#no one but you ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joelsrose · 2 months ago

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First Date: Part II

Part 1

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The room was quiet, but your heart refused to follow suit, pounding wildly against your ribs as Joel’s words played over and over in your head. The faint hum of alcohol lingered in your veins, leaving your senses dulled but your emotions sharp. Heat crept up your neck and across your face, a blush you couldn’t will away. Your chest ached, full and warm, caught somewhere between elation and frustration.

Not like this.

Joel Miller wanted to kiss you. The thought spun in your mind like a cyclone, disorienting and infuriating all at once. Why was he so impossible to understand? Why couldn’t he just come out and say what he meant instead of leaving you to sift through his maddening half-truths and clumsy, drunken confessions? All he ever did was complicate things.

He was infuriating, stubborn, and guarded to a fault—a wall of iron wrapped in a storm cloud. And yet, despite all of it, you felt yourself drawn to him like a moth to a flame. It didn’t make any sense. Why him, of all people? Had the years of chaos and heartbreak warped you so completely that you’d developed some ridiculous weakness for brooding older men with a penchant for gruffness and unspoken truths?

You huffed into the darkness, pressing your palms against your flushed cheeks, but the heat didn’t dissipate. Against your will, your thoughts drifted back to him, to his voice low and gravelly, saying things he couldn’t seem to admit in the sober light of day. Was he awake now, thinking about you? Or had he already pushed it all aside, boxed it up and locked it away in whatever cavern he stored the pieces of himself he refused to share?

The ache in your chest swelled, pushing against the growing exhaustion that tugged at you. You curled onto your side, pulling the blanket closer, hoping to smother the whirlwind of emotions that refused to quiet down.

And just as the edges of sleep began to blur your thoughts, you felt it—a phantom sensation born of longing and bittersweet dreams. The imagined press of Joel’s lips against yours, warm and deliberate, a fleeting moment of tenderness that made your heart stutter even as slumber finally claimed you.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

You rode in silence behind Joel, the steady rhythm of your horse beneath you almost lulling you into a trance. The biting cold nipped at your cheeks, but your thoughts kept drifting to the man ahead of you. His broad frame cut an imposing silhouette against the pale horizon, his posture as tall and rigid as ever. Every movement was deliberate, his eyes constantly scanning the terrain, as if the weight of the entire world rested squarely on his shoulders.

This morning, he had greeted you with a curt nod and a gruff “Morning.” The simple acknowledgment had caught you off guard. After the tension of your last conversation, you half-expected him to retreat into one of his impenetrable silences. But that was Joel Miller—always catching you off guard, always surprising you right when you thought you finally had him figured out.

Patrol today was supposed to be a routine supply check at one of the safe houses, but something felt off. Your admittedly poor sense of direction had its limits, and even you could tell that you’d been heading the wrong way for at least an hour.

You hesitated, your eyes fixed on Joel’s broad back as he rode ahead. Joel wasn’t exactly known for his love of small talk, and the idea of breaking the silence felt like stepping into dangerous territory. But the quiet was stretching too thin, and curiosity, paired with a healthy dose of boredom, finally got the better of you.

“Joel,” you called out, your voice cutting through the crisp air, “where are we going? The safe house is the other way.” Your tone was casual enough, but it carried an undercurrent of irritation you couldn’t quite hide.

He didn’t turn, his voice gruff and matter-of-fact. “Already checked the supplies this morning.”

“What?” you blurted, reining your horse to a halt. Your frustration flared as the biting cold nipped at your cheeks, your irritation rising at the realization. “What the hell are we doing out here, then?”

You couldn’t keep the exasperation out of your voice, the long ride through freezing winds now feeling even more unnecessary. Your breath puffed in front of you as you waited for an answer, your fingers tightening on the reins.

Joel finally stopped his horse, turning in the saddle to face you, his expression unreadable as always. “We’re goin’ somewhere they can’t hear us,” he said simply, his tone as dry as the winter air.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, your frustration bubbling over. “The hell does that mean?” you shot back, your breath puffing out in an irritated cloud.

Joel exhaled, rubbing a gloved hand over his face as if summoning patience. “Jesus,” he muttered, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Don’t sound so scared. Not gonna murder you.”

Your eyes widened for a moment, caught completely off guard. Then it hit you—Joel Miller had just told a joke. A joke. In his own deadpanned, gruff way, Joel Miller was trying to lighten the mood, and it left you momentarily speechless.

“What do you mean, ‘somewhere they can’t hear us?’” you pressed, suspicion still clear in your voice.

“Less chance of runnin’ into infected or raiders out here,” Joel replied, his tone measured, his focus already shifting back to the path ahead.

You frowned, still not satisfied. “Okay… so?”

“So we can practice,” he said plainly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Practice what?” you groaned, exasperation creeping into your voice as you rolled your eyes. “Do you ever speak in full sentences, or is this just a special talent of yours?”

Joel’s eyebrows arched slightly at your tone, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He wasn’t used to this—your voice sharp, laced with teasing. Around Maria and Tommy? Sure. But with him? You’d always seemed a little more reserved, a little hesitant.

For a moment, something softened in his expression, his guarded demeanor cracking just enough for the faintest twitch of a smile to tug at the corner of his lips. It was fleeting, though—gone before you could catch it, as if he’d forced it away before it betrayed him.

“Gonna practice your shootin’,” he said, his voice steady, with just the faintest edge of amusement, before turning his focus back to the trail.

You found your gaze lingering on his profile, tracing the hard line of his jaw and the subtle furrow of his brow, hoping it would somehow reveal his truth. Joel Miller was a complete enigma, a puzzle you couldn’t seem to piece together no matter how many hours you spent in his company.

This was the man who rarely spared more than a fleeting glance at anyone unless it was absolutely necessary, the man who seemed to prefer the chaos of infected over the mundane discomfort of small talk. And yet here he was, willingly going out of his way, taking you out to practice shooting. In the middle of nowhere. Far from prying eyes and unnecessary distractions.

The thought crept into your mind before you could stop it, your chest tightening as you turned it over. Was there a chance—however small—that Joel Miller felt something for you too?

It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? You shook your head slightly, willing the thought to dissipate, but it clung to you, stubborn and insistent. No matter how much you tried to brush it aside, the possibility lingered—warm and persistent, like an ember nestled deep in your chest, refusing to fade no matter how much you tried to snuff it out.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

“All right,” Joel said, his voice breaking through the crisp morning air as his eyes swept over the landscape ahead. The clearing was vast and open, framed by a dense thicket of trees whose bare branches swayed softly in the winter breeze. Frost coated the grass, glimmering faintly under the pale, overcast sky, and in the distance, a frozen creek carved its way through the land, its icy surface catching the weak light like fractured glass.

The air was still, carrying the sharp, earthy scent of winter, and the silence was almost unnerving in its completeness. No distant chatter, no shuffle of movement—just the sound of your breath mingling with the faint crunch of frost underfoot.

Joel was right. You were far from Jackson, far from the risks of infected or raiders. Here, in this quiet expanse of frozen solitude, it was just the two of you.

Joel swung his leg over his horse, dismounting with practiced ease. You followed suit, your boots crunching softly against the frost-laden ground as you landed. Without a word, Joel led the horses to a nearby tree with a thick, sturdy trunk, securing them with firm, deliberate knots.

You grabbed your pack and rifle, trailing behind him as he moved through the clearing. His eyes swept the area with a critical precision, his every movement purposeful, as though he’d already planned out exactly how this would go.

He stopped at a fallen log first, gripping it with both hands and dragging it into position with a grunt of effort. Crouching low, he pulled a tin can from his pack and set it carefully on top, his hands steady despite the biting chill in the air.

Next, he turned his attention to a dilapidated fencepost, its wood splintered and weathered, lining up a few bottles along its edge. The frosted glass caught the faint light filtering through the clouds, glinting like tiny beacons against the dull gray backdrop.

But Joel wasn’t finished. A rusted metal barrel leaned against a nearby tree, and he hauled it upright with a quiet determination, giving it a quick once-over before affixing a target to its side. Finally, he moved toward the creek, his boots crunching over frost and ice, lining up a series of rocks along the edge, spaced just enough to challenge your aim at a longer distance.

You watched it all with growing amusement, your eyebrow arching as Joel stepped back to survey his work. His expression remained all business, his lips pressed into a firm line, but the meticulous care he put into arranging each makeshift target was oddly endearing.

“Jesus,” you muttered, eyeing the array of makeshift targets scattered across the clearing. “How many of these are you hoping I actually hit?”

“All of ’em,” Joel replied without missing a beat, his tone steady and confident.

You raised an eyebrow at him, incredulous. “That’s ridiculous, Joel.”

“No, it ain’t,” he said, dead serious, his gaze unwavering as he adjusted his stance. “When we’re done here, you’ll be able to hit every single one.”

You let out a disbelieving huff, shaking your head. “You’re insane.”

“I meant what I said,” he continued, his voice low but firm, cutting through your doubts. “You’re not a bad shot—but you’re not confident.”

His words made you pause. He remembered saying that, back when he’d been drunk. Did that mean he remembered the other thing he’d said then?

Thinking about you.

Joel kept going, his tone calm but resolute. “Half of shootin’ is havin’ the aim,” he said, gesturing toward the rifle in your hands. “The other half is thinkin’ you can actually hit what you’re aiming for.”

“Okay,” you breathed, steadying yourself as you tightened your grip on the rifle.

Joel Miller believed you could hit every single one of these targets, so you better damn well try.

You glanced at him, his expression as steady as ever, his confidence in you unwavering. “Alright,” you said, your voice firming with determination. “Teach me.”

Joel gave a small nod, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stepped closer, his presence solid and grounding. “First,” he began, his voice calm but commanding, “your stance. You ain’t gonna hit anything if you’re all off-balance.”

Joel stepped closer, the sound of his boots crunching against the frost pulling your attention to him completely. The space between you felt impossibly small as he came to stand at your side, his dark eyes scanning you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

“Feet shoulder-width apart,” he said, his voice low and gruff, his tone laced with a quiet authority that sent a shiver down your spine. You adjusted your stance, glancing at him for approval, but his gaze lingered on you for a moment too long before he gave a slight nod.

“Good,” he murmured, stepping behind you. You felt the weight of him there, close enough that the warmth of his presence cut through the biting cold. “Grip the rifle like this.”

His hands reached out, rough and warm as they wrapped over yours, adjusting your grip with careful precision. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a pulse of heat through you that you couldn’t ignore.

“Relax,” he said, his voice softer now, but still carrying that edge of restraint. His hand came to rest on your shoulder, grounding and firm. “You’re too stiff. Loosen up—ain’t gonna hit a thing if you’re all tense.”

You swallowed hard, trying to focus on his words and not the way his touch lingered, his thumb brushing lightly against your shoulder before he pulled back.

“Like this?” you asked, your voice quieter than you’d intended.

Joel leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “Better. Now, line up your sights.”

The proximity was dizzying, the way his hand ghosted over your arm to guide you sending a jolt of awareness through you. You couldn’t help but feel the heat of him at your back, the roughness of his hand as it hovered, hesitant but deliberate.

“You’re tilting,” he murmured, his voice softer now but still gruff. His hand brushed your arm lightly as he adjusted your aim. “Not your body—just your eyes. Straight down the barrel.”

The tension crackled in the air between you, thick and electric. You tried to steady your breathing, but it was impossible with him this close, his focus entirely on you.

“Now,” Joel said, his voice almost a whisper, rough and unrestrained, “breathe in. Slow.”

You obeyed, your chest rising and falling in rhythm with his words.

“Hold it,” he continued, his tone impossibly close, the timbre of it making your pulse race. “Squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull—squeeze.”

The rifle fired, the shot echoing through the clearing.

The can on the log wobbled but didn’t fall.

You groaned in frustration, your cheeks burning from the effort—and something else entirely.

Joel stepped back slightly, just enough to give you room to breathe, but not enough to break the tension. His lips pressed into a line, his eyes scanning you, calculating. “Do it again,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You frowned, glancing at him. “You make it sound so easy,” you muttered.

“Ain’t supposed to be easy,” he said, his voice lower, quieter. His eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, the air between you felt heavier. “But you’ll get there.”

He stepped behind you again, closer this time, his hand brushing your lower back as he guided you into position. “Focus,” he said, his voice rough and close. “You got this.”

This time, when you fired, the can flew off the log with a sharp clang.

A surprised laugh burst from your lips, and you turned to face him, your heart hammering in your chest. Joel’s eyes lingered on yours, the tension thick and charged, before he gave a small, approving nod.

“Told you,” he said, his voice gruff but softer.

The world seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you in the stillness of the clearing.

Your chest tightened as you met his gaze, and for once, he didn’t look away.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

The clearing had transformed into a battlefield of spent casings, the sharp tang of gunpowder mingling with the crisp evening air. You’d lost track of how many rounds you’d fired, how many times Joel’s gruff encouragements had pushed you to reload and try again.

The sun hung low now, spilling a watercolor of oranges and pinks across the sky, while shadows stretched like creeping fingers over the ground. The fading light tugged at the edges of your nerves, a reminder of how dangerous it was to linger, but Joel stood firm.

“You’re not leavin’ until you hit every single one,” he said, his voice steady and resolute, as if the world beyond this clearing didn’t exist.

Your gaze shifted to the last target—a battered can balanced precariously on the edge of a log, defiant in its refusal to fall. It mocked you in its stillness, the sole survivor of the carnage you’d unleashed.

Joel adjusted his stance beside you, his presence a steady anchor. “Alright, let’s go again,” he said, his tone as unwavering as ever, leaving no room for argument.

“Joel,” you groaned, the ache in your arms deepening as the rifle seemed to grow heavier with every passing second. “We’re gonna run out of bullets, I’m starving, and then—when we’re weak from hunger—werewolves are gonna eat us.”

Joel’s head snapped toward you, his brow knitting together in utter confusion. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

You bit back a laugh, your shoulders shaking just slightly. “Sorry. I’m delirious. I told you—I’m hungry.”

He exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t catch, though the faintest flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips. “Focus,” he said, stepping closer, his voice softer this time, like he was coaxing a skittish animal. “This is the last one—you can do it.”

You glanced at him, lifting an eyebrow in mock defiance. “And if I don’t?”

Joel’s eyes glinted, his expression unreadable as he shrugged, his tone deadpan. “Then I’ll leave you out here. Alone.”

Your jaw dropped, the words hanging in the air for a beat longer than they should have. “What?” you practically yelped, caught between indignation and disbelief.

He shrugged again, the corner of his mouth tugging upward into what could only be described as a smirk. It was maddeningly subtle but unmistakable, and for a moment, you just stared at him, thrown off by his uncharacteristic playfulness.

“Jesus, Joel,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes at him, though the spark of humor in his gaze told you exactly how much truth there wasn’t in his empty threat.

“Alright,” you sighed dramatically, squaring up to the rifle.

Joel stepped behind you, his presence impossibly distracting, his warmth cutting through the cold like a flame. His hands settled on your waist, firm and steady, grounding you in a way that sent your heart into overdrive. The touch wasn’t intrusive, but it was deliberate, and it set every nerve in your body alight. He nudged your feet apart with his knee, his voice low and gravelly as he murmured, “Remember—feet apart.”

How in the world did he expect you to hit the target when he was this close? Your mind raced, your thoughts tangling into a mess of sensations—the press of his chest just shy of your back, the quiet strength in his hands, the way his breath ghosted over your ear. You bit your lip, terrified that if you said anything, your voice might betray just how much he was affecting you.

“Alright,” Joel said softly, his voice so close it made your stomach flip. “Now shoot.”

You forced yourself to exhale, a slow and steady release, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked against your shoulder, the shot ringing out across the clearing, and the can flew off the log with a sharp clang that echoed through the trees.

“I got it!” you yelped, spinning toward him, the thrill of victory bursting out of you. Without thinking, you hopped in place, your excitement bubbling over.

Joel clapped his hands together once, his grin breaking free like sunlight through storm clouds. It was rare, genuine, and so utterly Joel that it stole your breath. “Good girl,” he said, his voice warm, his tone low, the words landing squarely in your chest and sending heat rushing to your cheeks.

Your laughter spilled out, light and unrestrained, though the flush in your face betrayed how much those two simple words had affected you. “I can’t believe it,” you said, catching your breath. “I mean, you helped—like, a lot.”

“No,” Joel said firmly, his eyes locking with yours, the intensity in his gaze unwavering. “You did that.”

Something in the way he said it—earnest and steady—made your chest tighten, the words settling in a place deeper than just pride. For a moment, the world stilled, and it was just him, his eyes on yours, his presence steady and reassuring in a way that made it impossible to look away.

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten, your lips curling into a shy smile. “Thanks,” you murmured, the word feeling heavier than it should.

“Alright, let’s go,” Joel said, turning toward the horses. But just before he mounted his, he glanced back at you, his voice low and teasing. “Before the werewolves come get us.”

You couldn’t help the wide grin that spread across your face as you laughed softly, shaking your head.

You smiled the entire ride back.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

You loved movie nights at Jackson. They were your favorite day of the month—the one night where the weight of survival seemed to lift, where laughter and shared moments made the world feel just a little bit normal again. Joel knew this.

Over the past few weeks, Joel had learned more about you than he ever expected. You’d started opening up after that shooting lesson, your words spilling out during patrols while he listened, even if he didn’t always respond. He didn’t need to say much—he was paying attention, far more than you realized.

He tucked away the little details, storing them like they might matter someday: how much you loved coffee, the way you always gave your horse, Winnie, a soft pat before every ride, how your favorite food used to be sushi, even though you hadn’t had it in years. He noticed the things you missed, the faint wistfulness in your voice when you mentioned them. And he couldn’t help but notice the way your face lit up whenever you talked about movie nights—your favorite day of the month, you’d said, like it was the closest thing to normal life you had left.

That’s why Joel was sitting here, crammed into the overly warm and crowded community room, the hum of excited chatter filling the air. A few teenagers a couple of seats down were causing a ruckus, and Joel had already shot them a sharp glare, but he stayed. His jacket was draped over the seat next to him, keeping it empty despite the steady stream of people filtering in.

At one point, a woman—nudged forward by her giggling friends from another row—sauntered over, her intentions clear in the way she lingered near Joel’s side. She gestured toward the empty seat beside him, her tone light and suggestive as she asked if it was free.

Joel, oblivious to her flirtation and entirely disinterested, didn’t even bother to lift his head. “Seat’s taken,” he replied curtly, his voice flat and dismissive, his eyes never leaving the drink in his hand.

The woman hesitated, clearly caught off guard by his lack of acknowledgment, before retreating back to her friends, her cheeks tinged with embarrassment.

Joel didn’t seem to notice—or care.

Moments later, you walked in, your smile wide and contagious as your eyes swept across the crowded room. Movie night had always been your thing—something you loved, even if you usually came alone. You didn’t mind; the atmosphere, the chatter, and the shared excitement were enough.

But when your gaze landed on Joel, sitting stiffly amidst the chaos, your smile grew even wider. It was funny seeing him here, so out of his element, and yet undeniably him.

“Joel?” you said softly, your voice carrying just enough over the hum of the room as you wove through the crowd toward him. “What are you doing here?”

He feigned surprise, his tone casual, though the slight shift in his seat betrayed him. “Oh, you know… watchin’ the movie.”

You chuckled softly, the sound light and unguarded, tugging at something deep in his chest. Your eyes scanned the crowded room, narrowing as you searched for an empty seat. The hum of voices began to quiet as the lights dimmed, the projector humming to life.

“Well,” you whispered, “I should probably find a seat.” You started to turn, ready to slip away into the sea of people.

“Wait,” Joel said abruptly, his voice low but firm, cutting through the settling quiet.

A sharp shhh from someone nearby made his jaw clench, but he ignored it, reaching over to pull his jacket off the seat beside him.

“There’s a seat here,” he muttered, his tone gruff but leaving no room for debate.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, your gaze dropping to the now-empty seat. “Oh, I thought you were saving it…” you said, gesturing toward the jacket he’d just moved.

“No,” Joel replied quickly, a little too quickly, as he draped the jacket over his lap. “It’s yours. Sit.”

Your heart swelled, a soft warmth blooming in your chest as you slid into the seat beside him. Joel Miller saved you a seat. Here, of all places—a packed room buzzing with energy, in a place he’d never willingly set foot in before. It was almost unthinkable, and yet, there he was, his rugged frame taking up more space than the narrow chair could manage, his attention fixed stubbornly on the screen ahead.

The closeness felt different, a quiet charge humming between you that had nothing to do with the low whir of the projector kicking to life. You glanced sideways at Joel, catching the way his jaw was set tight, the muscles working under his skin as his hands gripped his jacket like it might steady him.

“Thanks,” you whispered, leaning in just enough that your words were meant for him alone.

He didn’t look at you, but the slight tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. His grip on the bottle in his hand loosened, and for a fleeting second, you could’ve sworn you saw the faintest tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

The movie flickered to life, its warm glow casting shifting shadows across the crowded room. You watched intently, the pictures dancing over your face, your quiet smile tugging at your lips as you lost yourself in the moment. Joel’s eyes, however, weren’t on the screen. In the subtlest way, he turned toward you, his gaze lingering a second too long, his breath hitching as he took you in.

You looked so happy, so at ease, and it struck him harder than he wanted to admit. It was a rare thing, seeing you like this, unguarded and content. And for reasons he didn’t dare explore, it hit him like a punch to the gut.

Joel’s leg started to bounce, an outlet for the restless energy he couldn’t seem to shake. His mind was far from the movie, far from the room entirely. Every nerve in his body was attuned to you—the warmth of you sitting so close, the faint scent of your shampoo, the soft sound of your breathing as you leaned slightly forward.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he allowed himself to relax, just a fraction. His knee brushed lightly against yours, his shoulder just barely grazing yours in the cramped space. He told himself it was the tight quarters, the lack of room—but deep down, he knew better.

You noticed immediately. The slight shift in his posture, the nervous bounce of his knee, the charged silence between you—it was impossible to miss. You bit the inside of your lip at the contact, a thrill coursing through you, though you barely moved. The tension was thick, a current humming between you, leaving the air heavy with unsaid things.

Joel might think he had you all figured out, but you knew him, too. He wasn’t watching the movie. His restless movements, the way his grip tightened on the bottle in his hand, the faint rigidity in his shoulders—it wasn’t frustration. It was nerves, raw and unspoken, and maybe more telling than anything he could’ve said.

In a moment of quiet boldness, you leaned into his shoulder, your movement so slight it could’ve been dismissed as accidental. But it wasn’t. Your weight pressed gently against him, testing the fragile boundary that seemed to hover between you. Feigning a yawn, you let your head tilt, coming to rest on his shoulder, your cheek brushing against the soft fabric of his shirt.

Joel froze. You felt it immediately—the sudden tension in his body, the way his breath caught for just a moment. But he didn’t pull away. He didn’t shift or shrug you off. He stayed perfectly still, as though any movement might shatter whatever fragile thread had been strung between you.

His arms remained crossed, rigid beneath you, his posture brimming with restraint. And yet, he didn’t move.

He let you stay, let the weight of your head settle against him, as if it was something he couldn’t bring himself to deny. The warmth of your touch against his shoulder was subtle, but it felt monumental—like a quiet revelation neither of you were quite ready to speak aloud.

Your lips curled into the faintest smile as you closed your eyes, pretending to focus on the movie, though you were acutely aware of him. Of his tension, of his breathing, of the steady warmth radiating from him.

Joel shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours again. This time, it wasn’t accidental. It was deliberate—quietly, wordlessly saying, I’m still here.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you dared move.

The movie played on, its flickering images casting faint shadows, forgotten by you both.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

It was almost Christmas, and Jackson was doing its best to exude holiday cheer, even in a world irrevocably changed by the outbreak. It wasn’t extravagant or polished—how could it be?—but there was a warmth that spread through the town like an unspoken agreement to make the season a little brighter.

String lights, salvaged from who-knows-where, were hung along fences and rooftops, their soft glow casting a cozy light over the snow-covered streets. Some blinked unevenly, others stayed dark, but the effort was there, and it was enough to make the evenings feel a little more magical. Handmade decorations adorned the town—garlands of evergreen branches tied with bits of red cloth, paper snowflakes crafted from old books and newspapers, and ornaments fashioned from bottle caps and scraps of metal.

Music played faintly from the Tipsy Bison, where someone had rigged up an old record player. A collection of scratched vinyls—holiday classics from a bygone era—filled the air with songs that crackled and skipped, but still brought smiles to people’s faces.

You loved Christmas—everything about it. The way it seemed to pull people closer, the way the world seemed to glow a little brighter under the soft, warm lights. You thought back to the days before the outbreak, when you’d pile into the car with your family and drive through neighborhoods, marveling at the twinkling displays in windows and yards.

And the trees—the trees. You remembered how, every year, your family would spend hours decorating your own. There’d be laughter, arguments over which ornaments went where, and the familiar scent of pine filling the room. You’d string the lights carefully, drape the garlands just so, and stand back to admire your work, always ending the night with hot chocolate by its soft glow.

That was what you missed most: a Christmas tree. Your own tree. Something to decorate, to make your house feel like a home again, even just for a moment. You’d tried to make do—stringing up lights you’d scavenged, hanging the odd decoration here or there—but it wasn’t the same. You wanted the ritual, the tradition, the warmth it brought.

You sighed, staring at the bare corner of your living room, imagining how it would look with a tree standing there, soft lights casting their glow on the walls. It wasn’t much to ask for, was it? Just a piece of the life you used to have.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

As you and Joel rode back to Jackson after another long patrol, the crisp winter air bit at your cheeks, the fading daylight painting the snow in hues of soft lavender and blue. The silence stretched between you, broken only by the rhythmic crunch of hooves against the frozen ground. Without thinking, you began humming softly, the tune slipping from your lips to fill the quiet.

“Bright time, it’s the right time, to rock the night away,” you sang under your breath, the words light and airy, carried on the cold breeze. The melody danced between the steady sounds of the horses, a small comfort against the stark winter stillness.

Joel turned toward you, one eyebrow quirking up in that familiar, skeptical way that always seemed to say more than words ever could.

“What?” you asked, grinning at the look on his face. “Don’t tell me you hate Christmas.”

“Didn’t say that,” he replied, his voice gruff as always, his gaze sliding back to the trail ahead like the topic was already dismissed.

“Okay, Grinch,” you shot back, snorting at your own joke.

Joel shook his head, but you caught it—the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips, like he was fighting to suppress the smallest of smiles. It was fleeting, but it was enough to make your chest feel lighter, the warmth of it lingering far longer than it should.

You let the moment settle, your eyes drifting to the endless sea of trees ahead, their branches bowed under the weight of freshly fallen snow. The sight was stunning, the kind of quiet beauty that belonged on a postcard, but it gnawed at something deep inside you—a pang of longing for a life that felt worlds away.

The words escaped before you could reel them back. “I’d give anything to have a Christmas tree again. Just...decorate the hell out of it. Lights, ornaments, everything.”

Joel didn’t respond right away, but he turned his head just enough to let you know he was listening, his profile softened by the dusky light..

“It used to be my favorite thing,” you said, your voice quieter now, the edges of nostalgia softening your words. “Every year, my family and I would put up the tree together. It was chaos—arguing over where the ornaments went, trying to untangle the lights without strangling each other—but it was the best kind of chaos.” You paused, the weight of the memory settling over you, bittersweet and heavy.

Joel didn’t say anything, his silence stretching longer than you expected. You glanced over at him, suddenly self-conscious. Vulnerable. The thought crossed your mind that he might shrug off your rambling with one of his usual gruff remarks, but when your eyes met his, he wasn’t dismissive. He was watching you, his expression unreadable yet completely focused, like your words mattered more than you realized.

You cleared your throat, a nervous laugh bubbling up to fill the space. “What about you? Did you ever have any Christmas traditions?”

Joel exhaled deeply, the sound heavy and weighted, as if it carried a lifetime’s worth of memories with it. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer, and a flicker of guilt sparked in your chest. Who were you to poke at a past he worked so hard to bury?

“Sorry,” you started, your voice faltering as you prepared to retreat. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head slightly. His tone was quieter now, less guarded. “It’s fine.”

The pause that followed felt like the calm before a storm, a moment suspended in fragile quiet. Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying a softness you weren’t used to hearing from him. “Me and my daughter, Sarah…”

Your breath caught, the way he said her name hitting you like a punch to the chest. There was something in his voice—a warmth and sorrow so deeply intertwined that it wrapped around your heart, pulling it tight.

“She used to love those gingerbread house kits,” Joel said, his voice quieter now, as if speaking the memory too loudly might shatter it. A faint, almost shy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, softening his features in a way you’d never seen before. “Always wanted to make the fanciest one—had these big ideas about balconies and turrets, like somethin’ outta a magazine. And every damn time…” He chuckled, low and warm, the sound tinged with affection. “It’d fall apart. Used to drive her nuts. But she’d just laugh it off, tell me it was all part of the plan, and start over.”

You smiled, the corners of your mouth lifting without thought as the image came alive in your mind. A younger Joel, one free of the weight of the world, laughing with his daughter over collapsed gingerbread turrets. The thought was bittersweet, a glimpse of a man you’d never known but could almost picture—a father who loved without hesitation, whose laughter was full and unguarded, before loss had carved its mark into him.

“That’s a nice memory,” you said softly, careful not to speak too loud, afraid to disturb the fragile thread of openness stretching between you.

Joel didn’t reply right away. Instead, he adjusted the reins, his grip easing as his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—a quiet acknowledgment that, for once, he wasn’t carrying that memory alone.

For the rest of the ride, the silence between you felt different. It wasn’t heavy or awkward, but something warmer, like the quiet understanding of two people who knew what it was to hold on to pieces of a world that was gone.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

You woke to the faint gray light of dawn seeping through the window, your body protesting the cold with an ache that had become all too familiar. Winter had a way of settling into your bones, amplified by too many restless nights. A long yawn escaped as you stretched, the motion tugging at sore muscles. You wiped the remnants of sleep from your eyes, shivering as your bare feet met the icy floor.

The house was frigid, the kind of cold that clung to everything, stubborn and unyielding. You pulled your coat on over your sleepwear, wrapping it tightly around yourself as you shuffled into the kitchen. The soft hum of the coffee maker broke the silence, the promise of warmth in your mug the only thing motivating you to stay upright.

Then you heard it—a muffled groan, followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy being dragged just outside the door. Your movements stilled, the faint noise enough to send a flicker of unease skittering up your spine. Frowning, you tilted your head, straining to catch the sound again.

Another grunt. Low, frustrated, and definitely close. Your heart leapt, the stillness of the morning amplifying your sudden wariness. What the hell? Your eyes darted to the door, your mind torn between throwing it open or reaching for the rifle leaning against the wall.

Curiosity got the better of you. Hands slightly trembling from the cold—or maybe something else—you stepped forward and gripped the handle, twisting it slowly. The door creaked open, and a gust of icy air hit your face, stinging your cheeks as you peeked outside.

“Joel?”

There he was, hunched over, dragging a pine tree through the snow, its branches catching on every uneven patch of ground. His face was flushed from the cold, his breath visible in the crisp morning air as he gave the tree one final heave. Straightening up, he caught sight of you standing in the doorway, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

For a moment, he froze, caught in the act. His expression was as guarded as always, but there was something else—a flicker of hesitation, like he wasn’t sure what to say or how you’d respond.

“You, uh…” He shifted awkwardly, glancing at the tree, then back at you. “You said you wanted a tree,” he muttered, his tone gruff, his shrug feigning indifference, as though dragging a whole pine tree through the snow was just another errand.

Your chest tightened, warmth spreading despite the icy air around you. “Did you cut this yourself?” you asked softly, stepping closer, your voice tinged with disbelief.

Joel nodded once, his gaze dropping for a moment, as though the simple act embarrassed him more than it should have.

“And dragged it all the way here?”

Joel nodded again, his hand drifting to the back of his neck, his fingers rubbing at the nape like he could somehow ease the tension there. “Wasn’t far,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, but the faint flush creeping up his cheeks gave him away.

He was lying—it had been far, and he was too old for this shit. Every step back had weighed heavy in his bones, his hands still numb from the cold, his back stiff from hauling the thing all the way here. But none of that mattered. Not when it meant seeing you like this, your eyes alight with joy, your smile so bright it knocked the air from his lungs. He’d do it again in a heartbeat, a hundred times over, if it meant he could hold onto this fleeting, impossible moment just a little longer.

You stared at him, the enormity of his gesture settling over you, wrapping around you like the warmth of a fire on the coldest night. You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. The lump in your throat was too thick, your emotions too raw.

Without thinking, you closed the distance between you and threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a fierce hug. Joel stiffened at first, his hands hovering at your sides as though unsure of where to place them. But then, slowly, his arms came around you, his hold tentative but steady, one hand splaying across the middle of your back.

“Thank you,” you whispered into his shoulder, your voice muffled but trembling with sincerity.

Joel didn’t say anything, but the way his grip tightened, just enough to let you know he was there, said more than words ever could. The faint scent of pine and the warmth of him filled your senses, and for that brief moment, the rest of the world seemed to melt away.

As you pulled away and took a proper look at the tree, a delighted shriek escaped you, your hands flying to your cheeks.

“Jesus,” Joel muttered, his hand coming up to cover his ears in mock exasperation. “Warn a guy next time, would ya?”

“Joel, this is the best day ever,” you said, spinning to face him, your grin so wide it almost hurt. “You are officially the opposite of the Grinch.”

He shook his head, a soft huff of amusement escaping him.

“Come on, let me help you,” you said, grabbing at the trunk of the tree, already tugging it toward the door.

“Don’t need to do that,” he said, his tone gruff but without bite.

“I want to,” you shot back, undeterred, already struggling to maneuver the hefty thing into your living room.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

With Joel’s steady hands guiding it, the tree finally found its place in the corner of your living room.

It fit perfectly, its branches reaching just shy of the ceiling. The rich scent of pine filled the air, and for a moment, you could almost forget the world outside as you stood back and admired it.

“Joel, seriously,” you said, turning to him, your voice softer now. “This is really kind of you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, brushing off your gratitude like it was nothing, though he avoided your eyes.

But this wasn’t nothing—not to you. There was something about the moment, about Joel standing there in your home with snow still clinging to his boots, that made you feel bold. Something about the quiet intimacy of it all, the way it felt almost domestic in its simplicity. Joel Miller had gone out of his way—for you. The thought made your chest tighten, a warmth spreading through you that melted away the chill of the morning. It made your heart ache in the best way, leaving you feeling special in a way you hadn’t in a long, long time.

“How about…” you began, your heart thudding as his eyes flicked back to yours, sharp and attentive. “Did you maybe wanna come over tonight? I mean… to help me decorate the tree. And I, uh…” You faltered, suddenly shy under the weight of his gaze. “I have alcohol,” you finished, wincing at how lame it sounded out loud.

Joel’s eyebrow arched, his lips quirking ever so slightly. “Alcohol? That’s your bribe? Like I’m some kinda drunk?”

“What? No!” you sputtered, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“I’m jokin’,” he interrupted, his voice tinged with dry amusement, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You exhaled sharply, a mix of relief and nerves tangling in your chest as his teasing sunk in.

Joel hesitated, his expression shifting subtly as his eyes lingered on yours. There was something unspoken in his gaze—an uncertainty, but also a quiet warmth that made your breath catch. It felt like he was weighing something, some internal debate playing out just behind his carefully guarded exterior.

“Alright,” he said at last, his voice softer now. “Yeah, okay.” He gave a small nod, almost as if convincing himself this was fine, this was normal.

“Okay,” you echoed, trying and failing to contain the giddy smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight,” Joel repeated, his voice steady but quieter, as though the word carried more weight than it should. He nodded once more, turning toward the door. He hesitated briefly, his hand hovering over the handle, as though he wanted to say something else. But instead, he cast you one final glance, his expression unreadable, and stepped outside, leaving behind the faint warmth of his presence—and the buzz of anticipation that seemed to cling to the room like static.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

Joel stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the reflection he usually avoided like the plague. The mirror never lied, and what stared back at him was a man weathered by regrets and loss, his inner turmoil etched into the lines on his face, the streaks of grey in his hair and beard. His hands gripped the edges of the sink, his knuckles white, as he shook his head slowly. He didn’t recognize the man looking back at him—at least, not tonight.

He felt stupid.

Like a goddamn teenager getting ready for a date, his heart pounding for no good reason. When you had asked him to come over, the words had caught him off guard, knocking the breath right out of him. His initial instinct had been to say no, to mutter some excuse about being busy. But the look in your eyes, the way you’d smiled at him—hopeful, hesitant—had thrown him off balance. Against all his better judgment, he’d nodded.

And now here he was. His hair, damp and slicked back from the shower, was a little more effort than he’d ever normally bother with.

He’d even trimmed his beard and mustache.

He wore a button-down shirt, one of the few he owned that didn’t look like it had been through a war, and a pair of jeans that weren’t too worn at the knees. His coat was thrown over the back of a chair, waiting for him to stop pacing and just go.

What the hell was he doing? He had lugged a fucking tree to your house. Joel Miller didn’t do things like that. Not for anyone. He didn’t put himself out there, didn’t let himself get drawn into things that could end up hurting more than they were worth. Yet, here he was, straightening his shirt in a mirror he hated, wondering if you’d notice the effort he was putting in, even though he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

The walk to your house felt longer than it should have, each step heavy with the weight of his thoughts. Joel wasn’t just out of his depth—he was drowning in unfamiliar waters. He could turn back. He could go home, pretend he’d forgotten, avoid whatever this was threatening to turn into. He stopped mid-step, staring down at the snow-dusted ground, the temptation to turn around gnawing at him.

But he didn’t.

Before he knew it, his boots were on your porch, the warm glow of light spilling out from the edges of your window. His hand hovered over the wood of your door, suspended in hesitation. His chest tightened, his breath shallow as a thousand thoughts battled in his head.

What if this was a mistake? What if he couldn’t give you what you deserved? What if…

The sound of your humming floated through the door, soft and genuine, and it stopped his spiraling thoughts dead in their tracks. He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment to steady himself.

Then, with a rough exhale, he knocked.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

“Hi,” you said softly as you opened the door, your breath catching for a moment as your eyes took him in.

Joel looked… handsome.

Not that he wasn’t always handsome, but tonight he looked different—more put together than usual, as though he’d taken the time for this.

His hair was slicked back, still damp from the shower, and the button-down shirt he wore fit him just right, the dark fabric emphasizing the broad set of his shoulders. He’d put in effort for this. For you. And that thought sent a soft ache through your chest, your heart beating just a little faster as you struggled to find the right words.

“Hi,” Joel replied, his voice low and gruff, but there was something softer beneath it, something you couldn’t quite place.

“Come in,” you said, stepping aside, your heart thudding in your chest as he crossed the threshold.

Joel stepped forward, standing awkwardly by the door as his hands hovered at his sides, unsure of what to do with them.

“I’ll take your coat,” you offered, your fingers brushing his sleeve lightly as you reached out.

“Oh,” he said quickly, “I can do it.”

The two of you fumbled with the coat, a clumsy, almost comedic dance of politeness. When you finally managed to get it on the rack, you turned back to him, your cheeks flushed, an apologetic smile tugging at your lips.

Joel thought it was sweet, the way your nervousness showed in the little things—how you smoothed the hem of your pink jumper or tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Well,” you began, breaking the silence as you turned toward him, your voice light with an effort to ease the tension. “I managed to steal a bunch of leftover ornaments and lights.” You disappeared into a nearby room, your footsteps soft, and returned moments later with a box in your hands. Setting it on the living room floor with a playful grin, you added, “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Cross my heart,” Joel replied, his voice low but warm, mimicking the motion with a faint, crooked smile. The gesture, so uncharacteristically lighthearted, made your grin widen as you knelt by the box, feeling the weight of the moment ease into something softer, something warmer.

“Okay,” you said, gesturing to the box with a quick motion. “I’ll get you something to drink. Sorry, I’m a terrible host—I don’t have people over much.”

For some reason, that confession made Joel’s chest tighten—not with discomfort, but with a quiet sense of satisfaction. The thought that not everyone had the privilege of this—the quiet intimacy of being in your space—filled him with something he couldn’t quite name. That he was one of the few people you’d allowed into this small, private corner of your world… it mattered more than it should.

“It’s fine,” Joel said, his voice coming quicker than he intended, smoothing over the moment. He softened his tone, just enough to catch your attention and pull your gaze back to him.

You glanced at him, a shy smile brushing across your lips before you turned and retreated into the kitchen. The faint sound of glasses clinking as you moved about filled the silence, but Joel barely noticed, too busy taking in the room around him.

He eased onto your couch, leaning back tentatively as though he didn’t quite belong there. His eyes swept over the space—cozy, warm, undeniably yours. Books were stacked haphazardly on a nearby table, their spines a mix of worn and new. A blanket hung over the armrest, its edges slightly frayed, like it had been used countless times for comfort. The faint scent of something sweet lingered in the air, soft and welcoming, and it made him smile without realizing it. This wasn’t just a house—it was a home, and he couldn’t help but wonder how long it had been since he’d felt something like this.

When you returned, holding a glass in your hands, Joel’s gaze lifted to meet yours. He didn’t look away immediately, his eyes lingering just a moment too long, enough to send a spark of warmth through your chest.

“Thanks,” he murmured, reaching for the drink. His fingers brushed yours briefly, the warmth of his touch startling against your cool skin. The small, fleeting contact sent a shiver down your spine, leaving you momentarily breathless as he settled back into his seat.

You smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear again. “Alright,” you said, your voice a little steadier now. “Let’s make this tree look like Christmas exploded on it.”

Joel huffed a quiet laugh, his eyes softening. “Lead the way.”

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

You and Joel worked side by side, the soft glow of the living room lamp wrapping the space in a warm, golden light. The open box of ornaments lay at your feet, spilling out a chaotic mix of shiny baubles, mismatched trinkets, and tangled strings of lights that looked like they’d seen better days.

“This one,” Joel said, holding up an ornament so hideous it made you visibly wince—a lopsided gingerbread man with one eye missing, its glitter barely clinging to the uneven surface.

You raised an eyebrow, a laugh slipping past your lips before you could stop it. “I thought the plan was to make this tree look nice.”

“Hey,” Joel shot back, mock defensive, though the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. “It’ll add character.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to suppress your grin. You could get used to this, you thought—the easy banter, the warmth of his presence, the quiet moments where the world didn’t feel so heavy.

“Sure it will,” you teased, reaching into the box for something a little less tragic. You pulled out a glittery star, holding it up with a flourish. “Here, let’s balance out your ‘character’ with something actually pretty.”

Joel chuckled, a low, warm sound that sent a soft hum of contentment through you. He reached up to place the gingerbread man on one of the higher branches, his fingers brushing against the pine needles with a carefulness that caught you off guard.

Your gaze lingered for a moment, drawn to the way his hands moved—strong and calloused, bearing the evidence of a life lived hard, yet surprisingly gentle in this moment. You shook yourself out of it, your cheeks warming as you focused back on the tree. But the thought lingered. This could be something.

As you leaned forward to hang the star, your shoulder bumped into his, and the contact sent a jolt through both of you.

“Sorry,” you murmured quickly, your cheeks flushing as you stepped back.

“S’all right,” Joel said, his voice quieter now. His gaze flicked toward you, and for a split second, the room seemed smaller, the space between you charged with something neither of you dared name.

You both turned your attention back to the tree, the moment lingering in the air like a held breath.

“Here,” Joel said after a beat, pulling a strand of lights from the box. He handed it to you, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. The touch was fleeting, but it left a warmth that lingered far longer than it should have.

“Thanks,” you said softly, your heart thudding as you began winding the lights around the tree.

Joel stepped closer, his hands reaching out to help guide the string. His proximity made your pulse quicken, and you swallowed hard, trying to focus on the task instead of the way his arm brushed against yours.

“Looks good,” Joel said after a moment, his voice low and steady. His eyes lingered on the tree, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that his attention had shifted, subtly but unmistakably, to you.

You turned toward him, holding up a candy cane with a playful smile. “Last one,” you said, the warmth in your tone betraying the ease you felt in his presence. “Where should it go?”

Joel leaned forward slightly, his hand brushing the tree as he pointed to a branch near the top. “There.”

You tilted your head, eyeing the spot with a small laugh. “I can’t reach that high.”

Joel stepped closer, his warmth radiating against your back as his hand rested lightly on your lower back, guiding you forward. “Here,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “I’ll lift ya.”

Before you could respond, his hands found your waist, strong and sure, lifting you as though you weighed nothing. The sudden contact made your breath catch, your pulse quickening as your hands instinctively reached for balance. For a brief moment, you froze, the nearness of him stealing your focus.

“You good?” Joel asked, his voice steady, but quieter, almost careful.

“Yeah,” you managed to breathe out, your voice barely above a whisper. You hooked the candy cane onto the branch, the small act grounding you as you steadied yourself. “Okay, got it.”

Joel lowered you gently, his hands lingering at your waist for just a second too long before he pulled away, the absence of his touch leaving your skin tingling.

You turned to face him, your cheeks warm, your heart pounding in a way that felt almost too loud in the quiet room. “Thanks,” you said softly, your voice carrying a weight of something unspoken as your eyes met his.

Joel nodded, his gaze steady but unreadable. “Tree looks good,” he said gruffly, though there was a softness in his tone that made your chest ache.

You smiled, the warmth between you undeniable as the glow of the tree bathed the room in soft light. “It does,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

You watched as Joel knelt by your fireplace, his broad shoulders hunched as he fiddled with the knobs and levers, his movements deliberate and confident, like he’d done this a hundred times before. You’d asked him to take a look, to figure out why it wouldn’t turn on, and now here he was, focused in that quiet, determined way of his.

The warmth of the room still hadn’t chased away the chill clinging to the corners, and you pulled your sweater tighter around you as you waited. After a few moments, the fire roared to life, the sound sharp and satisfying, the flames crackling as they cast a soft, golden glow over the room.

The light danced across the walls, illuminating the tree in the corner, its twinkling lights and ornaments transforming your living room into something cozy, almost magical. A wave of contentment settled over you, warm and steady, wrapping itself around you like a blanket.

Joel stood, brushing his hands off on his jeans, and turned to you, his brow drawn in that familiar way of his. “How the hell,” he began, his voice tinged with disbelief, “have you been gettin’ through winter without a damn fireplace?” His hands found his hips, his posture a mix of frustration and incredulity.

You shrugged, leaning casually against the arm of the couch, masking the truth of how many nights you’d spent shivering under blankets too thin for the bitter cold. “I’m tougher than I look, Miller,” you quipped, a teasing grin tugging at your lips, trying to keep the moment light.

Joel shook his head, his brow furrowing deeply, his expression a mix of exasperation and something heavier—something closer to concern. “Gonna get yourself pneumonia,” he muttered, his voice gruff but laced with that quiet insistence that always made your defenses wobble.

“Pfft,” you scoffed, waving him off like it was nothing. “I’ve made it this far.”

But Joel wasn’t letting it slide. He turned to you, fixing you with a look so serious it made your smile falter. “You gotta take care of yourself,” he said, his tone firm, weighted. The way his voice dipped—low, resolute—settled something deep in your chest. “I’m bein’ serious.”

Your grin faded as his words lingered, the weight of them sinking in. He wasn’t joking, wasn’t teasing. Joel’s dark eyes stayed locked on yours, steady and unrelenting, and there was something there that stole the breath from your lungs. The way he was looking at you—like your well-being mattered more than anything else—sent a wave of warmth washing over you, one that had nothing to do with the fire crackling softly in the hearth.

You forced a small, playful smile, though your voice was softer now, tinged with something you couldn’t quite name. “Almost sounds like you care about me,” you teased lightly, trying to break the tension, though your heart pounded as the words left your lips.

Joel’s jaw tightened for a moment, his gaze flickering as if debating whether to speak. But then he did, his voice low and steady, slipping out almost like he couldn’t help himself. “’Course I care,” he said, his tone laced with a rawness that caught you off guard. He shifted slightly, his fingers brushing over the back of the chair as though grounding himself. “You think I wouldn’t?”

The sincerity in his voice wrapped around you, leaving you stunned, your heart stuttering as the space between you seemed to shrink. The way he said it—like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it was something you should’ve known all along—sent a twist of yearning through you so sharp it was almost painful. Joel’s gaze didn’t waver, and for a heartbeat, neither of you moved, the moment hanging heavy between you, filled with all the things neither of you had said yet.

You froze, the teasing grin slipping from your face as his words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. Joel didn’t say things like that. Not Joel. Not ever.

And yet here he was, standing in your living room, saying the kind of thing that cracked open every wall you thought he’d built around himself. It wasn’t the first time, either—the third, maybe fourth time he’d let something slip that showed you, without question, that he cared. But now, as if realizing what he’d done, he looked like he was already regretting it.

He sighed, the sound deep and weary, dragging a hand through his hair as his gaze darted away from yours, fixing on the floor like it might swallow him whole. “I should probably get goin’,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, tinged with that same uncertainty you’d seen in him before. “I’ll, uh… come back tomorrow. Fix that cabinet hinge in the kitchen.” He gestured vaguely toward the next room, his words rushed and uneven, like he needed to fill the silence with something, anything, to get himself out the door.

You blinked, caught off guard—not by the mention of the cabinet hinge, which you hadn’t even realized was broken, but by the way Joel suddenly seemed so unsure of himself. The way he shifted on his feet, hesitating as though he didn’t know if he should stay or go. The Joel you knew didn’t hesitate. He didn’t backpedal or falter. And yet here he was, breaking his own rules, leaving you too stunned to speak.

You opened your mouth, trying to say something to pull him back, but the words wouldn’t come. The air between you felt heavy, electric, charged with everything unspoken, until Joel finally moved toward the door. His boots thudded against the floorboards, each step carrying him closer to leaving, but when he reached the door, he stopped.

For a moment, he stood there, his hand resting on the handle, the muscles in his shoulders tight like he was bracing himself.

You thought—hoped—he might turn around, might say something to break the tension strung so tightly between you. But instead, he gave a small shake of his head, so faint you might’ve missed it if you weren’t watching him so closely.

“Goodnight,” he said gruffly, his voice rough at the edges, and before you could respond, he pulled the door open and stepped out into the cold night air.

You stayed where you were, rooted in place as the door clicked shut behind him, the warmth of the fire doing nothing to ease the ache that had settled in your chest. His words replayed in your mind, over and over again. ’Course I care.

The weight of them pressed against you, soft but insistent, leaving you wondering if he knew how much those words had meant—or if he’d ever let himself admit it.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

Joel kept his promise. The next evening, just past seven, he appeared at your door, his work tools slung across his arm. Outside, the wind howled through the streets of Jackson, carrying snow that fell thick and fast, blanketing the world in an unforgiving stillness. Most of the town had hunkered down for the night, fires crackling in hearths and windows locked tight against the bitter cold.

When you opened the door, Joel stood there, looking more worn than usual. His coat hung heavy on his shoulders, dusted with snow, and his breath curled in the freezing air. “Evenin’,” he muttered, his voice low, each word edged with exhaustion. As he stepped inside, you noticed the soft groan he let slip, the deliberate slowness of his movements. He’d had patrol—he must’ve. No one else would’ve braved this storm, not at this hour, unless they had no choice. Or unless they’d made a promise.

Joel didn’t linger in the doorway. He brushed off the cold, heading straight to the kitchen like a man on a mission. Setting his tools down on the counter, he rolled up his sleeves, the quiet determination in his posture unmistakable. Without a word, he knelt to inspect the broken cabinet hinge, his hands already moving with practiced precision.

The room fell silent, save for the faint clink of tools and the occasional gust of wind rattling the windows. You watched him from across the kitchen, the words from the day before still circling in your mind, soft but persistent. ’Course I care.

Your voice broke the quiet, hesitant. “Where’d you learn to do all this?”

Joel didn’t glance up, his focus fixed on the hinge as his hands worked it into place with steady ease. “Construction,” he said gruffly, as though the word was too simple to explain the breadth of what it meant. His tone carried a quiet weight, the kind of admission he didn’t make often. “Did it for years… before.”

“Oh,” you murmured softly, the revelation settling over you. It caught you off guard—Joel had been a constant in your life for months now, his presence as steady as the rhythm of patrols and shared silences. You’d spent hours riding beside him, trading small talk and the occasional story, but somehow, he’d kept this piece of himself hidden. Joel Miller, who seemed to know almost everything about you, was still such a mystery.

“All done,” he said, straightening and brushing his hands off with the kind of no-nonsense efficiency that made you bite back a sigh. Ten minutes—that was all it had taken him, and now he’d be gone again, leaving behind a warmth you weren’t ready to let go of.

“If you, uh… need anything else fixed, just let me know,” he added, his tone gruff but carrying a note of softness that lingered in the air. He reached for his coat, his movements purposeful as he headed for the door.

You followed him, your gaze flicking to the storm raging outside as you opened the door. The wind roared like a living thing, flinging snow in thick, relentless waves that obscured everything beyond a few feet. Joel muttered a low, “Christ,” under his breath, his expression tightening as he took it in.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your brow furrowing as you pushed the door shut again, sealing off the bitter chill.

Joel raised an eyebrow, giving a shrug as he reached for his coat again. “Headin’ home. My place ain’t far.”

You crossed your arms, fixing him with a pointed look. “And you say I’m the one who doesn’t care about myself,” you shot back, your tone sharper than you intended but underpinned with concern. “You’re not going out in that.”

Joel huffed, his brow furrowing, his posture shifting like he was gearing up for an argument. But before he could get a word out, you stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest. It wasn’t forceful—just firm enough to stop him in his tracks, your fingers lingering against the warmth of his shirt.

“You’re staying here,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips, your tone leaving no room for argument. “Besides, you’re the only one who knows how to start my fire, remember?”

Joel exhaled sharply, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a grumble as his shoulders slumped in reluctant surrender. He shrugged off his coat, hanging it back over the chair. “You’re a damn pain, you know that?” he muttered, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” you teased, your grin widening, satisfaction flickering in your chest. “Go on, Miller. Make yourself at home.”

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath you couldn’t quite catch, but he didn’t fight you. Instead, he moved to the fireplace, crouching down with the same practiced focus as before. The sound of crackling flames soon followed, and the heat began to spread through the room, softening the chill that had lingered.

Joel straightened, his hands brushing against his jeans as he turned toward the couch. With a gruffness that seemed more for show than anything else, he eased into the worn cushions, his posture finally relaxing as he leaned back. For a moment, he just sat there, his gaze flicking to the fire, then to the tree, then—unmistakably—to you.

It was going to be a long night, the kind that stretched on slowly, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of shared warmth and unspoken words. But for the first time, neither of you seemed to mind.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

The wind howled outside, rattling the windows as if testing the strength of the glass. The storm showed no sign of relenting, snow piling up in relentless waves. An hour had passed in the warm quiet between you and Joel, the unspoken question hanging in the air—was he staying the night?

“I’m hungry,” you sighed dramatically, sprawling on the couch with a lazy stretch. The fire crackled beside you, its glow soft against the walls, while you stole a glance at Joel, who sat across the room, his expression unreadable.

Joel let out a low groan as he pushed himself to his feet, his joints protesting the movement. He wandered toward the kitchen, his boots heavy against the floor, and pulled open one of your cabinets. “You got any food?”

You shrugged lazily, your head tilted against the couch cushions as you watched him rummage through the shelves. “Not really. I don’t cook much. Usually hit the dining hall. Or, you know… skip meals.”

Joel froze mid-motion, his back straightening as he turned to look at you. His brow furrowed, and the disapproval in his expression was unmistakable. “What?” he said, his voice low, carrying that familiar gruffness that managed to be both chastising and concerned.

You winced inwardly, realizing too late that you’d just handed him another reason to scold you. “It’s not that big a deal,” you added quickly, sitting up as if that might soften the blow.

Joel’s head shook slowly, his gaze hard as he muttered something under his breath. “Unbelievable,” he finally said, the word half to himself as he stepped toward the cabinets with more purpose. Rolling up his sleeves with a deliberate tug, he began scanning the shelves, his movements efficient and no-nonsense.

“What are you doing?” you asked, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch him, curiosity piqued.

“Making dinner,” he replied curtly, grabbing a pan with practiced ease. His tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a quiet care to the way he moved, pulling out utensils and scanning the sparse contents of your cabinets like he’d done this a thousand times before.

“You can cook?” you asked, your voice laced with amusement and a hint of disbelief.

Joel glanced over his shoulder, his expression unimpressed. “I’m 56 years old. You’d hope I know how to cook by now.”

A snort escaped you, and a teasing grin spread across your lips. “Feel free to move in, then. Handyman, chef… do you do laundry, too?”

Joel raised an eyebrow, stirring something on the stove with deliberate motions. “Hilarious,” he deadpanned, but the faintest twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement.

The thought, though—of living here with you, of being this small, steady presence in your life—settled deep in his chest, an ache he hadn’t felt in years. It was a longing he didn’t dare give a name.

You chuckled, the sound soft and unguarded, before leaning back into the couch. The warmth of the fire seeped into your skin, lulling you into a comfortable haze. Your eyes fluttered closed, the gentle clinking of pans and the scrape of utensils filling the space like a quiet, unexpected lullaby.

For a man who rarely spoke more than a few words at a time, Joel Miller had a way of taking care of you—whether you’d asked for it or not.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

“Wake up,” a gruff voice broke through your haze, the words sharp but not unkind. You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow, the warmth of the fire and the soft cushions lulling you back toward sleep.

“Wake. Up,” Joel repeated, and this time you felt a hand on your shoulder—firm but surprisingly gentle, his touch softer than his tone.

“What?” you mumbled, your voice muffled as you rolled onto your back, blinking up at him through the fog of sleep.

“Dinner,” he said simply, stepping back toward the kitchen and pulling out a chair at the small dining table. He sat down, his movements steady and deliberate, waiting.

You yawned, stretching as you pushed yourself off the couch, your limbs heavy from the comfort you’d been wrapped in. Padding over to the table, you blinked the sleep from your eyes—and stopped.

Your gaze fell on the spread in front of you, simple yet thoughtful. Somehow, Joel had managed to turn the random leftovers from your cabinets into something that actually resembled a meal. The sight of it made your chest warm.

“Aww, Joel,” you said, a soft laugh escaping as you slid into the chair beside him. You looked at the plates, your heart swelling at the small details—the carefully sliced bread, the steaming stew, the way he’d even set the table. “You made all this?”

Joel gave a nonchalant shrug, his eyes flicking to you briefly before focusing on his own plate. “Didn’t take much. Just used what you had.”

You took a bite of the stew, your eyes fluttering closed as the warmth and rich flavors settled in. “Alright?” Joel asked, his voice gruff but tinged with a flicker of curiosity as he watched you.

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze with a smile. “Better than alright,” you replied, taking another bite, savoring every spoonful like it was the best thing you’d eaten in weeks.

After dinner, you stood and began gathering the dishes, waving him off when he moved to help. “I got it,” you insisted, practically pushing him toward the couch. Joel grumbled under his breath but relented, settling down near the fireplace.

The fire cast golden light over his features, softening the hard lines of his face as he leaned back, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames. The familiar sound of running water and the clink of dishes filled the room, and Joel found himself glancing over his shoulder.

You stood at the sink, your back to him, humming softly under your breath as you worked. Your hair fell loose over your shoulders, catching the warm glow of the firelight, and Joel couldn’t help but let his gaze linger, something soft and unspoken stirring in his chest.

When you were finished, you dried your hands and crossed the room, handing him a glass of whiskey before settling at the opposite end of the couch. Joel took the glass with a nod, the firelight catching in the amber liquid as he swirled it absentmindedly.

“The fire’s nice,” you murmured, your voice quiet and content as you leaned back into the cushions.

Joel nodded, his eyes shifting from the flames to you. “Told you it’d make a difference,” he said, his tone gruff but carrying the faintest edge of warmth.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the room filled only with the crackling of the fire and the faint whistle of the wind outside. The tension that always seemed to linger between you felt softer now, more like a quiet understanding. You sipped your whiskey, the heat spreading through you, as Joel’s presence, steady and grounding, filled the space beside you.

Joel broke the silence to your surprise, his voice low and gruff, cutting through the comfortable hum of the fire. “What were you hummin’?” He gestured lazily toward the kitchen, where you’d been earlier, his words measured but his gaze intent.

You froze for a moment, feeling a warmth creep into your cheeks. “Oh… you heard that?” you asked softly, your voice tinged with a shy laugh. “It’s just an old country song my dad used to sing when I was little.”

He nodded, his whiskey glass balanced carefully in his hand, his fingers tapping against the rim. “Sounded nice,” he said simply, taking a slow sip. His tone was even, unreadable, but the weight of his words hung in the air like they carried more than he’d intended.

You hesitated, then smiled, your brows raising in playful disbelief. “Was that a compliment, Miller? Never thought I��d live to see the day.”

Joel scoffed lightly, his gaze flickering to the fire before returning to you. “What? I compliment you all the time.”

“In what universe?” you shot back, the amusement clear in your voice. Your eyes sparkled as you leaned forward slightly, bracing your elbows on your knees, waiting for his rebuttal.

Joel shifted in his seat, leaning forward as if considering his next words carefully. His expression was thoughtful, though his lips twitched in a way that suggested he was humoring you. “Said you weren’t a bad shot,” he offered finally, his tone casual, like that was enough to make his case.

You rolled your eyes, the warmth of the fire softening the moment. “Not sure if that counts as a compliment, Joel.”

He tilted his head slightly, his jaw tightening just a fraction as he regarded you. The firelight danced over his features, carving out the lines of his face, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed like he might let it drop. But then his gaze lingered, stayed, the quiet stretch of silence between you enough to make your heart skip.

“You’ve got…” Joel began, his fingers now drumming lightly against the glass in his hand. His voice was softer, hesitant, as though he wasn’t quite sure how to finish the sentence. “Nice eyes,” he muttered finally, the words falling out clumsily, unpolished and raw.

Your breath caught, your heart thudding against your ribs. The sheer simplicity of the statement, coming from him of all people, felt like the most vulnerable thing he could’ve said. Joel Miller, with his gruff exterior and impenetrable walls, had just admitted something so small yet so intimate.

He quickly took another sip of his whiskey, his eyes darting away as though trying to escape the moment. You couldn’t help it—you laughed softly, the sound tinged with disbelief and warmth. A blush crept up your neck as you shook your head, your smile soft.

“That’s the best you’ve got?” you teased lightly, though your chest felt impossibly tight.

Joel groaned, rubbing a hand over his face, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “Forget it,” he muttered, but there was something in the way his gaze flickered back to you that made your breath catch.

You turned your attention to the fire, needing a moment to steady yourself. “You know,” you began, your voice quieter now, “you don’t have to keep fixing all my stuff.”

Joel leaned back slightly, his posture loosening as he studied you. “Someone’s gotta do it,” he said simply, his voice carrying a gruff sincerity that sent a shiver through you.

“I can take care of myself,” you replied softly, glancing back at him, your eyes searching his face for something you couldn’t quite name.

Joel raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “Let’s see,” he said dryly, ticking off on his fingers. “Doesn’t cook, didn’t know how to start her fireplace, believes in werewolves…”

A laugh burst out of you, breaking some of the tension, though it didn’t fully ease the weight in the room. “Seriously, Joel,” you said, shaking your head. “You don’t have to.”

His expression sobered, his gaze locking on yours. For a moment, you thought he might deflect, might brush it off with another quip, but instead, just looked at you.

“I know,” he said quietly, his voice low, so sure.

The words hit you harder than you expected, settling somewhere deep in your chest. He didn’t have to, but he chose to. Over and over, he chose to show up for you in ways that spoke louder than anything he could ever say. It was an unspoken truth that hung between you, heavy and charged.

Your heart pounded as you stared back at him, the air thick with something unsaid. “Joel…” you started, your voice barely above a whisper, but the words caught in your throat.

He held your gaze for a moment longer, then leaned back with a sigh, his fingers wrapping tightly around his glass. “Drink your whiskey,” he muttered, his tone gruff but not unkind, his walls creeping back up just enough to keep him safe.

You smiled faintly, shaking your head as you took a sip. The fire crackled, the warmth of the room wrapping around you both, but the weight of everything unsaid lingered, weaving an invisible thread between you.

Neither of you dared to pull at it just yet, but it was there, undeniable, and it felt like enough for now.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

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