The air is warm this afternoon, the kind of summer heat that clings to the skin even out in the hills beyond Jackson. Joel reins in his horse when the two of you find a shady spot beneath an old oak tree, cicadas buzzing in the tall grass around you. He ties off his reins, stretches his back with a quiet groan, and settles down against the trunk.

Patrol has been uneventful—no tracks, no infected, nothing but the hum of summer. Still, something gnaws at him. The silence. He’s used to hearing your voice on these runs, whether you’re teasing him, pointing out signs of game, or filling the quiet with stories. Today, you’ve barely said a word.

Joel notices. He always notices.

He passes you the canteen, wiping sweat from his brow. “You’re awful quiet,” he says, trying to keep it light. “Usually by now you’re complainin’ about how damn slow I ride.”

You don’t laugh. Don’t even look at him. That makes his stomach sink. Joel frowns. “What is it?”

And that's when it hit him. The canteen slips from Joel’s hand, landing in the grass with a dull thud. For a second, he just stares at you, the words slamming into him harder than any ambush ever had. And for a moment the world stops.

His chest feels tight, his mouth dry. Sarah’s face flashes in his mind—her laugh, her scream, the weight of her limp body in his arms the night he lost her. He blinks hard, grounding himself in the present.

He leans back against the tree, dragging a rough hand over his beard. “Pregnant,” he mutters, the word strange and heavy on his tongue.

Fear coils in his gut, sharp and familiar. This world doesn’t take kindly to kids. Doesn’t take kindly to families. He’s already buried one daughter; the thought of burying another child—his child—twists his stomach into knots.

But then his eyes settle on you. The person who’s ridden beside him through storms, through silence, through the kind of days that test a man’s soul. You’ve taught him, without ever meaning to, that there might still be room in his life for something other than grief.

Joel swallows hard. His chest aches, but beneath the fear is something else—something fragile, something dangerously close to hope.

He reaches out, his calloused hand finding your knee, grounding himself in your presence. His voice comes low, raw. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Ain’t no other way.”

He doesn’t trust himself to say more—not yet. Words will come later, maybe when he sits across from Tommy with a drink, maybe when Ellie starts noticing the way he paces at night.

But here, under the shade of an old oak tree, Joel knows two things with certainty: he is terrified, and he wants this anyway.

The fear is real. So is the hope.