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capuccinodoll · 2 days ago

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— A haunted body, part three: "You and me, for evermore" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (jackson!joel x f!reader)

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— Chapter summary: You show up at the office the day after the argument with Joel. And he doesn’t seem all that surprised to see you. But the morning stretches on, and something makes him soften. wc: 7k

A/N: This one’s a short one (by comparison lol). I know you love a slow burn, babies, but get ready for what’s coming after this. Don't forget to let me know your opinion in the comments, it helps me a lot! <3 (TAG LIST OPEN) (also, if you asked me to tag u but I didn't, please dm me to let me know!)

Jackson. The next morning.

The door was already open when you reached the office. A low hum filled the building, muffled voices drifting in from the hallway, boots moving across wooden floors, someone laughing, distantly. It was barely eight, and the morning light came in gray and pale through the windows, casting long stripes across the floor.

Inside, Joel and Tommy were mid-conversation. They didn’t look up right away. Joel was leaning against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, his voice low and vaguely irritated. Tommy stood opposite him, nodding, a hand resting casually on his hip.

“Good morning,” you said, careful not to interrupt too loudly, a soft smile tugging at your mouth more out of habit than anything else.

Tommy turned toward you almost immediately, his face lighting up a little.

“Morning, Snow.”

You didn’t need to meet Joel’s eyes to know he was already watching you. You could feel it—sharp, unwavering. When you glanced up, briefly, it was confirmed: his gaze didn’t falter until you’d crossed the room and sat down at your desk. There was no frown on his face, no outward show of irritation, but something about the set of his jaw and the quiet intensity in his eyes felt unmistakably like resentment—or maybe something harder.

You slipped your coat off and draped it over the back of your chair. The conversation between the brothers continued, unbroken. Joel’s tone was clipped now, gruff and practical, laced with annoyance.

“We don’t have the time,” he was saying, gesturing vaguely. “Not for this many new people. We’re stretched thin already.”

Tommy pushed back, calmly. “Give it a week, maybe two. We’ve got extra help this month. You know that.”

Joel didn’t respond right away. He moved instead, slowly rising from his seat, shoulders tight, as he reached for his coat on the rack by the door.

“Extra help don’t mean much when we don’t have what we need to work with,” he muttered. Then he glanced over at Tommy again, his voice sharper this time. “And I only got two eyes. Can’t watch every volunteer out there.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “You’re not alone. Hugh’s been running things fine. Erin too.”

“I need you,” Joel said simply, not looking at him now, already halfway out the door.

Tommy started to reply—mouth opening like he had something ready to fire back—but then he caught himself, turned, and looked at you instead.

“Well?” he asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the hallway where Joel had disappeared. “You coming?”

You looked down at your desk. Your notebook was still open from yesterday, pen lying neatly across the top like you’d placed it with intention. You hadn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, standing too quickly, like your body made the decision before your mind did. “Sure.”

You reached for your coat again, the fabric still warm from your shoulders, and followed after them.

Joel and Tommy walked a few paces ahead of you, their voices rising and falling in a easy rhythm. For the first few minutes, the conversation had nothing to do with logistics or town patrols or anything remotely official. It hovered instead around Ellie—something about the last patrol she’d done with Tommy, some inside joke you didn’t understand. Joel laughed at one point. The sound startled you.

It made you pause. Not because it was loud or strange, but because it was his, and you'd never heard it before. Or maybe you had, and just hadn’t recognized it in the context of him. Either way, it caught you.

They kept talking about her for a bit, and without meaning to, a small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

Ellie reminded you of someone. Not in the obvious way, not even in the way she looked, but in something less tangible. A certain way she tilted her head when she was curious. The quick, bright movement of her hands. The shape of her smile, sometimes.

Sophie.

The name bloomed uninvited in your mind, like something delicate pressed between two pages that you’d accidentally reopened. There was always a moment before the ache, like a kind of stillness. And then the weight came in.

You imagined her here. Just for a second. It was almost easy. Would she have liked Jackson? Probably. There was a kind of gentle chaos to this place, gardens growing out of cracked pavement, communal meals under mismatched string lights, children running barefoot past makeshift fences. She would’ve adored the movies, you thought. Would’ve insisted on watching them all, even the terrible ones. She’d probably cover her walls with magazine clippings, tape up torn pages with curling edges, photos of a life she never got to live but dreamed of anyway.

She used to ask you what it had been like—before. Before everything collapsed, before the silence replaced the noise. And you told her what you could, painted pictures from scraps of memory: half-remembered commercials, scenes from movies, the smell of bookstores, the thrill of being unnoticed in a crowd. But there was always a gap. You were still young when it all fell apart. Most of what you remembered came from watching the adults around you, catching glimpses of the world through them like reflections in glass.

Still, she listened. Eyes wide, heart open. She had her mother’s eyes, her father’s smile. A perfect blend of Frances and Gabriel, as if Sophie had been the last gift they were able to give you. Even on the final night of their lives, they handed her to you like something delicate, something worth fighting for.

Sometimes she curled beside you while you spoke, her head resting lightly against your shoulder. Other nights she was quieter, just lying next to you, both of you suspended in that unspoken comfort that didn’t need explaining.

A familiar pressure built in your chest. Your nose tingled, and your eyes blurred just slightly with tears that didn’t fall. You raised a hand to your throat, brushing your fingers over the chain around your neck. The heart-shaped charm was cool against your skin, a weight that grounded you.

You’d kept it hidden for so long—tucked inside a soft pouch at the bottom of your backpack, sealed like something sacred. But here, in Jackson, you’d let yourself wear it again. And somehow, that felt like its own kind of healing. A quiet signal to yourself: you were safe.

You swallowed, the movement catching in your throat, and looked up just as Tommy said your name. His voice cut clean through the fog of your thoughts. He smiled as he said goodbye, promised to swing by the school later, said something lighthearted that didn’t quite land. Joel answered for you. You didn’t say anything.

When Tommy walked away, you and Joel kept moving, side by side. The space between you felt intentional. Neither of you said a word. Your eyes were fixed on the ground, your boots leaving marks. Your mind, however, was elsewhere. Still clinging to the warmth of memories you didn’t want to let go of.

“I told you not to come today,” Joel said eventually. His voice broke the silence without warning.

You didn’t turn to face him. “You said you talked to Tommy about it too,” you replied. “But he didn’t seem to know anything.”

He exhaled, a heavy, exasperated sound. You glanced over just in time to catch the tension in his expression, the way his brow pulled in like the beginnings of a headache.

“You lied,” you said, watching his profile. “But I knew it was a lie when you said it.”

Joel stopped walking. It was abrupt, enough to make you pause just a step ahead. You turned to face him. He rubbed a hand over his forehead like he could press the exhaustion away. When his eyes met yours, you noticed the wear in them. Not the usual sharpness, but something dulled by too many nights without sleep.

“Do me a favor,” he said, his voice quieter now. “If you’re gonna follow me around all day, at least do it quietly.”

You blinked. “You don’t want me to talk to you?”

A humorless smile touched his mouth. “Glad we’re on the same page,” he said, and turned back down the path.

You stood there for a second, watching his back. And then you moved again, faster this time to catch up with him, the air colder now than it had been a minute ago. You reached out without thinking and caught his arm, your fingers tightening on the sleeve of his coat, firm enough to make him stop.

He turned, surprised but not startled. Just looked at you.

“You didn’t answer me last night,” you said. Your hand was still on his arm. You didn’t pull it away. “What have I done to you? I’m serious, Joel.”

Your voice wasn’t angry. And he didn’t look away, but he didn’t answer either. You waited anyway.

You glanced around instinctively, aware of the weight of eyes that weren’t yours. A few people passed by, casting glances in your direction, subtle but unmistakable. You realized how this might look—your hand clutching his arm, the space between your bodies sharp with tension—and let go. Your fingers left his coat reluctantly, as if your body had moved before your mind was ready.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” you asked, this time quieter.

Joel didn’t speak at first. He looked away, somewhere over your shoulder, like he could pretend not to be part of this conversation. But then his eyes came back to yours.

“There’s nothing to say,” he said, flatly. “You don’t listen. Not once since you got here. I asked you to stay out of it. You went to my house. I told you again, and then you walked into the office with Tommy like none of it mattered.”

“That’s not what I asked,” you said.

He frowned, annoyed or tired. “Then I don’t know what else you want from me.”

You let out a short laugh that didn’t sound anything like amusement.

“You act like a man in crisis,” you said. “Trying way too hard to scare me off with this whole dangerous, cold thing you’ve got going on—”

“Careful.”

You stepped closer. “Or what, Joel? You gonna lay your hands on me again?”

The words settled heavily in the space. His face shifted, his eyebrows relaxing, the hardness in his jaw giving way to something else.

“No,” he said, quiet but steady. “That was wrong. I know that.”

You waited. He didn’t move.

“But don’t talk to me like that again,” he added. “You don’t get to.”

You tilted your head, studying him like you were seeing something he didn’t mean to show.

“You didn’t scare me last night,” you said. “And I think you hated that.”

“Wrong.”

“Am I?”

He sighed, long and quiet, and looked at you for what felt like a full second too long.

“If someone lays a hand on you,” he said finally, “you don’t push them again. You don’t keep standing there like you’re asking for more. You get out. That’s how you survive.”

“And you think I don’t know that?”

“I think you forget. You think the men out there are different? Or the ones in here? You think all of them stop when you ask?”

You shook your head. “I'm not stupid.”

“Didn't say you were. But you’ve got a smart mouth,” Joel said, his voice like flint striking against stone. “And all that’s going to get you is hurt. It’s really that simple.”

He lifted his hand, pointing a finger at you. It hovered in the air, but he didn’t touch you.

“You saved me once, Joel. Doesn’t mean you’ve been promoted to life coach.”

He exhaled through his nose and looked down, shaking his head like he’d heard this before, like it wasn’t the answer he wanted.

“I can read a situation. I can measure risk. I’ve done it my entire life,” you said. “I spent years out there on my own. No patrols. No fences. I know what danger looks like, I know how to move through it. And last night—last night wasn’t danger.”

Joel glanced up at you, his expression unreadable. You kept going.

“I wasn’t facing just any man out there,” you said. “I was talking to you. And you didn’t hurt me. You didn’t even—”

“It’s not wise to trust—”

“But if you ever lay a hand on me again,” you interrupted, stepping forward, pressing your index finger to the center of his chest, right over his sternum, “I’ll break every one of your fingers. One by one.”

He didn’t move. Not at first. His eyebrows lifted slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. His gaze stayed fixed on your face, and then, just there—at the corner of his mouth—a flicker of something unmistakable. A smirk.

A fucking smirk.

“Right. Well,” He stepped back, adjusting the collar of his coat. "That's an appealing idea."

You didn’t move right away. You just watched him, studied him like he might disappear if you looked away.

When he noticed your hesitation, he gestured with his hand.

"So? We've got work to do. Let's go."

You turned and started walking ahead of him, your footsteps measured, the silence between you now pulsing.

What a prick.

Jackson School. An hour later.

Joel reached for the ladder leaning against the pale brick wall just below the second-floor window. His hand wrapped around the wood rung, steadying it. Up above, Jerry sat awkwardly on the windowsill, half-inside, half-out, adjusting the freshly painted green and white sign.

“Watch your footing on the way down,” Joel said, glancing up. “The step’s not holding like it should.”

You were close enough to hear him but far enough to pretend you hadn’t. Sitting cross-legged in a flimsy plastic chair by the entrance, your notebook balanced across your thighs, pen moving in slow arcs as you traced aimless lines—shapes that meant nothing. You didn’t look up.

The place was quiet. You had arrived earlier and taken your time walking around the building, noting what had been finished and what still needed work: the shine of varnished doors, the scent of sawdust clinging faintly to the air, the roof tiles that didn’t sit quite right. Spring had brought a thin sunlight that warmed the walls and made everything feel momentarily possible. It was the right time to tend to the things winter had delayed; uncooperative windows, water spots on ceilings, the minor but persistent problems no one bothered with until the world thawed.

Joel hadn’t spoken much to you. Only when necessary. Simple things, instructions, observations. No small talk, no tension either—just this maddening neutrality. And that irritated you in a way that was hard to explain. Not because he was cold. Not because he was dismissive. But because his silence didn’t seem charged with anything. Not anger, not resentment. Not even curiosity.

A damn smirk. A flicker at the corner of his mouth. It stuck with you, like a thorn.

You found yourself wondering what it meant. Was he amused by you? Did he think you were joking? Or worse, did he believe you entirely, and still think it was funny?

He should believe you. Of all people, he should know better than to underestimate someone. You’d broken fingers before. Wrists. Even hands.

Gabriel had taught you. Both you and Frances. Back when the three of you were still orbiting the same collapsing sun. He believed in preparedness. In strategy. In the precise pressure points of the human body. You hadn’t forgotten any of it.

Eventually, just as promised, Tommy arrived. He and Joel exchanged a few words with Erin, who was stationed near the entry and had been organizing the school schedule all morning. She sometimes worked up in the tower too, helping coordinate patrol rotations when things got tense.

Erin was a kind woman—unmistakably so—but not in a way that made her seem soft. She looked like someone who had long ago decided there were more important things than being liked. She was probably in her early fifties, with a wiry frame and sharp green eyes that rarely missed anything. Her hair, cut just below her ears, was a muted blonde streaked through with silver that caught the light like threads of steel.

The first time you met her, she’d watched you and Joel for maybe five minutes before quietly pulling you aside. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t probe or press. She just said, low enough so no one else could hear, “Be firm with them.” Then she’d turned and gone back to work, like nothing had happened.

Now, Joel stood a few feet away from you, arms braced on his hips, eyes on the sign Jerry was still fixing. He said something about aligning it straight, the tone of his voice low, even, careful with authority.

You glanced up from your notebook and let your gaze settle on him. There was something strangely grounding about the sight of him—solid, safe maybe, his outline familiar even when your feelings about him weren’t. His eyes were squinting against the bright morning sun. His hair looked softer than it should’ve, thick and silvery where it caught the light, like something meant to be touched. You traced the shape of his nose, the set of his mouth.

The lower half of him was partially obscured by the hem of his jacket, but you could still see the curve of his belly beneath his shirt, just barely visible where the material shifted. His belt was buckled tightly at his hips, the leather worn in some places. He wore new boots—black, clean, clearly broken in just enough to be comfortable. You didn’t remember seeing them before. His legs looked longer than you remembered.

You exhaled, the sound escaping you without warning, and looked at his face again.

He was already watching you.

“Don’t you got anything to do?” he asked, his chin tilting upward just slightly.

You leaned back in your chair. “You tell me, sir.”

There was a pause. He didn’t move. His eyes stayed on yours, unreadable. For a second you thought he was about to respond—his mouth shifted, parted slightly—but before anything came out, Erin called his name from inside.

He didn’t say a word. Just walked past you, boots scuffing the dirt, his presence brushing close. You didn’t look up. Not until he was gone.

You kept your eyes fixed on your notebook, pretending to write.

After a moment, you glanced around. The day had that strange, temporary brightness to it, like someone had lifted a film off the world and left all the colors just a little sharper, more saturated. Shadows moved cleanly across the grass. Even the chipped paint on the school doors looked prettier, somehow, like it had earned its wear.

Then came a soft sound—a dull thud on the grass—and your head turned instinctively toward it.

“Sorry, sweetheart, could you pass me that?” Jerry called from above, gesturing toward the tool he’d dropped.

You saw the screwdriver a few feet away, glinting slightly in the sun, nestled in the grass.

“Sure,” you said, rising quickly from your chair. The notebook slid off your lap as you moved.

You stepped over and crouched to pick it up. Jerry, balanced at the open window above, gave you a cheerful thumbs-up.

You liked Jerry. There was something honest in the way he spoke. He’d come to Jackson a year earlier with his wife, Kavya, and their daughter, Arya. He looked like he might be in his sixties—maybe older—but it was hard to tell. His skin was olive-toned and sun-worn, and his thick white hair curled slightly at the edges. He had huge eyes, warm and dark.

Without thinking, you began to climb the ladder, one hand still curled around the screwdriver. The wood creaked beneath you, but you moved with focus, careful not to shift too much weight in any one direction.

When you reached the top, you stretched your arm out toward him. Jerry leaned forward just enough to take the screwdriver from your hand.

“Thank you. Watch yourself climbing down,” he said, nodding toward the lower rungs with his chin.

You gave him a short nod in return and began your descent, steady and cautious. But as you reached with your right foot, the next step gave way beneath you.

It splintered in half—no warning, no sound but the abrupt snap—and your body jerked sideways. Your arms flew out, grabbing the rails of the ladder, fingers pressing in hard as your weight shifted and everything tilted slightly off-center.

You made a sound, a gasp, involuntary and soft, more breath than voice, as you tried to find balance. But then something caught—a tug at your neck. You reached up in reflex, your fingers brushing the chain of your necklace. It was caught on something—a nail, maybe, protruding from the ladder's frame.

You tried to free it. Your hands were quick, practiced even. But the ladder wobbled again beneath you, and the seconds drained away too fast.

There was a prickling sensation in your stomach, a rush of heat, as the inevitability hit you all at once: you were going to fall.

You shut your eyes without meaning to, waiting for the impact. Waiting for the pain of your body hitting the ground.

But the impact didn’t come.

Instead, there were arms around you—strong and solid, pressing into your sides. Not pavement. Not grass. A body catching yours.

And for a second, all you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat thudding against your ribs, too loud, too close.

You heard the crash of the ladder hit the ground behind you. A heavy, final sound that jolted you back into yourself.

Your eyes opened.

Joel was right there.

Not just near you, but close—his face barely an inch from yours. You could see the crease between his brows, the faint part in his lips like he was about to say something, but hadn’t decided what yet. His eyes were dark and intent, and everything in his expression said he hadn’t taken a full breath since the moment you fell into his arms.

Then, like a delayed realization, you became aware of where your body was. Your arms looped around his neck. His hands pressed to the backs of your thighs, the curve of your waist. Holding you like he’d done it before. And in fact, he had.

Heat rushed to your face as you shifted your hand to his chest, pressing lightly. He took the cue and let you go, guiding you down to the ground as if he didn’t fully trust you to steady yourself on your own.

“I left you alone for one goddamn minute,” he said, his voice clipped.

You turned from him, instinctively, as if the words were something you needed to avoid being hit by. Your hand moved to your throat and chest, to the bare skin where your necklace should have been. Your eyes darted across the grass, searching.

Behind you, Joel’s voice came again, louder now.

“Didn’t you hear me? I told Jerry to be careful with the ladder. Jesus—what if I hadn’t caught you?”

“I... I...” You turned to look at him, only for a second. The words dissolved in your throat. Your hand stayed pressed to your neck. You could feel your pulse there, fast and shaky.

Your eyes started to sting.

Joel’s expression shifted, the tension around his mouth tightening. He stepped forward, his boots brushing the grass.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

You shook your head—not quite no, but not yes either.

“What’s wrong? Hey.” His hand came down on your shoulder, warm through the fabric of your shirt. “Your wrist? Your ankle?”

You opened your mouth but couldn’t form the right answer. Instead, your gaze returned to the grass, sweeping back and forth, helplessly searching.

“My necklace,” you said finally. “I lost it. I can’t see it.”

He was quiet for a moment. You could feel his eyes on you as you scanned the ground again, your breath hitching slightly.

Joel’s fingers tightened briefly on your shoulder. You looked up.

“What did it look like?” he asked, his voice lower now, softer. “Were you wearing it right before you fell?”

“Yeah. It's silver. With a little heart.” You swallowed. “It’s—it’s a locket.”

Your voice caught slightly on the last word. There was an ache blooming just under your ribs. What it it was gone, swallowed up by the tall grass?

Joel didn’t say anything at first. Just kept looking at you.

Then he stepped away from you without a word and began to search. You watched him cross the patch of grass in long strides, scanning the ground, his body shifting slightly each time he bent to look closer at something glinting in the light. His eyes moved quickly, methodically, sweeping over the space between the school’s entrance and the place where the ladder had fallen.

If the necklace had been caught in the fall, it could’ve landed anywhere—flung out by the force, maybe ten feet away, maybe more. The thought made your stomach turn. It didn’t help that the sun was catching every reflective surface—broken glass near the school fence, the corner of a windowpane, even Joel’s belt buckle when he turned toward you—all of them briefly hopeful until they weren’t.

You stayed where you were at first, too dazed to move, your hand still at your throat like it might bring the locket back. Your pulse thudded beneath your fingertips. Then you forced yourself to look around, to pretend you had control over something. You stepped lightly through the grass, peered beneath flower pots, crouched beside the walkway as if the necklace might be waiting for you in a place you’d never think to look.

Across the yard, Erin came out of the building, a chipped mug in her hand. Her expression twisted as soon as she saw the ladder on its side, and then her eyes shifted to you.

“Are you alright, honey?” she asked, concern tightening her voice. Her eyes swept from your face to the ladder on its side, then back up to Jerry, still half-hanging from the window. “Jesus, Jerry—be careful, please.”

Jerry said something in response, a muttered apology maybe, but you didn’t catch it. You were still watching Joel. He hadn’t stopped moving.

You moved a few steps closer to where he was, still scanning patches of grass, small cracks in the sidewalk, any place it could have landed unseen and—

“I’ve got it,” he said, and your heart stumbled.

You stood up straighter, breath caught in your chest, and turned toward the sound of his voice. Joel was walking toward you, the necklace held between his fingers. His gait was unmistakable to you now.

He stopped in front of you and reached out. The silver chain dangled from his fingers, broken, the heart-shaped charm swinging gently in the air between you.

You opened your hand, palm facing the sky. He placed the necklace there without saying anything.

A soft sigh slipped from your lips as you looked down at it, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. The chain was snapped near the clasp, a clean break. You turned the locket over once, twice, checking for scratches, but it was intact.

Still, something in your chest ached.

“Thank you,” you said, barely more than a breath.

Joel nodded.

“You're welcome,” he replied, his hands moving instinctively back to his hips, like he needed somewhere to put the tension. His eyes didn’t leave you.

You felt the tear slip before you could stop it, sliding down your cheek in a straight, unbothered line. You didn’t wipe it away.

“It's okay. We found it,” Joel said, as if that fact should undo something. As if it was enough.

You felt Erin watching too, silent a few steps away.

You nodded, glancing down at the broken chain pooled in your palm.

“It’s broken.” The words came out flat. Not angry, not blaming. Just factual.

You stared at it a second longer. Then, without ceremony, you slid the necklace into your pocket, like maybe seeing it was too much, like keeping it out of sight might quiet whatever had stirred in you.

You looked back at Joel.

“I’m sorry. And… thanks. For finding it.”

He shook his head.

“It’s okay.” A slight lift of his chin. “You okay?”

You nodded quickly, too quickly.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” But the way you closed your eyes gave you away.

You turned, your shoes scuffing against the grass, and walked briskly back to your chair. The notebook was still there, your pen resting across the page. You didn’t look back. Not at Joel, not at Erin.

“I’ll go see if Tommy needs anything,” you said, voice thinner now, already halfway inside the school before anyone could respond.

The building swallowed you up in a hush, the air different inside—cooler, still tinged with the scent of wood shavings and fresh paint. You climbed the stairs without thinking, following the sound of low voices until you reached the classroom where Tommy was working.

But you didn’t go in. You stopped just beside the doorframe, where the chatter blurred into background noise and no one could see you.

You reached into your pocket and pulled the necklace out again. The locket sat in your palm like something ancient and bruised all at once. You thumbed it open.

Inside of it, there was a tiny piece of paper worn from years of resting there. You touched it with care, fingers shaking a little despite yourself.

In tidy, small black block letters it read: You + me for evermore

Next to the plus, written in blue ink—hastier, looser, added years later in a different hand: and Sophie

You stared at the words for a long time, as if they might change the longer you looked at them. But they didn’t. They stayed exactly the same.

Jackson. Noon, that same day.

Joel stepped inside the building and was met instantly by the faint, curling scent of incense. It hit him in the chest before anything else did. Not unpleasant. Familiar, even. It brought to mind a boyhood version of himself—years stripped of responsibility, when he used to spend afternoons at a friend’s place where the windows were always fogged with smoke. His friend burned incense obsessively, not for the pleasure of it, but to mask the sharp edge of cigarettes. Joel had always noticed the way the lavender clung to his clothes long after he left.

Phillip made these ones now. He split his time between the greenhouse and the patrol schedule. Quiet guy, always smelled like soil and herbs. Lavender, rosemary, sometimes cinnamon. Once, rose petals.

Joel wiped his boots against the fraying rug by the door. The building was quiet, air thick and still. He moved toward the staircase and began to climb, his movements unhurried, almost rhythmic.

He hadn’t seen you since the morning, when you'd walked into the school building without looking back. He’d taken Leo’s shift again, patrolling the outskirts with Sean. Erin had promised she’d pass the message on—that he’d stop by later to check the log. Still, he figured you were already gone by now.

But the office door was shut. And when he opened it with a short movement, almost instinctively, his eyes found you right away.

You were there, sitting back in the desk chair like you belonged in it, one leg curled underneath you. Book in hand. The same one you’d had yesterday, the faded paperback bent in the middle.

Joel blinked, hesitating only a moment before saying, “Thought you’d be home by now.”

He turned toward the coat rack, pulled off his jacket, and hung it up with the kind of care that came from habit more than need. When he glanced back at you, you still hadn’t moved.

He dropped into his chair with a weighty sigh, the kind that sounded too old for him, but he made no attempt to hide it.

You looked up from the book but didn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s only ten past twelve,” you said.

He nodded. Just that. A small, silent agreement. Nothing more.

“Why’d you come back?” you asked, finally looking at him now. “I thought everything was handled for today.”

He rested his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned back slightly.

“Figured I’d check in. See how things were going. At school—did Tommy or Erin mention anything?”

You gave a little shrug, the movement minimal. “Nothing important. Erin fixed the ladder.”

“Right,” Joel said, and then didn’t add anything else.

You turned back to your book. Turned the page.

Joel kept looking at you, though he tried not to. His gaze moved to the floor, to the desk, to the jacket slung over the back of your chair—anything else. But eventually, it always circled back to you.

You looked composed—unbothered, even. Like nothing had touched you all morning. But your eyes were a little swollen, subtly, like the remains of something that had passed through quietly.

He thought of the locket again. The way it had caught the light when he found it half-buried in the grass, its hinge already open like it had been waiting for someone to notice. He hadn’t meant to see inside, it had happened in the seconds before his instincts kicked in and he shut it. There was a scrap of paper inside, yellowed and fraying at the edges. He didn’t try to read it. He told himself that counted for something.

Still, the image stayed with him. The shape of it. The vulnerability of something that small and private lying exposed in the open.

There were things he wanted to ask. Questions that took shape in the back of his throat before dissolving there. Not because he lacked the nerve, but because he knew better. There were certain doors he’d spent years learning not to open. This felt like one of them.

The day he found you in the snow, his body had already made the decision before his mind could process what was happening. He would have helped anyone in that state—barely conscious, skin ice-cold, blood too bright against the white. But then he saw your face, and something in him folded. Recognition didn’t come with clarity. It came with disbelief. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be you.

And yet, there you were. He’d thought you were going to die.

He thought maybe the only thing left he could offer you was a soft place to land. Somewhere safe to go, if you had to go.

But you didn’t die. You healed. Against every prediction, every diagnosis, you began to recover. No amputations. No permanent damage. No explanation. Your wounds closed. Your body came back to life like it remembered how to live. And Jackson, starved for anything close to a miracle, wrapped you up in its awe.

Joel never went to see you.

Tommy told him, often, in that way of his where meaning came layered: Maria brought her some clothes. She’s staying with the Rowells for now. I stopped by earlier—she’s doing alright. Every word meant: You should go. Every silence meant: Why haven’t you?

Joel didn’t answer those silences.

The truth was that if you were going to live here, in this town, in this life he had finally carved out of ruin—then maybe it was best if he stayed far from you.

But then you appeared in front of him one morning, like it was the most natural thing in the world, holding a plastic container of cookies and wearing that overly thankful expression that grated on him more than he could explain. You were smiling—so earnestly, so cheerfully, like someone who had never been hurt in their life—and it made something coil tightly in his chest.

Joel didn’t want any part of it. Of you.

But then you came again. First to his house. Then the office. Like you’d mapped the places he wouldn’t be able to avoid and stationed yourself there with your effortless small talk and irritating warmth.

He almost told Tommy. More than once, he stood on the edge of it, thinking maybe it would be easier to just explain everything, say it plainly: She shouldn’t be near me. This isn’t a good idea. But putting it into words made it too real. Too heavy. So he didn’t. He let the thought settle somewhere at the back of his mind and told himself he’d say it tomorrow. And when tomorrow came, he told himself the same thing again.

Everything about you seemed crafted to irritate him. The way you were helpful, not to the point of being invasive, just… persistent. Pleasant. Which made it worse. Because Joel knew what it looked like when someone was trying too hard to be liked—and that wasn’t what you were doing. You weren’t trying at all. You were just there. And somehow, that was worse.

You made him coffee without asking. You organized his papers like it was your job, which maybe it was, but still. You followed instructions, respected the lines he drew, and you kept showing up. And every time you did, he felt the pressure build in his chest. Because you were supposed to get the message. He was sure he was sending it—cold enough, sharp enough. Clear.

But if you saw it, you didn’t seem to care. And that? That was infuriating.

And now you were across the room, half curled into your chair, your posture unconcerned, like you’d forgotten anyone else was there. The sunlight was pouring in through the window behind you, soft and golden, brushing the edges of your shoulders and the back of your hair. It made you look... untouchable, almost.

What unsettled him most was that you weren’t afraid. You didn’t flinch when he raised his voice. You argued back with the same force, met him blow for blow without hesitation. There’d been a moment, fleeting and almost funny, when he’d genuinely wondered if you’d break one of his fingers. And the strangest part was: he wasn’t entirely sure he’d mind if you tried.

He watched as you turned a page with the kind of ease that made him restless.

And then the question arrived in his mouth before it had finished forming in his brain.

“Can I see it?” he asked.

You looked up, eyes narrowing in mild confusion. “What?”

“Your necklace,” he said. “It’s broken, isn’t it?”

He saw the way you paused—just a second longer than natural. He could tell you were thinking it through, deciding whether or not to give him access to something so small and private. Maybe wondering what right he had to ask.

But you didn’t argue. You didn’t push back.

You shifted in your seat and reached into your coat pocket.

Joel stood up before you could hand it to him from where you were sitting. He crossed the room and stopped by your desk, resting his hip on the edge with a kind of casualness he didn’t entirely feel. He extended his hand, palm open. You dropped the necklace into it without a word.

He adjusted his glasses, letting them settle more firmly against the bridge of his nose, and studied the chain in the quiet. The metal was warm from your pocket. One of the links near the clasp had come undone, barely noticeable unless you were looking.

“Looks like it can be fixed,” he said, his voice quieter than before.

You looked at him, uncertain. “Yeah?”

Joel nodded, eyes still on the necklace. “I can... I mean, I could fix it. If you want.”

When he glanced back at you, your expression had shifted, just slightly. The crease between your eyebrows had softened.

“You know how to do that?”

He lifted the corner of his mouth, not a full smile, more of a reflex. He didn’t want to look smug.

Of course he could fix it.

But he only said, “Yeah. I do. It doesn’t look complicated. The chain broke cleanly—look.”

He lowered his hand toward you, fingers uncurling just enough to show you the delicate line where the metal had come apart.

You tilted your chin up to see, your eyes following the gesture. The light hit your face in a way that made it hard not to notice the tiny details—your lashes casting long shadows on your cheekbones, the barely-there layer of peach fuzz along your jaw, softening the edge of you. You were very still, but not in a tense way.

“And the clasp on the locket,” he added, glancing down at it again, “it’s loose. Looks like it could come open without much effort. I can fix that too, if you want. Maybe do something about what’s inside. Like put something over it, something protective, just to keep it from getting worn, or—”

“Why would you do that?”

Your voice cut through the air between you, not harsh, just direct. You were looking at him now, fully, brows drawn together slightly in confusion. Your head tilted just enough to suggest the question wasn’t rhetorical. You really wanted an answer.

Joel blinked, caught off guard not by the question itself, but by how quickly it seemed to peel something open inside him.

“What?”

“Why offer to fix it?” you said. “You don’t have to.”

He shifted where he stood, leaning back from the desk a little, putting space between his body and yours.

“I know I don’t have to,” he said. “But I know how to do it. And I don’t mind.”

“You don’t mind?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t have offered.” His voice was calm. Maybe a little tired.

You looked down, fingers brushing the edge of the desk. One hand came up briefly to scratch your neck, a small, absent motion. Then your eyes met his again.

“Okay,” you said simply.

Joel nodded once and stepped away from the desk. He closed his hand around the necklace, the fragile chain folding in on itself in his palm.

“Alright,” he said, voice low. “I’ll take care of it.”

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