory someday.”

He looked reluctant, like the idea of being frozen in time made him itch. But he let you lead him into the light. You kissed him on the cheek just as the timer clicked. He smiled, wide and surprised and real.

The photo came out a little blurry. But your mouth was pressed to his skin, his eyes crinkled with something close to joy. You kept it in your coat pocket like it might keep you warm.

Sometimes, he came into the kitchen just to touch you.

No reason. No words. Just drawn to you like muscle memory.

You’d be standing at the counter, elbow-deep in something mundane—rinsing mugs, slicing vegetables, stirring whatever was bubbling in the pot—when suddenly there’d be a shift in the air behind you. A warmth. A quiet presence.

Then, Joel’s arms would wind around your waist, firm and steady, palms pressing low on your stomach, right through the thin fabric of your shirt. His chest would settle against your back like it belonged there, like you were meant to carry each other’s weight.

“You makin’ somethin’ good?” he’d mumble into your hair, voice rough with sleep or fresh air or maybe just the softness you always brought out of him.

You barely had time to answer before you’d feel it—his nose brushing just beneath your ear, his scruff scratching tender against your neck. The kind of touch that made the air feel thick with heat and memory.

“You smell like cinnamon,” he whispered one evening, lips grazing the spot where your jaw met your throat.

You stilled, blinking down at the spoon in your hand. “You been sniffin’ me, Miller?”

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Can’t help it,” he murmured, slow and sweet, like molasses in summer. “You’re intoxicatin’, darlin’. Makes a man forget what he came in here for.”

His mouth followed the curve of your neck, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss against your pulse. Slow. Patient. Like he had all the time in the world to worship you.

You laughed then, breath catching in your throat. It wasn’t loud—it didn’t need to be. Just a soft, breathless sound that filled the space between your bodies as you leaned back into him, hips settling against his.

The laughter didn’t last long. It never did when his hands started to move—one curling around your hip, the other slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin.

The spoon slipped from your fingers and clattered into the sink, forgotten.

You turned slightly, enough to meet his eyes, and whispered, “The stew’s gonna burn.”

Joel kissed the corner of your mouth, smiling just enough to be trouble.

“Let it.”

One night, he kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

It was late, storm tapping at the windows, fire burning low. You were tucked beneath his arm on the couch, legs over his lap, your hand tucked into the worn flannel of his shirt. He kissed you once, then again, then a hundred more times.

Short, sweet little things.

He kissed your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. You giggled, cheeks hurting from how hard you were smiling.

“Joel,” you whispered, nose scrunched, lips twitching. “What are you doing?”

His palms cradled your face like you were something delicate. Like he’d break if he didn’t touch you just right.

“Memorizing you,” he said. Then he kissed the giggle right off your lips.

Your hands curled in his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, soft and slow, lips sliding together like they belonged there.

And when he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, his voice came out low and honest, barely above a breath:

“You’re everythin’ darlin’.”

He didn’t say he loved you.

Not with words.

But in every quiet moment, every gentle touch, every photo you took that he let you keep—he showed you.

And somehow, that meant more.

Love shows up in the quiet moments with Joel. Always has been.

Not in grand declarations or fireworks. Not in promises whispered beneath starlight or etched into stone. No, with Joel, love slips in softly—through the cracks of everyday life, in the pauses between sentences, in the silence he lets you share without needing to fill it. It’s there when the world is loud, and he chooses to be quiet with you. When everything aches and he doesn’t try to fix it—just stays.

It’s the way your hand always finds his, especially when he’s got that look about him—brows drawn low, eyes shadowed, body still as a storm about to break. You’ve come to know it well, that kind of tension that settles in his shoulders like he’s bracing against something only he can see. The kind of stillness that doesn’t feel like peace, but like he’s waiting to run or fight or fall apart.

So you reach for him.

You don’t announce it, don’t make a show of it. Just slide your hand into his, palm against his rough calloused skin, fingers curling between his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Because it is. Because you’ve done this before, countless times. Every time the ghosts get too loud or the silence feels too sharp. You hold his hand and he lets you, and that’s how you know—how you always know—he’s letting you in again.

He doesn’t say anything, not at first. Just breathes out slow, like your touch takes some of the weight off, even if it’s just a fraction. His jaw unclenches. His shoulders drop a little. You can feel it—the shift, the surrender, the trust.

“Y’okay?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, soft enough that it could be mistaken for wind slipping through the seams of the old house, rustling the curtains just enough to remind you that the world is still turning outside these walls.

Joel looks at you. Not a glance. A real look. The kind that lingers. The kind that says more than words ever could. His eyes are tired, but there’s something else there too—something quieter, gentler, something that only ever surfaces around you.

His thumb moves in a slow arc across your knuckles, and when he answers, it’s not just with words. It’s in the way his grip tightens slightly, not desperate, just present.

“I am now,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm, frayed at the edges. Like maybe he’s been holding it in all day, maybe even longer. Like your hand in his unlocked something he didn’t know he needed to say.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. You lean into him instead, resting your head on his shoulder, letting the weight of you press gently against him like a tether. Like a promise. His arm slips around you, steady and sure, palm settling at your hip. He presses a kiss into your hair—right at the crown of your head, like a seal, like a prayer, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you.

The room around you is quiet save for the ticking of the clock on the wall and the crackle of the fire. Outside, snow falls soundlessly, blanketing the world in soft white. And inside, it’s warm. Not just from the fire—but from him. From this.

From the way he holds you like you’re something he never thought he’d have again. Like the simple act of your hand in his might keep the darkness at bay for one more night.

With Joel, love doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to.

It just stays.

And that’s always been more than enough.

The mornings are always slow.

Time feels syrup-thick when the sun hasn’t fully crested the horizon yet, and sleep still clings to your limbs like molasses. Your body is heavy, cocooned in the tangle of sheets still warm from the man who slept beside you. The air is cool beyond the bed, but the mattress holds the echo of his heat, and it makes you reluctant to move, even as your senses start to stretch awake.

You shift lazily, one arm reaching across the bed to where Joel had been moments ago. It’s empty now, his absence a soft dip in the mattress, but the scent of him lingers—cedarwood, a trace of leather, the faint hint of salt and earth from yesterday’s long walk back into Jackson. Comforting. Familiar.

You pry one eye open, squinting into the low light. Joel’s already sitting at the edge of the bed, the muscles of his back broad and bare, catching a gentle glint from the early morning haze seeping in through the window. He’s halfway through pulling on his shirt, slow and steady, the way he always is in the mornings. A quiet man doing quiet things.

Without thinking, without even fully waking, your hand slips out from beneath the covers and finds him.

Your fingers wrap loosely around his wrist—barely a tug, just enough to let him know you’re there, still tethered to him. And then you shift closer, burying your face against the small of his back, pressing a soft, languid kiss to the warm skin just above the waistband of his jeans.

“Mmm... good mornin’, Joel,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep, muffled by the skin beneath your lips.

He pauses. Still for a moment, like the warmth of your kiss stopped time. Then he breathes out, slow and fond, and turns slightly—just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His eyes crinkle at the corners, soft with affection, and that familiar crooked smile curves beneath the rough scruff of his jaw.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” His voice is rough and low, like gravel soaked in honey, warm enough to melt straight through your bones.

You hum in response, already halfway to sleep again, forehead resting against his back. The bed creaks softly as he shifts, brushing his hand over your tangled hair in a slow, affectionate stroke. His thumb lingers at your temple, then trails down to the curve of your cheek, gentle and grounding.

“Go on,” he murmurs, bending down to press a kiss into your hair. “Sleep a little longer. I’ll get the fire goin’.”

You don’t answer, not really. Just let out a sigh that sounds like peace and contentment all wrapped into one. He stands slowly, quietly, careful not to disturb the blankets more than necessary, and as he moves toward the hearth, you stay curled in the warmth he left behind—your hand resting in the space where his had been, eyes slipping closed again.

You listen to the familiar rhythm of him moving through the room—boots being tugged on, the scrape of kindling, the gentle snap of a match. The softest clink of metal on stone. And through it all, the quiet knowledge that this is what love is.

Not always words. Not always fire and thunder.

But this.

These mornings. These moments. Him.

Sometimes, when the world gets too loud—even in Jackson—you find yourself gravitating toward him without a thought.

It doesn’t matter if it’s the bustle of the market, the chatter of passing patrols, or just the quiet hum of a too-long day catching up with your bones. Something in your chest tightens, overwhelmed and aching for something quieter, something still. And so you find Joel.

He’s usually somewhere close—he always is. Maybe talking with Tommy, maybe checking the perimeter, maybe just standing there with his arms crossed like he’s holding up the whole damn sky on his back again. But the moment your arms circle around his middle, everything else seems to fall away.

You press yourself into him, chest to his back, arms around his waist, and your face buries instinctively in the crook of his neck. That space between shoulder and jaw where you swear the whole world could stop and you wouldn’t mind. The smell of him hits you instantly—faint cedarwood, worn leather, a trace of smoke from the fire pit, and something else too. Something warm and steady and Joel.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away or ask what’s wrong. He just lets out a quiet hum, low in his chest, and leans back into your touch. His hands find yours where they’re linked around his stomach, thumbs brushing idly over your knuckles. You feel the weight of his chin as he rests it gently on top of your head, and then the press of a kiss into your hair—soft, unthinking, like muscle memory.

It’s the kind of affection that doesn’t ask for attention. Doesn’t need an occasion. It just is.

You breathe him in like you’re trying to anchor yourself. Let your eyes flutter shut. Let the rest of the world blur into background noise.

“I missed this,” you whisper against the warmth of his throat, the words barely more than a sigh. You don’t even mean the moment, exactly—you mean the peace of it. The quiet. The him of it all.

Joel turns his head just a little, enough for the edge of his beard to scratch gently against your forehead. His voice is soft when he replies, but there’s something thick in it, something full.

“You’re right here,” he murmurs. “Ain’t gotta miss a thing.”

You shift your face closer, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. “Sometimes I still do,” you admit.

He nods once, like he gets it without needing you to explain. “Yeah,” he says, his hand trailing up to cup the back of your head. “Me too.”

And for a long moment, neither of you say anything more. You just stand there, wrapped up in each other, while the world spins noisily on around you—too loud, too fast, too much.

But here, in the shelter of his arms, in the crook of his neck, everything is quiet. Everything is enough.

Crowds were never your thing.

Too many people pressed in too close, too many voices overlapping, footsteps echoing off wood and brick. Even in a place like Jackson—safe, familiar—it could still feel like too much. You were used to being on alert, always aware of exits and shadows, always bracing for what could go wrong. Old habits from the world outside didn’t die easily.

Joel wasn’t much better with crowds. Maybe a little quieter about it, a little more practiced at hiding the way his shoulders stiffened when someone brushed past too close. But you’d seen it. The way his jaw would flex when he was trying to be polite but already had one foot out the door in his head. The way his hand sometimes hovered near his belt like he was missing the feel of his rifle.

And yet, here you were.

The town hall was full to bursting, the whole place humming with life. It was some kind of celebration—maybe a harvest, maybe a birthday, maybe people just needed a reason to dance and drink and pretend that the world hadn’t ended outside those walls. Whatever it was, it was loud. Laughter spilled from every corner. Music vibrated through the floorboards. Glasses clinked together and boots stomped in time with the beat.

You stood near the far end of the room, half-heartedly nursing a cup of water, swaying just a little in time with the song playing—more to keep your nerves from buzzing than for enjoyment. You scanned the room like you always did. Faces. Movements. That unconscious search for something familiar, something grounding.

And then your eyes found Joel.

He was on the opposite side of the room, shoulder leaning against a wooden support beam, arms folded loosely across his chest. He hadn’t joined the dance, hadn’t made a plate from the food table. Just stood there, scanning the crowd—and you knew in your bones he’d been looking for you.

When your eyes met, the noise dulled. Not all at once. It didn’t go silent or freeze like in the movies. But it faded. As if the current of the room moved around the two of you instead of through.

You were mid-sip when it happened, your fingers curled around the cool tin cup, lips barely brushing the rim. But as soon as you caught his gaze, you paused.

It wasn’t a grand thing. No sweeping declarations. Just a glance. A quiet, steady look that said you’re here, and I see you, and that’s all I need.

You tilted your head a fraction, the corner of your mouth twitching upward into the kind of smile you only saved for him—small, but true. Your chest softened. Your breath eased.

Across the room, Joel’s lips quirked into that familiar little half-smile, the one that never quite reached both corners of his mouth, but you knew what it meant. He gave a subtle nod. Nothing flashy. Nothing for show.

Just, I see you too.

You held that look for a second longer, your body still surrounded by the warmth and noise and movement of the room, but none of it really touched you. Not in that moment. Not with his gaze wrapped around you like a thread pulled taut across the distance.

And even though no one said a word, something passed between you.

You smile again, this one a little wider, a little softer. A silent message of your own: I’m not going anywhere.

And Joel’s eyes softened like he heard it loud and clear.

You hum sometimes, without even knowing you’re doing it. It just slips out—soft and low, the way wind moves through tall grass. A half-remembered tune from before the world went sideways. Maybe it was from the radio, maybe from your childhood, maybe your mother’s voice singing over the hiss of boiling water. It’s not the melody that matters. It’s the feeling that comes with it—warmth, familiarity, something that once meant home.

Sometimes, when your mind is far away, you whistle it instead. Just a few notes, carried on your breath.

Joel never interrupts. Never tells you to stop or asks you to hush. He just listens—quietly, carefully, like the sound of your humming settles something in him too. Like maybe the song is stitching him back together in places neither of you can quite name.

He’s usually out on the porch when it happens, sitting on the old wooden steps with one of the guitars he’s been fixing up. Strings stretched taut, frets worn smooth by time and hands that once knew chords. His fingers—rough and weathered—move slow and steady as he tunes it. Every so often, he plucks a string, listens, adjusts. The sun casts a soft amber glow across his forearms, painting the scars in gold.

You’re nearby. Always. Curled up with your legs folded beneath you, back resting against one of the porch posts. A blanket draped over your shoulders. You hum like peace lives in your chest and is trying to find its way out.

Joel glances up when he hears it—mid-strum, his brow relaxed, lips parted just slightly like he’s about to say something but doesn’t. He just looks at you for a moment, and everything about him softens. His shoulders drop. The line between his brows disappears. Like the sound of you is the first deep breath he’s taken all day.

“What’s that song?” he asks after a while, his voice breaking the silence like it belongs there. Low and warm, barely above the hush of wind.

You pause, the melody tapering off in your throat. Your eyes flick toward the sky, as if the answer might be waiting somewhere in the clouds.

“Not sure,” you murmur, a smile tugging lazily at the corner of your mouth. “Mama used to sing it when she was cooking. I think it used to be on the radio, too. One of those songs that just… stuck.”

Joel nods, the kind of slow, thoughtful nod that doesn’t need words to follow. He strums another chord, something soft and sweet, and leans back on his elbows.

“Well,” he says, glancing at you with that familiar flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. “Keep goin’. I like it.”

There’s something in the way he says it—something that makes your chest ache in that soft, full kind of way. The kind of ache that’s not about pain at all, but about being known. About being seen and loved for the quiet parts of yourself you didn’t think anyone else noticed.

So you hum again, picking up where you left off. Joel doesn’t look away. He keeps strumming, matching your rhythm now. Not quite harmonizing. Just being there with you, in it.

And for a little while, the world feels like it’s made of nothing but warm wood, old songs, and two people learning how to feel safe again.

You’re curled up together in bed one night, everything quiet except the low pop and crackle of the fire burning in the hearth. The room glows in soft amber and gold, the shadows on the walls swaying like they’re dancing to the rhythm of your breathing. Outside, wind brushes against the windows, but inside, it’s warm. Safe. Still.

Joel lies flat on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped loosely around your waist. You’re pressed into his side, head resting just below his collarbone, your hand lazily combing through his hair—fingertips tracing gentle, aimless patterns. His hair’s soft tonight, freshly washed and still carrying the faint scent of cedar soap and woodsmoke.

Neither of you speaks for a while. There’s no need. Just the hush between heartbeats and the sound of Joel’s steady breathing, slow and even beneath your ear.

“I could stay like this forever,” you whisper eventually, your voice thick with sleep. Each word melts into the warmth of his skin. Your eyes are already slipping closed, lashes brushing his chest. You don’t even know if he hears you.

But then you feel it—Joel’s arm tightening around your waist, his hand sliding up under your shirt just enough to rest against your spine, warm and grounding.

“Then don’t move,” he murmurs, voice rough with tiredness and something gentler, deeper. The kind of softness he only ever shows in moments like this, when the world is quiet and his guard is down. “Ain’t no one tellin’ us to go anywhere.”

You smile into the dark, into the skin of his chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath your cheek. His heartbeat thumps slow and steady, and you swear you could fall asleep to that sound alone.

Joel shifts slightly, just enough to press a kiss into the top of your head. His lips linger there—like a promise more than anything spoken.

“You’re warm,” he mumbles.

“So are you,” you say, voice feather-light.

A comfortable silence settles in again. Your fingers slow in his hair, curling around a soft wave near his temple. His hand stays at your back, thumb drawing idle shapes you’re too sleepy to name.

The fire crackles. The wind hums. And you drift off like that—wrapped up in him, hand still in his hair, the weight of his love wrapped around you like a second blanket. Nothing else matters. Not out there. Not tomorrow. Just this.

Just him.

The temperature dips before the sun even brushes the horizon. The last of the daylight clings to the sky in hazy streaks of orange and violet, but the wind has already turned sharp, biting through the seams of your jacket. You and Joel walk side by side down the path back toward Jackson, boots crunching over patches of frost-laced grass and half-frozen dirt.

You don’t say much—patrols tend to leave a certain kind of quiet between you, a silence that doesn’t need filling. But you can feel the chill starting to settle deep in your bones, your fingers stiff and cheeks raw from the cold. You try to rub your hands together for warmth, but it’s useless. The wind is relentless.

Joel notices, of course. His eyes flick over to you, worried in that subtle way he is—more tension in the jaw, more silence than usual. You know he’s about to offer you his coat or tell you he should’ve brought that extra scarf.

So before he can open his mouth, you reach out and grab a fistful of his jacket.

Without a word, you tug him in. Joel stumbles the smallest step forward, surprised but not resisting. You pull until you're chest to chest, until the warmth of his body bleeds into yours. Your frozen hands slip under the back hem of his coat and find the soft flannel of his shirt underneath, palms pressing flat against the heat of his spine.

“Jesus,” Joel mutters, letting out a breath that puffs white between you, his arms automatically sliding around your waist. “You could’ve just asked for my coat, y’know.”

“But then I wouldn’t be this close,” you reply, chin tilting up, a smile tugging at your lips despite your chattering teeth. “You’re warmer than any jacket.”

Joel huffs a soft laugh, the kind that melts around the edges. He leans in, resting his forehead lightly against yours. “You’re a damn menace,” he says—but his voice is warm and low, thick with affection.

You can feel his fingers pressing into your back, holding you tighter. His nose brushes yours as he tilts his head, and then—soft as snowfall—he kisses you. Once. Then again. And a third time, his lips barely touching yours, quick little pecks that make you laugh and shiver all at once.

“Joel,” you whisper, still grinning, your breath fogging between you both.

“I like the taste of your lips on mine,” he murmurs, the words brushing against your mouth like silk. He says it like a secret. Like it’s always been true.

Then he kisses you again—this time slower, deeper, his hand cradling the back of your head as he pours warmth into you one soft press at a time. The world falls quiet. No wind. No cold. No patrols or gates or the threat of anything waiting in the dark.

Just Joel.

Just this.

When you finally pull apart, you don’t go far. He keeps you close, your fingers still tucked against his back, his breath brushing your temple.

You smile into his collar. “Can we stay like this a little longer?”

He kisses your hair, voice barely above a whisper. “Far as I’m concerned, we can stay like this forever.”

And in that moment, time slows. Your heartbeat settles into the rhythm of his, safe and steady. Warm, despite everything. Because love—real love—isn’t just in the grand gestures. It’s in this. A quiet winter dusk. A jacket shared. The taste of his kiss. The way he holds you like you’re something worth braving the cold for.

Then there’s Ellie.

She was nineteen now. Strong. Sharp-tongued and guarded in the way Joel used to be. You weren’t her mother, and she never treated you like one—but she was curious about you. Distant at first. Then, little by little, she started asking questions. Sitting with you on the porch. Bringing you a book she found and thought you might like.

She and Joel… there were things left unsaid between them. You could feel it like a splinter under the skin. Something tender and unresolved.

He finally told you one night, long after you’d both settled into the quiet comfort of shared sheets and a life you thought might last.

It was after dinner. After the guitar and the laughter. After you’d kissed the corners of his mouth and pulled him into bed.

“I lied to her,” he said, voice hollow.

You blinked in the dark, still half-tangled in sleep. “What?”

Joel’s face was turned toward the ceiling. Still. Tense. “I lied to Ellie. About the Fireflies. About the hospital.”

The room chilled. Your fingers reached for his without hesitation.

“I killed them,” he continued. “Every last one that stood between me and her. ‘Cause they were gonna cut her open. To find a cure.”

He didn’t cry right away. He spoke through gritted teeth, like the guilt was a weight he carried every damn day and had never quite set down.

“She would’ve died. She didn’t know—still doesn’t really. I told her there were others. That she wasn’t the only one. But it was a lie. It’s all a lie.”

You didn’t speak. Just curled into him. Held his hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“She hates me for it,” he whispered.

“No,” you said. “She loves you. She’s angry, but she loves you.”

He shook his head. Silent tears rolled into his hairline. You kissed his shoulder. You stayed up all night, fingers running through his graying hair until his breathing steadied again.

That was the last night he told you something he’d never said out loud.

The screams had long gone silent. All that was left now was smoke. Gunpowder. Blood soaking into snow.

Your boots crunch through it—through the aftermath. Bodies, both friend and foe, lie crumpled like broken marionettes. The streets of Jackson, once humming with quiet life, are now a graveyard.

Tommy had held the line at the south gate. You saw him, blackened with ash and soot, flames dancing in the reflection of his eyes as he lit up a bloater with the last fuel of the flamethrower. His scream—raw, furious—cut through the chaos like a knife. You’d joined the others in the streets, turning bullets on the infected… and eventually, on the bitten.

Some of them you knew by name.

You don’t remember pulling the trigger. You only remember the stillness afterward.

The quiet after the roar.

By the time the last runner was put down, your hands were slick with blood—some of it not your own. And when they called for the dead to be gathered, you helped. You counted.

You lost count.

They winched open the gates sometime after. You were still standing by the old greenhouse-turned-morgue, watching Tommy collapse into Maria’s arms, his body shaking with the weight of what he’d survived.

And then—

The hoofbeats. The shuffle of footsteps. The drag of something heavy behind them.

You turned.

Jesse and Ellie rode in first. Dina followed, all their faces hollowed out by exhaustion and something far worse. Behind their horse trailed a shape wrapped in canvas, dark with frozen blood, limp in the snow.

Ellie’s eyes met yours.

Red-rimmed. Wide. Empty.

And you knew.

You knew.

Your legs gave out beneath you before the thought could fully form. The cold didn’t register. Only the scream that tore out of your throat—animal, guttural. You clawed at the snow, sobbing into the dirt and ice, your lungs heaving like they were trying to break through your ribs.

“No—no—no—!” It came out broken. Like you could undo it just by denying it hard enough.

Tommy grabbed you. Held you back. His own face soaked with tears.

You screamed again. You didn’t care who heard. Didn’t care that you were on your knees in the blood and the snow with your heart ripped open.

Maria stood nearby. Hands pressed to her mouth. Silent.

The bag didn’t move.

He was in there.

Joel.

You want to tear the canvas open. You want it to be a mistake. You want to see his face, alive. Cranky. Loving. Whole.

But you already know.

You don’t know how long you stay like that. How long your sobs echo off the ruined walls of Jackson. You only know this: he felt like home.

And now home is just… gone.

They carry him to the chapel. Ellie disappears inside, Dina trailing her silently. Jesse catches your eye and looks away.

You follow the corpse. Your legs move on their own. There’s nothing left to protect now, no fight to win. You’ve survived—but at what cost?

The snow keeps falling.

And somehow, the world keeps turning.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind. No birdsong, no wind. Just the thick, suffocating kind of silence that wraps around your ribs and squeezes until it feels like you might shatter from the inside out. The kind of silence that doesn’t leave room for breath, or hope.

The makeshift morgue is colder than outside, colder than anything should ever be. Too sterile. Too still. Too many bodies of people you once smiled at in passing. A metal table stands at the corner of the room, and he’s there—Joel—lying beneath a white sheet that feels far too thin. Like if you peeled it back, he’d stir. Grumble about the draft. Ask where his jacket went.

But he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t fucking move.

You sink to your knees beside the table. Wood floor biting into your bones, your hands trembling as they hover just above the edge of the sheet. Your throat burns like it’s been scraped raw from the inside out, but you haven’t said anything. Not really. Not yet.

Tommy sits down beside you, legs bent awkwardly, arms crossed over his chest like if he doesn’t hold himself together, he might fall apart right here with you.

“I don’t wanna say goodbye,” you choke out, voice so broken it barely sounds like yours. Your hands finally touch the edge of the table, and you grip it like a lifeline.

“I know,” Tommy murmurs. He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t try to fix it. Maybe because he knows there’s no fixing this.

You press your forehead against the cold edge of the metal, like maybe if you’re close enough, you’ll feel his warmth again. But there’s nothing. Only the chill of a world that kept turning without him in it.

“I needed him,” you whisper. The words break on your tongue like glass. “I still do. I need his voice—I need his arms. I need him to tell me this is all gonna be okay.”

A sob claws its way out of your chest, jagged and ugly. “He was supposed to be here.”

You think about the way he used to hold you—how his hands fit so easily around your waist, how he’d tug you close like the world outside didn’t exist. You think about his voice, low and rough, whispering “I got you, baby,” when the nightmares got bad. About the way he looked at you, like you were something worth protecting. Like you were home.

He was home.

And now he’s gone. And you’re nothing but a house with the roof torn off, standing in the rain.

“I don’t know how to be in a world that doesn’t have him in it,” you admit, tears falling freely now, soaking into your sleeves. “I was never scared of tomorrow when he was with me.”

Your head turns toward Tommy, eyes rimmed red. “How do I do this?”

He doesn’t answer. He just puts a hand over yours, squeezes it tight. It’s all he can give you, and you take it, even though it’s not the hand you want.

You close your eyes, breathing in like maybe you’ll catch some trace of him. Leather. Cedar. That soap he used when he tried to be fancy. But there’s nothing. Nothing but the dull antiseptic of this godforsaken room.

“I thought I knew grief,” you whisper. “But this… this is a whole new kind of broken.”

And it is. It’s grief with no bottom. No edges. No map. Like walking into a fog and never coming back out.

You reach up, finally, trembling fingers lifting the edge of the sheet.

You don’t pull it back.

You just press your palm over where you know his heart used to beat.

And you stay there, frozen in time, whispering his name like a prayer. Like if you say it enough, he might come back.

“Joel…”

He doesn’t.

And you know—no matter how many tomorrows come—you’ll miss him in every single one.

Because he wasn’t just the love of your life.

He was your life.

And now, all that’s left is the silence.

It’s three days later when Tommy finds you.

You haven’t spoken much since that day. Just shadows under your eyes and silence on your lips. People leave flowers near the mailbox. You go through the motions—eating when someone puts food in front of you, lying down when your legs give out—but you’re not really here.

You’re sitting on Joel’s porch when he approaches. Your knees are drawn to your chest, your hands wrapped in the sleeves of a jacket that still smells like him. It’s too big, and it doesn’t make you feel any less hollow.

Tommy stands in front of you for a moment, quiet.

Then he lowers himself to sit on the step beside you.

“I ain’t sure if now’s the right time,” he says, voice low. Rough. “But he… he asked me to give you somethin’. If…”

You look at him. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to. You both know how it ends.

Your heart stops. And then starts again, slower. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small envelope—folded and worn soft at the edges like it had been carried for a long time.

Your name is on it.

Your handwriting. Joel’s writing. It’s him. It's him.

Your fingers are shaking as you take it.

“I didn’t read it,” Tommy says, eyes on the horizon. “Didn’t wanna. Figured that was for you.”

Inside the envelope is a single piece of paper, folded once.

And a gold band.

Simple. Plain. No diamonds or carvings. Just a ring. One he probably bartered for quietly. One he probably kept in his pocket, maybe touched it when he thought about you. One he never got to give you.

Your vision blurs instantly.

The paper trembles in your hands as you unfold it. The ink is smudged in one corner—Joel had probably written it with those big hands, careful and slow. Trying to say something final in a way that didn’t feel like goodbye.

Your eyes find the first words.

Hey, baby.

If you’re reading this… then I’m not where I should be. I’m sorry.

God, I didn’t wanna write this. Been puttin’ it off for weeks. But the way this world is… well, you and I both know it don’t always give you time to say things out loud.

So I’m writin’ ‘em now.

First thing—I love you. You probably know that already. Hell, I’ve said it in a hundred different ways without ever sayin’ the words. In the way I hold you. The way I listen to you hum that song. The way I breathe easier when you’re near.

You gave me something I thought I didn’t deserve. Peace. A second chance. A home.

I hope I gave you the same.

Second thing—you’ll find a ring with this letter. Nothin’ fancy. I wanted to give it to you proper. Maybe on the porch. Maybe by the fire. Just… you and me. I had all these words planned. But none of ‘em matter now.

Just know this—I would’ve asked you to be mine. Not ‘cause I needed to prove anything. But because you already were. In every way that counts.

And I wanted the world to know.

I wanted to grow old with you. Wanted to find out what your hair looks like when it’s all grey. Wanted to kiss you goodnight a thousand more times.

I wanted all of it.

But if I didn’t make it—if you’re readin’ this now—I need you to do something for me.

Live.

Please. Don’t let this break you.

You got too much light in you to burn out now.

So wear the ring, if it helps. Or don’t. Keep it in your pocket. Toss it in the river. It’s yours, either way.

You’ll always be mine.

Forever and then some,

Joel

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until Tommy places a hand on your back, steadying you as the weight of the words crushes you from the inside out.

The ring glints in your palm, catching the dying light of the day.

You bring it to your lips, kiss it once, then curl it into your fist and press it against your heart.

“I would’ve said yes,” you whisper into the air, broken and breathless. “I would’ve said yes a thousand times.”

And the wind moves through the trees like it’s carrying the words to him—wherever he is.

Because love like that doesn’t die.

It just waits.

It lingers in the quiet. In the echo of footsteps that aren’t his. In the smell of cedar and leather that still clings to the collar of his coat. It stays tucked in the corners of every room he touched, every breath he took beside you.

You will mourn him forever. You will miss him every minute.

Your hands will grow old holding a photograph of the two of you—sunlight on your faces, his arm around your shoulders like he always meant to keep you safe. Your bones will ache with the shape of him, your soul carved hollow where he used to be.

And when your time comes, when the world fades soft and slow at the edges, you’ll go with his name dancing on your lips. A whisper. A promise.

Because some loves aren’t meant to end.

Only to be found again.

#i'm not okay #my shayla #god I'm sobbing

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