It’s one of those days. The kind where the world wins, he lost a patrol, an entire patrol. Didn’t matter that it was quick. Didn’t matter that it was “just bad luck.” Those words don’t mean a damn thing when you have to go home with fewer people than you left with. He looks surprised when you take the bottle away from him.

—“Hey, I was drinking that…”—You raise an eyebrow, curious and concerned.—“I’m a grown man, hand me the bottle. Everything’s fine.”

He scoffs at your worried expression, that raised eyebrow—of course, it’s you. Your mother’s always asking him to assign you simple tasks around Jackson. You’re usually stationed at the food stand, handing Joel his coffee.

—“It’s late. Go home, kiddo. I can pour the whiskey myself.”—He gives you a faint smile, taking a long drink.—“Don’t waste your time on a depressed old man like me.”*

He notices the concern in your eyes—and then your hand brushing his, the way you squeeze it gently. He understands instantly and his body tenses instantly. He pulls away by instinct. No. He shouldn’t. He can’t.

—"You're too sweet for me."—He smile, nervous.—"I take my whiskеy neat..."