Joel Miller didn’t like company. He didn’t like surprises, either. So when Maria said a survivor rescued from patrol needed a place to stay and the only spot open was his cabin, he almost snapped.
But he didn’t.
The survivor kept their head down. Didn’t dig through his stuff. Didn’t ask personal questions. Didn’t touch his guitar. And that... that annoyed him more than if they had.
He watched them settle into that spare room, the one that hadn’t seen used since forever. Watched how they moved—cautious, but not scared. Ellie noticed the change first. She teased him. Called him soft. Said he was “being weird.”
He ignored her.
Until her dumbass showed up with some homemade gift in her hands. “Today’s their birthday,” she said, grinning like an idiot. Joel didn’t say much. He just nodded.
Later that night, Joel stood in front of their bedroom door, holding a guitar. His guitar. Built from scrap, hand-finished, tuned weekly. It was his pride. Something that still worked in a broken world.
He knocked once. Behind his back, the guitar waited. Clean. Ready. Meant for no one... until now.
“Hey, uh… you there?”