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javierpenaispunk · 17 days ago

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Alli… that chapter was incredible 🥺

Ellie brings so much joy and energy to the already amazing dynamic between Joel and the reader. Your Ellie is a perfect addition to the story. I love her so much and I love the the bond she’s creating with them.

Joel had been a good father. He could admit that, even from beneath the crushing weight of guilt and grief he carried. He’d made mistakes, sure, but Sarah had always been safe, loved, and happy. And in the years after losing her, that knowledge had been the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

That part broke me… 😢 I often like to imagine what kind was father Joel was when Sarah was growing up. And your description is exactly how I’m picturing it.

I love how you manage to create such an intense tension between Joel and the reader. Every time they interact I can feel their love for each other despite their fears. It’s almost painful (in a good way) to see them struggling to express their feelings.

The conversation under the rain was so beautifully written and I was so hooked reading it. That hug… was everything. I think I needed it as much as they did 😆

Going back to your story feels like home to me and I love your characters so freaking much. I´m looking forward to reading the next chapter!

Thank you for sharing 💜

The Great Divide

Bitten - Part IX

Bitten Masterlist ao3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You and Joel navigate your relationship, your continued journey, and survival together, now with the addition of Ellie.

Warnings: canon-typical gore & violence, description of injuries, infected attack, more angst because this angst train is going to keep on rolling up until I decide it's time to throw smut into the mix

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 12.8k

A/N: I'm very sorry for going MIA for so long - turns out a masters degree is really hard and no one told me?? (jk lol)

He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

This girl, foul mouthed and scrappy, tucked under your arm like a little duckling. Clinging to you the way lost things do, like she already knew you’d keep her safe.

She couldn’t have been older than Sarah was when…

Joel clenches his jaw, shaking the thought loose before it can take root.

Since leaving the Fireflies’ compound, you’d barely said a word to him. The silence gnawed at him, worse than any wound, worse than the burn in his muscles from days of relentless walking. He could still see the heavy plumes of smoke rising behind you, curling into the sky like a funeral pyre.

Good, he thought. Let it burn to the fucking ground.

He’d fought like hell to get to you. Laid traps, cut supply lines, picked them off one by one like a wolf thinning the herd. He’d drawn Marlene’s people out and, when there was no time left to lose, stormed in and took you back.

He’d saved you.

And yet, here you are, alive and safe, and you still won’t look at him.

Had he really thought that was all it would take? That dragging you out of there, carrying you through fire and blood, would undo everything? That it would make things right between you again?

What the hell had he been expecting? That you’d throw yourself into his arms, press your face into his chest, whisper a broken, breathless thank you? That you’d see what he couldn’t say, that it was more than obligation, more than survival, that he —

Joel huffs a breath through his nose. Foolish.

Instead, the distance between you remained, like you were a thousand miles away instead of two feet behind him. You spoke more to the girl than you did to him. Soft, murmured comforts, whispered reassurances, your arm thrown protectively around her shoulders as you walked. When she shivered, you rubbed the chill from her arms, tucked her close into your side.

And Joel… Joel watched.

If he was being honest, watching you with her cut him right to the core.

The way you held her close, the way your touch soothed without hesitation, like it was second nature. Like you were made for it. It was a painful reminder of everything the world had stolen from you. Of the life you should have had.

Caring for someone vulnerable came so easily to you. And once, a long time ago, it had come easily to him too.

But that part of him was long gone. Rusted over.

He had no business around a kid now. Wouldn’t even know where to begin.

And yet, watching you now, watching the way the girl gravitates toward you, how she clings to you like you’re the only sure thing in this broken world, he feels an already broken part of him shatter.

Another wedge driving itself between you. Another reason for you to pull further away.

…

You should be grateful.

You should have thrown yourself into his arms the moment the last Firefly hit the ground, let relief crash over you like a tidal wave.

You should be grateful that he followed you, through rain and snow, through blood and wreckage. That he fought, killed, and bled for you. That he put a bullet in Marlene’s head without hesitation. For you.

This shouldn’t be so fucking hard.

And yet, every time you look at him, every time those dark eyes flick up to meet yours, you have to look away. Because you can’t bear to see it again.

The fear, the discomfort, the disgust he tried and failed to hide. And beneath all that, something else, something worse.

Hurt.

You don’t want to face it. You don’t want to face him. Because to do that, to reach across this great divide between you, means opening yourself up to the possibility of him hurting you again. And you’re not strong enough for that.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And then there’s Ellie.

She clings to you like a lifeline, and you to her. The trust she’s placed in you is staggering, unearned, and yet you find yourself desperate not to let her down. You don’t know why she’s latched onto you so quickly, but you think, maybe, it has something to do with the fact that you’re both members of the world’s most exclusive, most wretched club.

And so you pour yourself into taking care of her, into comforting her, protecting her. It’s easier this way, easier to focus on her than to deal with the mess that lies between you and Joel.

Easier to pretend you don’t still love him.

…

The sun is grazing the peaks of the mountains by the time you finally stop to rest. The air is thick with the damp chill of evening, the scent of wet earth clinging to your clothes. A light breeze rustles the treetops, whispering through the branches like ghosts.

Joel moves through the motions of setting up camp with practiced ease, the kind of efficiency that reminds you just how long he’s been doing this, how survival has become muscle memory to him. He barely speaks, only the occasional rustling of gear and the snap of twigs beneath his boots filling the silence.

You try to help, gathering branches for the fire, shaking out spare blankets to make something resembling a bed for Ellie, but your body betrays you. Your cast knocks awkwardly against things as you move, your fingers stiff and clumsy as you try to tear branches off a dead tree. Every task takes twice as long as it should, and by the time you drop a bundle of kindling near the fire pit, your hands are aching, fingers burning from overuse.

Joel doesn’t say anything, but you feel the burn of his eyes on you when you fumble with the blankets, struggling to smooth them out. His eyes flick to your hands, assessing. Then, without a word, he steps in, finishing what you started. Not unkind, not impatient, just efficient, like he’s used to doing things himself. Like he doesn’t expect anything from you.

The silence between you stretches, and it gives your mind all the space it needs to run wild. You don’t know what you want from him. An acknowledgment, maybe. A sign that things are okay, that you haven’t ruined everything. That what he did back there, back at the Fireflies’ compound, meant something.

Your mouth is dry when you finally force out, “I can help.”

Joel barely glances up from where he’s securing the blankets. “Already got it.” His voice is quiet, flat, like he’s answering just to answer.

The conversation dies right there.

You hesitate, then hold your tongue and retreat, dropping onto a fallen log at the edge of the campsite beside Ellie. She sits with her knees tucked up, picking at bark on the log, watching Joel work with wary curiosity.

After a few moments, she leans over to you and murmurs, “So… Who is he?”

You stiffen, your fingers curling into the fabric of your jacket. The answer should be simple. It isn’t.

“He’s…” You steal a glance at Joel, crouched near the fire coaxing the flames to life with a practiced hand. His face is unreadable, half in shadow, half cast in flickering orange light. You swallow. “He’s just an old friend.”

Ellie frowns, clearly unconvinced. “Yeah? You don’t seem like friends.”

A quiet, humorless huff of laughter escapes you. “What do we seem like, then?”

She tilts her head, considering. “I dunno. Strangers? Enemies? Exes?”

Your throat tightens. You don’t have an answer for that, not one that makes sense, not one that doesn’t unravel everything inside you. You are none of those things, but what are you, then? Before you can even try to come up with something, Joel grunts from across the camp.

“C’mon.” He doesn’t look up. “Let’s eat.”

You and Ellie make your way back to the fire, the warmth licking at your cold fingertips as you sit across from Joel. He hands out the food, canned beans and stale jerky, the kind of meal you don’t even taste anymore.

The three of you eat in near silence, the only sounds the crackling fire, the distant bark of a coyote, the occasional rustling of leaves. Ellie, in an effort to fill the void, asks Joel a few questions; where he’s from, how long he’s been on the road. He answers in clipped, vague sentences, not rude, just uninterested, the way a man does when he’s spent too many years not wanting to be known.

At some point, she glances between the two of you and mutters, “Jeez. You two really know how to bring down a meal.”

Joel ticks his jaw, shaking his head. You don’t respond. You just stare at your food, appetite all but gone.

Eventually, the fire burns down, casting dim, flickering shadows over Ellie and Joel’s faces. You think distantly of telling ghost stories at summer camp, huddled around a fire just like this one. But that was in another life, when stories of spectres and ghouls were benign fodder for an eleven-year-old’s imagination instead of your daily lived reality.

Joel stands with a grunt, adjusting the rifle slung over his shoulder. “I’ll take first watch.”

You don’t argue.

Ellie is asleep in minutes, curled up in the blankets you struggled to arrange. You shift to your feet, moving to squat beside the dying fire, watching it shrink to embers.

“What happened to your wrist?”

His voice is low but it disrupts the silence between you like a stone dropped in still water.

You blink up at him without thinking, caught off guard by the question, by the fact that he’s asking at all. The firelight has all but died now, leaving you both in darkness, but his eyes are steady on yours. Not angry. Not cold. Just… watching.

There’s no malice there. No disgust. Only something quiet and burdensome, like sadness.

You clear your throat, looking away.

“Slipped on some ice trying to cross a stream,” you say, voice tight.

Stupid. That’s what it was, what you want to say. Stupid. You should’ve known better, should’ve found another way, should’ve been able to tell the difference between the sounds of a fox and something worse. But you were scared. You were alone, and by your own doing.

“Storm hit not long after,” you continue. “I holed up in a hunting shack. That’s when the infection got me, I think. I was out of it… Hallucinating some pretty crazy shit.”

You hate admitting this. Hate the way the words feel in your mouth, like confessions, like proof. Proof that you weren’t as strong as you thought. That you weren’t as capable without him. That you had left, thinking you could survive without his protection, and you had almost died for it.

It’s a quiet kind of humiliation.

But he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t twist the knife.

Doesn’t say I told you so.

Doesn’t say You shouldn’t have left.

He just sits there, gaze heavy, holding the silence with you.

You force yourself to keep going.

“I was half-dead when I made it to this pharmacy, looking for antibiotics.” A pause. You swallow hard. “That’s where they got me.”

Images flash behind your eyes.

The moment you felt hands grab you, lifting you off the ground. You remember the desperate, delirious relief that hit you like a hook to the ribs. Because you thought it was him. Because for a second, your fevered and broken mind had believed he’d found you.

That relief feels like a cruel joke now.

The fire pops, embers sparkling in the ash. Ellie shifts in her sleep beside you, mumbling something incoherent before settling again.

And Joel still doesn’t speak.

You risk a glance at him, at the way his hands are clenched in his lap, at the hard line of his jaw, the muscle ticking there. His shoulders are stiff, his whole body wound tight as a tripwire. Not angry. Just holding something back.

You wonder if it’s guilt.

Or if it’s something darker. If it’s anger.

Or if it even matters.

Joel gestures for you to come closer, nodding toward your hands. You hesitate for half a second before shifting toward him, extending them palms up. He takes them carefully, turning them over in his rough, calloused grip, the firelight casting deep shadows over the bruising and scabbed over scrapes.

"They look bad," he mutters, reaching for his pack. "But they should heal okay."

He pulls out a bottle of water and an old rag, soaking it before running it over your knuckles. You wince at the sting but don't pull away.

"You feelin’ alright?" he asks after a moment. "Any fever?"

"I'm fine," you say, but he doesn't look convinced. His fingers skim over the tender skin at your wrist, just below the edge of the cast, his brow furrowing.

He looks at the state of your hands, the rough, puckered skin around your knuckles, the bruising that extends out from under your cast. The sight sticks him in his gut, the all too familiar tendrils of guilt beginning to unfurl. He could have prevented this. If he’d been kinder, if he’d confronted his own vulnerabilities, his own fears, would you have been driven away from him? Was there something he could have said that would have made you change your mind?

"Why’d you —"

But he cuts himself off, jaw tightening, shaking his head like he's trying to shove the question back down behind the walls it crawled out of. Not the time or place.

You sigh, looking past him into the dark woods, just needing to look anywhere but at him. "You should let me take over watch," you say. "I don’t have a sleeping bag anyway.”

Joel scoffs, already reaching for his pack. "Took one from the compound," he mutters, pulling it free and tossing it toward you.

For a second, you just stare at it, your fingers digging into the fabric like it's something foreign. A biting retort claws up your throat, something about how you can take care of yourself, about how you're not some kid he needs to look after. But it dies before it ever leaves your lips.

Why do you do that? Why do you push back against any act of care like it means you’re weak?

“Drink,” Joel says, nodding at the bottle in his hand, and when you don’t move, he presses it against your thigh like he’s daring you to argue. ”Like you’re damn allergic to taking care of yourself.”

It should be annoying. The gruff bossiness, the way he talks like you're some reckless burden he’s always got to account for. It should piss you off.

But you just feel like weeping.

You take the water, swallowing a few mouthfuls before handing it back.

Joel leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, watching the dying fire. His voice is quieter when he speaks next.

“Ellie,” he says, and you don’t need to look at him to know what he’s asking. “What’s her story?”

You huff a soft laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “If I told you the truth, you’d never believe me.”

“Try me.”

You glance at him, and something about the way he’s looking at you, all steady patience, makes the words come easier than you expect.

“She’s immune,” you murmur. “Like me.”

Joel lets out a slow breath, rubbing a hand down his face. He nods, his wildest suspicions confirmed. She was the kid Marlene wanted him to bring to Utah. What kind of fucked up plan did the universe have for him?

You hesitate before asking, "What do you think it means? Do you think there might be more of us?" You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve, suddenly nervous, glancing at him. "Marlene thought there was a cure. She said it could be the start of something, that… that what happened to me might actually mean something."

Your throat tightens, and you hate the way your voice wavers at the end. You liked the sound of it, the idea of being part of something bigger, of your suffering having some kind of purpose.

But Joel doesn’t want to hear this right now. Doesn’t want to listen to you romanticize your death like that. You getting your brain ripped out of you wouldn’t mean a damn thing. You being here, being alive, getting safely to Wyoming, that meant something. Nothing about your life being snuffed out like the flame of a candle could ever mean anything other than the loss of the one thing that Joel still had a tenuous grasp on in this world.

"Marlene was sick." His voice is a dull blade, pressing too hard. "She was gonna kill you. Kill a kid. All in the name of a vaccine we both know was bullshit."

The words land like a slap, and you flinch.

It’s not the anger that gets you. It’s the way he dismisses it outright, like it’s not even worth considering. Like you’re not even worth considering.

You shift away from him, turning toward where Ellie lay sleeping, fingers curling into your palms. "Right," you mutter.

Joel knows he fucked up the second the words leave his mouth, but it’s too late to take them back.

"You wouldn’t understand," you say, willing your voice not to crack. "No one but me and Ellie could understand how this feels."

He watches as you watch over the girl, still curled up in her blankets, her form rising and falling in steady rhythm. You unroll your sleeping bag next to the fire, crawling in. There’s a heaviness in your voice when you continue. "She’s a good kid. And she’s my responsibility now."

Joel’s stomach twists. The words hit him right in that shattered place inside him.

He remembers when you were his responsibility.

Back when it was the two of you against the world, before everything got so fucked up. When you leaned on him without hesitation, when he could look at you and know, without a doubt, that you trusted him to take care of you.

But he knows he lost a piece of that.

Lost it when he let his own fear get the best of him, when he let the rough edges of his walls scrape against your softness until they left wounds too deep to ignore.

He wants to tell you he understands more than you think. That he knows what it means to hold something fragile in your hands and be terrified of breaking it. That he sees you.

But before he can figure out how to say any of that, your body sags, exhaustion overtaking you like a wave.

It only takes a minute before your breathing evens out, your limbs slack and heavy with sleep.

Joel sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. Regret pools like oil, thick and dark. He should’ve apologized. Should’ve told you he was sorry for dismissing you, for snapping at you when you were just trying to make sense of everything.

But he can’t wake you up for that now, can’t disrupt the first real rest you’ve had in God knows how long.

Instead, he watches the embers die one by one, listens to the quiet sounds of the night. And when the first hints of dawn creep over the horizon, casting the world in hesitant pools of light, he finds himself shifting closer to you without really thinking about it.

Carefully, almost hesitantly, he reaches out, pressing his palm lightly to your forehead. Checking for fever, that’s all. Just making sure you’re okay.

His hand lingers longer than it should.

Ellie watches from her makeshift bed, silent and still, eyes barely peeking over the edge of her blanket.

She doesn’t say anything.

She just watches the way Joel looks at you, like he’s carrying something too big for words, something he can’t seem to get a grip on.

Something she doesn’t think she’s ever seen up close before.

And when you wake before the sun a couple of hours later, Joel is right there, dozing beside you, arms crossed as if he’d been keeping watch all night. You don’t know what to do with the warmth that spreads through you at the sight. You don’t know why it hurts as much as it soothes.

…

Morning arrives in gold.

The sun is unseasonably warm, pressing down on you with a gentle heat that seeps into your skin, loosening the stiffness in your bones. It’s almost pleasant, and if you close your eyes and tilt your face toward the sky, you can almost pretend, just for a second, that the world isn’t what it is.

The fire has long since burned out, leaving behind the smell of smoke in the air. You sit back on a log, feeling useless as Joel moves through the familiar motions of breaking down camp. He doesn’t ask for help, doesn’t expect it from you, not after last night. You hate the feeling of being dead weight, of watching instead of doing, but you know better than to push yourself past what your body can handle.

A metal travel mug appears in your line of vision, held out wordlessly.

You blink at it, then up at Joel, who doesn’t meet your eyes.

The gesture is so familiar it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

You take the cup, fingers curling around the warmth of it, and for a fleeting moment, it almost feels normal. Like no time has passed at all. Like this is just another morning on the road, him handing you coffee the way he always used to.

You don’t thank him, and he doesn’t expect you to.

To your surprise, Joel calls out to Ellie.

"Come on, kid. Give me a hand with this."

What surprises you even more is that instead of scoffing or making some snippy remark, she jumps up, eager to help.

You watch as she moves to his side, waiting for direction. He shows her how to roll up the sleeping bags, how to tie them down so they don’t come loose, how to strap them to a pack in a way that won’t throw off balance.

Kids like to be wanted, you remember. They like to feel important.

She listens intently, taking the task seriously. It’s small, but it’s something. A way to contribute. A way to matter.

By the time everything is packed up, Joel reaches for your pack.

Instinct kicks in before you can think better of it.

"I can do it," you say, grabbing for it at the same time he does.

You can’t, actually.

Your wrist is throbbing, your fingers stiff and sore. Your side aches from walking for miles, and your head still hasn’t fully recovered from the exhaustion of the past forty-eight hours. You didn’t sleep that first night after Joel found you, none of you did. Not until you’d put enough distance between yourselves and the smoldering wreckage of the Fireflies’ compound, the plumes of black smoke rising high into the sky.

You eye the pack, heavy with pilfered supplies. Courtesy of Joel.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bark at you to just let him do it, doesn’t sigh in frustration like he would have before. Instead, he stands there, hands held in front of him like he’s approaching something wild. He’s not pushing. Not pressuring.

Just… waiting.

The silence stretches between you, your pride sitting heavy on your shoulders.

Then, finally, you drop your gaze to the forest floor.

"Okay," you murmur. "You can carry it."

Joel just nods, hoisting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing.

And to your surprise, you don’t feel guilty.

You only feel… surprised.

Surprised at yourself, for letting him do this for you.

Surprised at him for not throwing a barb your way about it.

Maybe you’re both learning something.

…

The Beartooth Pass snakes its way up into the mountains, winding higher and higher, each step a burn in your legs. But the view is enough to keep you from complaining. The land stretches out below, endless pine forests rolling into craggy peaks, stubborn bits of snow clinging to the frosty ground. The sky is an impossible blue, the kind that almost makes you forget the world has gone to hell. Almost.

Joel, leading the way, suddenly slows, scanning the roadside before nodding toward a dirt road that juts off from the highway.

"Map says there should be a freshwater lake up this way," he explains, holding it up for you to see.

You don’t bother looking.

"I believe you."

He’s always been better at reading maps than you, and you trust him to get you where you need to go.

An hour later, the cracked pavement gives way to gravel, then dirt, and then a weathered wooden sign emerges from the trees. Lily Lake Campground.

Joel lifts a hand in warning. "Stay put. Lemme check it out first."

You and Ellie wait as he vanishes into the trees. Birds chirp somewhere above, and a breeze rustles through the branches, sending a spray of pine needles careening toward you, landing at the toe of your boot. It’s peaceful here, untouched in a way most places aren’t anymore.

Joel returns a few minutes later with a nod. "All clear."

Nothing could have prepared you for the sight of the lake.

For the first time since crossing into Wyoming, you really see it. The beauty of it. You’d been too exhausted, too cold, too lost in your own head before. But today, the sun is shining, the sky wide and open, and in front of you is a pristine, glassy lake, the surface rippling serenely in the breeze. The water is so clear you can see straight to the bottom near the shore, smooth colorful rocks catching the light beneath the surface. Pines crowd the edges, looming reflections cast long and unbroken over the water.

No one speaks.

Then, as if by silent agreement, the three of you start stripping down to your underwear, kicking off boots, peeling away layers until the cool air kisses your skin.

Ellie is the first in, launching herself forward with reckless enthusiasm, barely pausing before plugging her nose and disappearing beneath the surface.

You hesitate, dipping a toe in before stepping further. It’s cold, but in a way that makes your skin tingle, like a long drink of water after walking in the heat. It wakes you up, reminds you that you’re alive.

Joel lingers at the shore, arms crossed, eyeing the water with deep suspicion.

"You coming in, old man?" you tease.

His glare is half-hearted. "I don’t like cold water."

You laugh, watching as he finally steps in, wincing with each inch of skin that submerges. For all his gruffness, all his strength, this is the thing that undoes him. Cold water.

You don’t see Ellie creeping up behind him until it’s too late.

With both hands, she slaps the surface, sending a wave of water crashing against his entire back.

Joel’s whole body stiffens. He spins, eyes wild, only to see Ellie already kicking away, cackling.

"You little shit!" he bellows, lunging after her.

Ellie shrieks, ducking beneath the water to escape, but Joel isn’t done. He plunges under, disappearing for a second before bursting up again, shaking his head like a wet dog, sending a fresh spray of water in all directions.

You shriek as the cold droplets hit you, shielding your face.

"Okay, enough," you laugh, retreating toward the shore. "If I get this cast wet, I’m screwed."

Joel, catching his breath, watches as you wade back onto land. You grab an old towel from your pack, drying off before slipping back into your clothes, the afternoon sun warming your skin.

Eventually, Joel joins you, dropping onto the shore beside you, running his fingers through his wet hair with a grumble. Ellie stays in the water, drifting lazily on her back, eyes closed, soaking up the moment like it’s the first time she’s ever really felt peace.

You watch her, then glance at Joel.

For once, there’s no urgency. No fear.

Just this.

A moment carved out of the world as it used to be.

He sits beside you, close enough that if you weren’t thinking too hard about it, you could mistake the two of you for something. Companions, maybe. Friends. But you know better.

You aren’t sure what you are anymore. Old friends? Reluctant allies? Strangers with too much history to be strangers at all?

Joel exhales through his nose, nodding toward the water. “Kid’s like a goddamn fish.”

You huff a quiet laugh, the sound unfamiliar in your throat. It doesn’t belong here, doesn’t fit into the broken mess of whatever sits between you now. But it comes anyway, drawn out of you by the sight of Ellie floating on her back, arms splayed wide, completely at peace.

“She’s something,” you agree.

Joel shifts beside you. You can hear him breathing, steady and even, but you swear he’s thinking so loud you can almost hear it. He wants to speak. You can feel it.

You do, too, if you’re being honest.

But what do you even say?

Thanks for saving me. By the way, why did you do that?

… Is it the same reason you couldn’t pull the trigger that day on the river?

Joel clears his throat. “I… I heard about her. Back when we were in the QZ.”

You turn to him, brows furrowing. What?

“What?” you ask, blinking at him. “You…?”

“Ellie, I mean.” He doesn’t look at you, his eyes locked on the water where she drifts lazily, letting the sun warm her face. “I went to see Marlene for a job. Back when we were just talkin’ about leaving. I knew she could get me supplies we needed. I’d done runs for her before.”

You stay silent, waiting. Joel never gave up information freely. He was a locked safe, in the heart of a maximum security prison, and getting anything out of him used to be an art. But now, here he is, offering something up unprompted.

And you’re not about to interrupt him.

“I never brought you along for jobs with the Fireflies. Too dangerous,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face, voice quieter now. “And this time when I went…”

He seems to consider his words for a moment.

“She mentioned a kid. A girl who was immune. I thought she was full of shit. She wanted me to bring her to Utah so they could— ” His jaw clenches. You can see the tension in him, the way his shoulders tighten, his throat bobs with a hard swallow. “They were gonna kill her.”

There’s a rawness in his voice, like it’s scraped open, bleeding.

You swallow, staring at his profile, at the way he keeps his eyes fixed forward, unwilling to meet yours. He isn’t just talking about Ellie.

“You knew they were going to do the same to me,” you murmur. “And that’s why you came to get me.”

It isn’t a question. It isn’t even an accusation.

Just a fact. A recognition of what he’s done.

Joel thought you were going to be killed, and he put himself between you and the hands of fate. Again.

But Joel shakes his head.

“I was comin’ for you anyway,” he says, and his voice is steady now, sure in a way that makes your breath catch. “Didn’t even realize they were around ‘til I saw the logo spray-painted nearby. They do that, try to scare raiders off. Got a bad reputation.”

You stare at him. His words filter through your brain slowly, piece by piece.

I was comin’ for you anyway.

You hadn’t been sure what he would do after you left. Maybe go back to Boston. Maybe stay, start over, let go of the weight of you, the burden of your needs, your curse.

You’d assumed he would want that. That he’d find peace in the quiet of Wyoming, without you there to complicate things.

But instead, he’d gone looking.

Not because of duty. Not because of some misplaced sense of responsibility.

But because relief for him wasn’t found in the emptiness you left behind.

What if Joel didn’t want peace?

What if peace, for him, wasn’t something Wyoming could offer, only you?

The thought lingers, curling itself around the messy, broken edges of everything else between you. You don’t know what to do with it. Don’t know how to hold it alongside all the other things you carry, the hurt, the anger, the distance.

Because for all of this, for everything he’s done, there was still that look in his eyes before you left. Still the anger in his voice, the cold way he pushed you away.

How do you hold both things at the same time?

…

That night, as you sit around the campfire, you listen to the stillness in the air.

If it were warmer, there’d be crickets, the distant sounds of life in the forest waking under the moonlight. If it weren’t the apocalypse, there’d be the sounds of other campers, families murmuring, kids giggling as they roast marshmallows, someone playing a guitar off in the distance. The kind of quiet life you once took for granted.

Instead, there’s just you, the child you’ve quasi-adopted, and the man you’re in love with who also makes you want to rip your hair out half the time, splitting a can of vintage baked beans and jerky over the fire.

You’ve learned that Ellie has never been one for silence. She’ll do anything to fill it, whether it’s with half-baked theories, crude jokes, or god-awful puns. Tonight, though, she sets her sights on Joel.

“You know, if you keep making that face, it’ll get stuck that way.”

You glance over at him, catching the deep furrow in his brow, the ever-present scowl that looks like it’s been etched into his face since birth. Something about it makes you laugh, small but genuine, bubbling up before you can stop it.

How the hell did you ever survive these awkward silences with Joel before Ellie came along?

He doesn’t dignify her with a response, just grunts, shaking his head as he stirs the fire. But before he can grumble too much, she throws a question to you both.

“What was your favorite movie, from before?”

You freeze, caught off guard. That’s something you haven’t thought about in… years. More than years. It’s been so long since movies were even a part of your world. The last one you saw was back in the Chicago QZ, crowded around a battery-operated portable DVD player, watching The Phantom Menace with a group of strangers, pretending for a couple of hours that the world outside didn’t exist.

Joel, however, doesn’t hesitate.

“Curtis and the Viper 2.”

You blink, then snort before you can stop yourself.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, brows knitting together.

You shake your head, grinning. “Those movies were cheesy as hell. That’s your favorite?”

Joel lifts his hands in mock offense. “Hey now, those movies had heart.”

“Oh my god, you’re serious.”

Ellie giggles, eyes flicking between the two of you.

“Damn right I’m serious,” Joel says, poking at the fire. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little action and adventure.”

You smirk, leaning back against a fallen log. “I just pegged you as more of a Western kind of guy.”

Joel huffs, but there’s amusement behind it, like he’s almost pleased you even gave it that much thought. “Alright then, smartass, what’s your favorite?”

You hesitate, rifling through half-buried memories before grinning as one finally surfaces.

“The Blair Witch Project, for sure.”

Joel’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. “Your parents let you watch that?”

You let out a giggle. “Jesus, Joel, how old do you think I was?”

Ellie, watching the exchange with barely contained amusement, grins wide. “Wait, wait. What's the Blair Witch?”

You and Joel exchange a glance before turning back to her.

“A horror movie,” you say.

“A damn stupid horror movie,” Joel adds.

You gasp, clutching your chest in mock offense. “Oh, come on, it was terrifying.”

Joel scoffs. “Terrifying? It was a bunch of idiots running around the woods with a camera, scarin’ themselves half to death over nothin’.”

“That’s what made it great. It was all about the suspense.” You wiggle your eyebrows at him.

He just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about kids these days.

For a moment, there’s an easiness about this, a warmth, reminiscent of how things used to be before everything went to hell. Before he did what he did. Before you ran.

The fire crackles, throwing shadows across Joel’s face, softening the hard edges. He’s watching you, but not with the guarded distance he’s kept since you left. Just… watching.

You swallow, glancing away.

The moment is fleeting, slipping through your fingers before you can grab hold of it.

Because then Ellie throws a grenade into the air.

“What was the happiest day of your life?”

A log on the fire pops, sending embers swirling into the night, but everything else stills. The air thickens, pressing in on you, on Joel.

Your eyes find his, and he’s already looking at you.

Because he already knows your answer.

You told him, back when you laid all your cards on the table. When you thought you had nothing to lose.

The closest thing to happiness I’ve felt since… since before the world ended.

A day suspended in liquid gold. Where for a brief, foolish moment, you believed you could reach out and take love in your hands, hold it like something real, something lasting. When words spilled between you in the flickering firelight, when the proximity between you vanished, leaving nothing but warmth and breath and the unspoken promise that maybe, just maybe, there could be something more.

But you can’t tell Ellie that. You can’t even bear the thought of retelling it to Joel.

And Joel… How is he supposed to answer? How does he tell you that the happiest day of his life was the day his baby girl was born? How does he put into words the million little moments that followed - the first time Sarah wrapped her tiny fingers around his, the way she’d laugh until she snorted, the feeling of her arms wrapped around his neck after a long day - without inviting questions? Without unraveling himself right here, in front of both of you?

He’d told you about Sarah before. More than he ever told Tess. More than he ever told anyone. You asked, and Joel, hesitant, careful, had given you those pieces of himself, knowing you would hold them gently.

But he can’t do that now. Not here. Not in front of Ellie.

The silence stretches, growing heavier by the second. Ellie glances between you both, her face scrunching in confusion, then softening with worry.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asks quietly.

You shake your head, only then noticing the tears perched precariously on your waterline. You blink them back and slip an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into your side.

“No, not at all,” you murmur, keeping your voice smooth, steady. Comforting. “It’s just hard to think about sometimes. About everything we lost, you know?”

Ellie doesn’t answer, but you feel her lean into you, just a little.

Across the fire, Joel remains still, gaze fixed on the flames.

It’s like you can read his mind, and he doesn’t like it.

The night wears on, the fire burning lower, the cold creeping in. Eventually, Ellie curls up in her makeshift bedroll, her breathing slowing, evening out.

And then it’s just you and Joel.

The quiet between you isn’t painful, it’s unbearable.

You want to say something.

So does he.

Neither of you do.

The silence stretches like an unseen presence, pressing against you like a bruise you don’t want to touch.

You want to ask Why did you come for me? Really? but the words stay stuck in your throat.

Joel wants to say I’m sorry I pushed you away. Wants to tell you that being without you had felt like severing a limb, that he hasn’t stopped feeling the ghost of it since. But instead, he just grunts and mutters, “You should get some sleep.”

And so you do.

…

You wake early the next day, the chill of dawn clinging to your skin as you set off up the mountain. The world feels greyer today, the cloud cover making the lake look like a giant silver mirror. The air is crisp, but the tension between you and Joel remains, hanging in the air like a fourth traveler.

Unspoken words. Stolen glances. Moments where one of you starts to speak but stops short, swallowing whatever had almost been said.

Ellie senses it, that unseen current passing between you and Joel. She does her best to cut through it, keeping up a steady stream of chatter, throwing out silly jokes, pointless observations, anything to keep things light. But there’s a distance between you and Joel that she can’t quite bridge, a history neither of you are willing to acknowledge out loud.

After a while, Ellie groans dramatically, pressing a hand to her forehead like a tragic heroine.

“Ugh. My legs. They’re dead. Completely useless. Guess you guys are gonna have to leave me behind.”

You smirk, glancing over at her. This kid has no business being this funny, not after everything she’s seen, everything she’s been through. You admire that about her, the way she refuses to let the world harden her completely.

She turns to Joel with wide, pleading eyes. “Joel, you gotta carry me. It’s the only way.”

You fully expect him to scoff, to grumble something about how she’s not a baby and she can walk just fine. But to your utter astonishment, he stops.

He raises an eyebrow at Ellie, then shifts his backpack around to his front, loosening the straps. With a groaning sigh, he drops to one knee and waves a hand expectantly.

“C’mon, then.”

Ellie’s mouth falls open in disbelief before she whips her head toward you, like she needs confirmation that this is really happening.

And then, with an elated shriek, she scrambles onto Joel’s back.

He grunts as he stands, adjusting her weight before trudging forward. “You ain’t exactly light, kid.”

“Yeah, well, you aren’t exactly young,” she shoots back, grinning against his shoulder.

And you laugh. A real, genuine laugh, already filling the air before you can stop it. Ellie laughs too, and after a moment, even Joel, despite himself, lets out a quiet chuckle.

For a moment, it feels almost normal.

In another life, maybe this could have been yours, properly. A life where Joel is yours, where the world isn’t shattered and unkind, where you’re just walking together on a crisp morning, laughing with a little girl who shares your features, perched on his back without a care in the world. In this fantasy, there’s no weight in Joel’s eyes when he looks at you, no past that threatens to pull you under, no unspoken words wedged between you like a blade. In this fantasy, he loves you back.

You let yourself stay there, just for a second. Suspended in it.

Then the moment shatters.

It happens fast, too fast.

Your breath catches, laughter dying in your throat as something up ahead snags your attention. A shift in the landscape, a movement in the distance. At first, you think it’s just a trick of the light, a shadow cast by the trees. But then you see it.

A wreck.

The mangled remains of an RV, half-sunken in a roadside ditch, its windows shattered, its frame rusted and warped from time and decay. For a second, it’s just another ruin, another forgotten remnant of a world long gone.

But then the movement registers.

Not the wind. Not the trees.

Bodies.

A small horde, circling the wreckage like vultures, dragging rotted limbs, heads jerking in sudden, unnatural twitches. You don’t have time to count them before one stops mid-step, its face snapping toward you, hollow sockets locking onto distant movement. Then another. And another.

Your blood turns to ice.

Joel reacts before you can. Pure instinct.

Ellie barely has time to squeak out a question before he’s dropping her to the ground, shoving both of you toward the brush on the far side of the road.

“Stay down. Stay quiet.”

Ellie nods, wide-eyed, scrambling into the undergrowth, but you hesitate.

Because you know Joel. You know what he’s about to do.

And you can’t help yourself.

Once you’re sure Ellie is hidden, you crawl back up to the road, pressing yourself against the rough bark of a tree, watching his six.

Like old times.

And God, he’s mesmerizing.

He moves like something honed and deadly, all precision and brutal efficiency. A weapon crafted by time and hardship, cutting through the infected like they are nothing, because to him, they are. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stumble. Every swing of his knife, every crack of his boot, every bullet that leaves the chamber, it’s methodical. Practiced.

God’s perfect killing machine.

But God’s perfect killing machine has a bad right ear, and he doesn’t catch the flurry of movement behind him.

You watch it slither from behind the overturned RV, moving low, silent. A stalker, its body half-decayed, bones jutting through torn flesh, its milky eyes locked onto Joel like a predator that’s finally caught the scent of its prey.

He doesn’t hear it.

You realize it too late.

A cold sweat spikes down your spine. Your heart kicks into a frenzy, pulse thundering in your ears. You could call out to him, but you know what that would mean. You know how fast these things move. One sound, one wrong step, and it’s over.

For all of you.

But you’re not about to watch your nightmare unfold in front of you. Not again.

The fingers of your good hand close around the hilt of your knife, yanking it from its sheath in one fluid motion. There’s no time to think, just to move. You crouch low, every muscle coiled, and slip toward the stalker as quietly as you can.

Close enough now.

You throw your casted arm around its neck, the thick plaster shielding you from its snapping teeth, and drive your blade deep into its skull. You ignore the way your bone screams from the pressure.

But you’re not steady on your feet yet, not fully healed, not fully back in fighting form. Your balance falters. The dead weight of its body drags you down, and before you can stop it, you’re falling.

A sickening gurgle rattles in its throat as its body spasms against yours, collapsing atop you. You twist the knife deeper, teeth gritted, until the movement ceases.

Silence.

For a second, the world stills.

By the time he’s finished off the last of them, Joel’s head is whipping around, eyes scanning wildly. His ribs are heaving, lungs burning, adrenaline screaming through his veins.

But then it’s like all of that fades into silence, replaced by the feeling of the earth giving out beneath him.

Because when Joel looks back, all he sees is you, sprawled next to the body of a stalker, still as death.

A rush of ice floods his veins. His heart lurches painfully, breath strangled in his throat. A sound, ragged and broken and desperate, tries to claw its way out of his throat.

Not again. Not fucking again.

A half second before his knees give out, you move, body shaking with adrenaline. A wince as you yank the knife free, blood smearing across your fingers. Very much alive.

And something inside him snaps.

It should be relief. It should be gratitude. Instead, it erupts as fury.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

You blink up at him, still catching your breath, thrown by the anger written across his face.

“What?”

It’s not fair. You were helping. You weren’t just standing around, waiting to be saved.

Joel’s jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it might shatter. He gestures wildly toward the corpse beside you, toward where you had been lying so fucking still just moments ago.

“You sneak up on a goddamn stalker like that?” His voice rises. “Do you have a death wish?”

Your pulse is still hammering from the fight, and now it spikes with anger.

“I was helping, Joel,” you snap, stepping forward. “That thing was coming up behind you. I saved your ass.”

He growls, drags a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his beard like he’s trying to ground himself. “You should’ve stayed put.”

You scoff. “Right, I should’ve just stood there and let you get torn apart?”

Something flickers in his expression, dark and pained, but you don’t let yourself falter. You shove past the fear curling in your gut, past the way he’s looking at you like he’s seen a ghost.

“I handled it,” you grit out. “I’ve been handling shit like this since before I met you.”

Joel doesn’t answer. He just stares at you, breaths coming out erratically, like he’s still trying to convince himself that you’re standing here. That you’re not bleeding out on the forest floor.

That he didn’t almost lose you.

Joel’s eyes flash. “That ain’t the damn point.”

“Then what is the point, Joel?”

“The point is I turn around and see you on the goddamn ground, and for a second, I thought —”

He cuts himself off abruptly, like the words have lodged in his throat, choking him. His jaw tightens, fists clenching at his sides.

You stare at him, your breath still coming hard. There’s something in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s barely keeping himself together. The tick of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, the way his fingers curl and uncurl like he needs something to hold on to.

And it hits you.

He thought he lost you.

Your stomach twists. The blaze of your own anger dies, just a little. But you don’t know how to soften things between you. You don’t know how to dull the double-edged knife that’s lodged between you both. Not when he’s spent so long keeping you at arm’s length. Not when he’s pushed you away again and again.

So instead, you say, “Well, you didn’t.” Your voice is flat. “I’m fine.”

Joel sighs, but it’s not relief, it’s frustration. He shakes his head, turning away like he can’t look at you anymore, but then he turns back just as fast, like he can’t not look at you either.

“You don’t get it, do you? You don’t get what that did to me.”

Your lungs constrict.

“Joel…”

“I thought you were dead.” He says shakily. He steps closer. “For one second, I-” He swallows hard, like the words physically pain him. His gaze pins you in place. “You don’t know what that feels like.”

The words tear out of you before you can stop them.

“Yes, I do.”

Joel freezes.

Your throat tightens. You weren’t going to go here. You weren’t going to bring it up. But the dam has broken, and there’s no stopping it now.

“Yes, I do know what it feels like.” You bite. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost someone? The only one who’s had to watch someone they care about die?”

Joel’s expression darkens. “That ain’t what I said.”

“But it’s what you think, isn’t it?” Your heart is hammering now. “That you’re the only one who gets to feel like this? Like you have permission to treat everyone like shit because you’re hurting?”

“That’s not —” He stops himself, jaw locking like he’s fighting with himself. “That’s not what I meant.”

You’re both standing too close now, neither of you willing to back down. The heat of the fight, of the near miss, of the way things were going so good right up until now, crackles between you, thick like a brewing storm.

Joel clenches his jaw again, shoulders rigid, like he’s holding something back.

“I ain’t losin’ you again.”

Oh.

It’s so quiet, the way he says it.

It’s the closest he’s ever come to saying the thing he won’t let himself say.

You don’t know what to do with this, don’t know how to hold it in your hands without breaking it, without breaking yourself.

So you do what you always do. You deflect. Because it’s easier. Because it’s safer.

"Losing me. Like you weren’t the one who pushed me away?"

His face crumples, like something inside of him has snapped in two.

Then, like an act of God, the sky opens up. A torrential downpour crashes over you, drowning the moment before it can fully take shape.

You don’t think, you just move.

You sprint toward the brush where Ellie is still waiting, pulling her hood up over her head, grabbing her arm. You don’t stop as you run past Joel, past the wreckage, past the bodies. The rain is deafening, hammering against the pavement, but you can just barely hear the heavy thud of his boots behind you. You don’t look back. You can’t look back. You don’t want to see whatever’s on his face right now.

Up ahead, just off the main road, a small dirt lot appears, more old, rusted RVs scattered across it, long abandoned.

You rush into the nearest one, sweeping your eyes over the space, assessing. Empty. Safe enough. You pull Ellie in after you.

The walls are thin, the rain pelting against them like a thousand watery bullets.

A beat later, Joel steps inside, slamming the door harder than necessary. He doesn’t say a word. Just stands there, dripping, arms crossed, jaw set like stone.

At first, there’s only silence, save for your heavy breaths and the downpour raging outside. You shake the water from your hair, peel off your soaked jacket. The space is small, musty, thick with old dust and mold. You take stock quickly. Nothing much useful left behind, but at least the place is mostly intact.

Ellie, sensing the tension, slips toward the back of the RV. She mutters some half hearted excuse about looking for books before disappearing into the bedroom, door latched quietly behind her.

The silence stretches, tight, loaded.

It would be so easy to let it go. To let the rain wash the fight away.

But neither of you are that kind of person.

Instead, you shake your head, scoffing as you remove your wet sheath. “You always do this, you know that?”

Joel growls, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“No, seriously.” You turn to face him fully, arms crossed and eyes aflame. “You always have to be the one making the calls, telling me what I should or shouldn’t do —”

“Because you don’t think!” He cuts you off, words like dynamite. “You throw yourself into danger without a second thought, and I gotta be the one picking up the pieces every goddamn time.”

You bristle. “That’s bullshit.”

“No, what’s bullshit — ” he takes a step forward, “ — is me turnin’ around and seein’ you on the ground like a goddamn corpse.” His face twists, like the image is still burned into his mind.

“I thought — ”

He stops short, shakes his head like he can’t even bring himself to say it out loud. His jaw is clenched so tight you can hear the grind of his teeth.

“Do I gotta spell it out for you why that scared me?”

Your pulse is still hammering from the fight, from the rain, from him. You stare at him, eyes boring a hole into his, trying to shove down the twisting thing in your stomach. “You’re acting like this because I fucking scared you?”

Joel doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

Your jaw tightens. “I don’t need you to be scared for me, Joel. I can take care of myself.”

Joel laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah? That how you ended up with the Fireflies?”

The words land like a slap.

You blink. The storm outside rages, wind and rain hammering the metal walls, but it’s nothing compared to the whirlwind inside you.

Joel sees it. Sees the crack in your armor. And like a hunter who’s caught the scent of blood, he runs with it.

“You’re so damn sure you don’t need anyone, but you ran straight into their hands, didn’t you?” He barks. “You left, and look what happened.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t stop.

“You think just ‘cause you survived one bite, you can’t die? Immunity won’t stop a horde from tearin’ you to pieces. Won’t stop livin’, breathin’ people who’ll think up a million worse ways to hurt you.”

And he’s right, isn’t he?

Joel doesn’t even realize how deep he’s cut until he sees your face change. The fight bleeds out of your expression, replaced by something hollow, something stricken.

For the first time tonight, you have no comeback. No fiery retort, no quick-witted barb to throw back at him. Just a quiet, stunned look, like he’s finally broken something that won’t be so easily put back together.

Joel’s stomach drops.

He fucked up.

You don’t say anything. You just turn and push past him, yanking the camper door open and stepping out into the storm.

Joel reacts immediately.

“Shit.” He’s out the door before he even thinks about it, boots sinking into the mud as rain bears down in sheets. The wind howls, whipping through the trees, drowning out everything but the pounding of his heart.

You’re already walking away, shoulders hunched against the downpour, your body a rigid line of anger, on the verge of combustion.

Joel catches up in a few strides, grabbing your good wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop you.

“Wait!”

You rip yourself free, spinning on him so fast he barely has time to react.

“Don’t.” Your voice shakes, though whether it’s from anger or exhaustion, you don’t know. Your clothes are soaked through, hair dripping, rainwater running down your face. You wipe at it roughly, but it doesn’t stop the sting behind your eyes.

“I can’t do this anymore, Joel.” You’re nearly shouting over the roar of the storm.. “I can’t stand you acting like I’m a fucking liability. Like I’m a mistake you made.”

Joel’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “I don’t —”

But you don’t let him finish. You’re too wound up, too desperate to get the words out before your courage fails.

“You must regret it. Not shooting me when you had the chance.”

Joel’s face darkens, his whole body tensing like a drawn bowstring. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Say it out loud?” Your voice is almost shrill now, though you’re past the point of caring. “Say that your life would be easier with me gone? Or that I left you and maybe things would’ve been easier if I never came back?”

His eyes flicker like a dying light, wounded and volatile all at once. His breath is heavy, his shoulders tight with restraint.

And when he speaks, it’s quiet. Lethal.

“You really think that little of me?”

You falter. Just for a second. But you can’t stop now.

“You tell me, Joel.” Your voice wavers, but you keep going. “Because you’ve sure as hell been acting like it.”

Joel groans, his hands braced on his hips. “Jesus Christ.” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe this conversation is happening, like he can’t believe you’re happening.

Then, quieter, “You don’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it just fine.” The words snap out before you can stop them.

“No,” he snaps, stepping forward. “You don’t.”

The rain lashes down, thunder rumbling in the distance.

“You got no goddamn clue what it was like, wakin’ up and findin’ you gone. What it’s been like since.”

Your breath catches in your throat. But he’s not done.

“You think I resent you?” His voice is bitter now, his brows pulled in disbelief. “No. I’m mad at you. I’m so goddamn angry I don’t know what to do with it.”

You swallow. “Why?”

“Because you left.”

And he breaks like a frayed rope snapping. Like the words he’s been keeping tethered all this time have finally broken loose.

“Because you didn’t even give me a goddamn chance to tell you how fuckin’ sorry I was. How sorry I still am, every goddamn day.”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

You don’t know what to do with an apology from Joel, don’t know how to hold it in your broken hands. You shake your head hard, rejecting it.

“I had to go,” you murmur, throat tight, barely able to force the words out.

Joel shakes his head, rain flowing in rivulets down his face, as if coming from the storm in his eyes. “No, you didn’t.”

He’s quieter now, but somehow it cuts deeper, right through the places you’ve tried so hard to keep impenetrable.

You don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to stand under the weight of this moment, how to breathe around the ache tightening in your ribs.

So you do what you’ve always done when things get too hard. You run.

You push past him into the trees, feet fighting for traction in the mud, heart hammering against your ribs. The rain is endless, beating down in thick sheets, soaking through every layer of you. You don’t care. You just need to get away.

Joel curses under his breath and follows, his boots splashing through puddles. “Damn it, would you just stop?”

And then he’s somewhere else.

The sun, golden, peeking from behind a distant mountain. The warm drizzle on his skin, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and late summer. You, laughing, spinning through the rain with your arms wide, the fabric of your shirt clinging to your skin, your hair dripping down your back. The way you looked at him then, like maybe he wasn’t as ruined as he thought he was. Like maybe, just maybe, he deserved something good.

Then the night you left.

The haunted old house, the sound of rain against the leaky ceiling. The warmth of you in the room, the way his body had finally, finally, relaxed after so many nights on edge. The rare kind of sleep that only came when he let himself believe, just for a moment, that you were safe.

Then waking up to nothing.

The gut wrenching silence, the hollowness where you should have been.

The way it felt like losing everything all over again.

Now.

Joel’s heart clenches so hard it hurts. His breath is ragged, throat tight, stomach churning.

Not this time.

“Hey!” He shouts, cutting through the storm.

You freeze, spinning around to face him.

Joel steps closer, his frame so broad and unaffected by the torrents soaking you, like you could crawl under him for cover.

“You don’t get to do this again.” The rain plasters his hair to his forehead, those dark curls framing his frustrated face. “You don’t get to run like that. Not again.”

You’re drenched, blinking rain from your lashes, but he sees it all in your face. The hurt. The anger. The fear. The weight you’ve been carrying all alone, the one he neglected to help shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracks, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry, you have no idea.”

You don’t move.

His jaw clenches. He shakes his head, his throat working. “I never wanted to push you away… I never wanted you to go.”

It feels like lightning the way it shatters something between you. The fight leaves you.

Your shoulders drop, your lips part like you might say something, but you don’t.

Slowly, cautiously, like he’s afraid you might break under his touch or disappear with the rain, Joel reaches for you. A hesitant brush of his fingertips on the slope of your shoulder, a question unspoken.

And you let him.

You let him pull you into his arms, let yourself fold against him, let yourself be.

In this embrace you find shelter in the storm, against everything that’s threatened to pull you apart. His shirt is soaked, his lungs heaving something terrific beneath your cheek. And here, pressed against the thundering beat of his heart, shielded from the downpour, you weep.

For all that you’ve lost.

For all that you and Joel have left in your wake.

For the ugly truths neither of you can take back.

Joel presses his face into your hair, his arms locking around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers again. His lips graze, barely there, against your temple.

And when you finally find your voice, it’s quiet.

“I’m sorry, too.”

He just nods.

“Can we go back inside?” He asks.

You nod against his chest.

Joel keeps an arm slung over your shoulders as he leads you back to the RV. His touch is steady, solid, and you let yourself lean into it. Not because you need to, not really. But because, in this rare moment of honesty you’ve carved out together, there’s a part of you that wants to.

Wants to need him.

Wants to lean on him without the guilt, without the shame that’s rooted itself deep in your bones. The kind that twenty years of survival has carved into you, the voice in your head that says relying on anyone means weakness, means death.

Because maybe that voice is wrong.

Maybe, just this once, you don’t have to listen to it.

Inside the RV, the air is still thick with lingering tension, the scent of damp earth and mildew settling around you both. The rain still beats against the thin metal walls, but it’s quieter now. Muted, almost peaceful.

Joel lowers himself onto the bench seat at the dinette, exhaling as he leans back. That’s when you notice the way his mouth twitches, the way his fingers tighten briefly on the table’s edge.

“You’re hurt?” you ask, eyes narrowing.

He hesitates, but then sighs, dragging the sleeve of his jacket up to reveal a nasty scrape along his forearm. The wound is raw, angry, streaked with dirt. “Got myself on the damn door earlier. I’ll be fine.”

You shoot him a look, arching a brow. “Let me clean it up.”

You expect refusal, annoyance, a trademark scowl.

But Joel doesn’t argue. He just nods, resigned.

You gather the supplies, sitting across from him at the table. He rests his arm between you, his skin warm beneath your fingertips as you gently push his sleeve further up. Your movements are careful but clumsy, your cast making everything harder, your fingers still stiff and uncooperative. Joel could probably do a better job himself, but neither of you acknowledge that. There’s an unspoken understanding between you now. You have to let each other help.

Because it’s not about whether you need it, or whether you deserve it.

It’s about trust. About allowing yourselves to take care of each other, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it feels like a risk.

You work in silence, dabbing antiseptic onto the scrape, your touch light but deliberate. Joel barely flinches, watching you with an unreadable expression. You press a bandage over the wound, then reach for the roll of gauze to wrap it in place, securing it with slow, precise movements.

Joel still doesn’t speak, just watches you.

Watches the way your brows pull together in concentration, the way your damp hair clings to your cheeks, the way the soft evening light catches on the delicate slope of your nose, the curve of your lips.

You look beautiful like this.

And Joel wants to tell you. Now. Because what does he have to lose? Because the words have been clawing their way up his throat since before you left, since before you broke him that night, and he hated himself for not saying them when he had the chance.

But something stops him.

A promise.

He made a promise. To get you somewhere safe first, to let you decide, openly and freely, what you wanted.

He has failed you in so many ways, so many times.

But this promise, he will keep.

…

Joel tells you you're still a few days out from where he thinks the Wyoming safe haven is.

The truth is that you’re closer than that.

But there’s somewhere else he wants to take you first.

He’s banking on your inability to read a map to pull this off. And despite what he’s muttered in moments of frustration, he knows you’re capable, fiercely so. But you both know geography isn’t exactly your strong suit.

Still, you sense something is up.

"Joel, why are we going this way? We should be heading —"

"Just trust me."

That earns him a pointed look, one that says really? But the thing is… you do trust him.

Ellie, on the other hand, can barely contain her excitement. She keeps sneaking glances at Joel, smirking, dropping hints that only fuel your frustration. You hate not knowing things. And whatever this is, it's something.

Joel is different, too. Not softer, exactly, but focused. Like this matters to him. And maybe it’s because this is the first time in a long time he’s leading without it being about survival.

Since that night in the rain, something between you has shifted. The sting of old wounds still lingers, but there’s something else now, too. Something smoothed over and soothed by your shared apologies.

You don’t know that it’ll ever be the same. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe something stronger can be forged here.

You’re deep in thought when Joel crests a hill ahead of you. He turns back, raising a hand, motioning for you to follow.

And then you see it.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to move.

Yellowstone.

Untouched. Preserved. Alive.

For years, you'd feared it would be lost, just another casualty of the world’s ruin. That the image you clung to, the dream of this place, would shatter the moment you laid eyes on it. But it’s here. Whole. The geysers still erupt, steam curling into the sky. The hot springs shimmer in the afternoon light, deep pools of blue and green. A herd of bison gather in the distance, unbothered. The land is still theirs, always has been.

You think about the destruction and the decay and the rot, the way that’s what the world was for you for so long. The desperation of persistent existence in a hostile world. But that’s just human creation, isn’t it? Things that were always unnatural, always a blight on the land. So it makes sense that Earth would reclaim what was hers, what humans tried to make theirs. But here, this beautiful place… This has always belonged to her. Things that are meant to survive, do.

And then, you understand.

Joel didn’t just bring you here as a detour.

He brought you here for you.

It’s not about survival, or obligation, or guilt.

This is kindness.

And it scares you a little.

Joel is watching you carefully, hands braced on his hips, his expression unreadable. He won’t admit it, but he’s nervous. He doesn’t know what you’ll do. If you’ll say something. If you’ll shut down. If you’ll run.

But you don’t run.

You let yourself have it. The moment, the quiet, the peace.

And then you smile. Wide, real.

Joel’s heart flutters, skips a beat. He’s seen you smile like this before, but only once. In a way that makes you look light, a way that lets him imagine how you might have looked had the world never ended. Like for the first time in a long time, you’re not carrying every awful thing that’s ever happened to you on your shoulders.

You turn to him, your heart so full it almost hurts., but not in that familiar way that wounds.

“Thank you.”

Joel doesn’t know what to do with that. Doesn’t know how to say you don’t have to thank me, I wanted to do this for you. So he just nods.

You look at him, and for maybe the first time, you see him.

Really see him.

You let yourself look, let yourself hold his gaze without fear of what you’ll find. And what you do find nearly brings you to your knees.

Because there’s no anger there. No pain, no regret, no sorrow.

Just joy.

Your joy, reflected back at you, in Joel.

Your fingers twitch at your side before you reach out, hesitating for only a second before taking his hand in yours. Your fingers entwine, squeezing tight.

He squeezes back, two quick pulls.

You linger, just for a moment, before letting go.

Ellie, as always, chooses the perfect time to interrupt.

"Okay, so what do we think? Jumping into one of those colorful pools or a geyser explosion first?"

The answer, of course, is neither, because, No, Ellie, that shit will boil you alive.

Even as you explore the land, watching the geysers erupt into rising plumes of steam, admiring the bison as they graze in the golden light of dusk, feeling the earth itself pulse with life beneath your feet, you can’t stop looking at Joel.

You try to take it all in, try to commit every detail of this place to memory. But more than the mountains or the rivers or the impossibly colorful pools, it's him you can't stop staring at.

For so long, you'd avoided really looking at him, expecting nothing but sharp edges, harsh words, cold indifference, the naked truth of your own fears reflected back at you like a broken mirror. And now that you've let yourself look, really look, and found none of that, you don’t want to look away.

You want to keep watching him in the same way he watches over you, with quiet intensity, with fascination and care and warmth.

That night, you make camp beneath the vast, endless stretch of stars. Yellowstone is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels untouched, sacred. The fire crackles between you, sending embers up into the night sky like sacred offerings. You shiver when the temperature cools, and without a second thought, Joel shrugs off his jacket and hands it to you.

You don’t argue. You just take it, curling it around yourself, breathing him in.

“I never thought I’d actually see it,” you admit, voice soft in the rich stillness.

Joel watches you for a moment, then offers a small, reassuring smile. “Plenty more ahead.”

It surprises you, but you believe him.

But as the fire flickers between you, illuminating his face in warm, shifting light, something else inside of you shifts too.

You’re almost there. Almost to the supposed safe haven. Almost at the end of this journey together.

And you can’t help but wonder, what happens then?

What if it’s real? What if it’s peaceful and quiet and safe and everything you dreamed about?

… And what if Joel gets restless?

Can a man who hasn’t stopped moving in twenty years ever really settle down? Will he stay? Or, once he’s satisfied that you’re safe, will he move on? Will he go back to Boston, back to the life he knew before you?

And if he does stay, if you both do… What then?

Without the forced proximity of survival, without shared danger or a destination binding you together, will he become a stranger again?

Will you?

Across the fire, Joel sees the way your expression shifts, the way uncertainty flickers through your eyes. You watch him warily through the glow of the flames, and something about it makes anxiety flicker inside of him.

He wants to say I don’t want to lose you.

But he doesn’t.

Because saying it out loud makes it real. Makes it something that could be lost.

So instead, he stares into the fire, jaw tight, trying not to think about what happens when you get there. Trying not to think about you finding safety and realizing you don’t need him anymore.

About you meeting someone else, someone better, someone softer, someone who can protect you without hurting you in the process.

He stays quiet. So do you.

And though neither of you says it, neither of you sleeps easily that night, both staring up at the stars, feeling something precious slipping, slipping, slipping through your fingers.

#joel miller x reader

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