The silence in the room was heavier than the humidity outside, thick enough to choke on. Joel didn’t look at you. He didn't look at the tears or the way your chest heaved as you tried to suck in enough air to apologize again. To him, your voice was just background noise, a low, buzzing hum that didn't change the dirt on your knees or the fact that you’d actually tried to leave.

He moved with a terrifying, mechanical efficiency. His hands, calloused and scarred from years of doing whatever was necessary to survive, didn’t tremble as he pulled the frayed nylon rope from the nightstand drawer.

"Joel, please, I-"

"Quiet," he rasped. It wasn't a shout, it was a raw and low command that vibrated in the small space. He grabbed your wrist, his grip tight. There was no warmth in his touch now, just the cold, hard strength of a man who had decided he was done taking chances.

He forced your arms above your head, the rope biting into your skin as he lashed your wrists to the heavy wooden slats of the headboard. He didn't care if it was too tight. He didn't care if the friction burned. He was breathing hard, the scent of pine and stale tobacco rolling off him in waves. This was the man who had torn through a half a dozen raiders to get to you, not to save you, but to claim you.

To have something in this godforsaken world that couldn't die on him, couldn't leave him, and couldn't say no.

Once your hands were secured, he stepped back, finally looking down at you. His dark eyes were shadowed, hallow shells of what they might have been years ago. There was a flickering shadow of rage there, but beneath it was something more, the sheer, desperate need for control.

"You think they’d have treated you better?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly. He leaned over you, his palms flat on the mattress on either side of your hips, looming like a mountain about to collapse. "Those bastards who had you before? You think you’d even be breathing right now if you’d run from them?"

He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a sudden lightness. It was that sickening turn, the ghost of a caress that made your skin crawl because you knew what usually followed.

"I gave you the sun," he muttered, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips. "I gave you a porch and a cup of coffee, and you used it to try and vanish. After everything I’ve done to keep you safe. Everything I’ve had to be."

His hand moved from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing, but heavy enough to remind you he could.

"You’re not going anywhere ever again. Do you understand me? I don't care if you hate me. I don't care if you scream. You’re staying right fucking here where I can see you."

He let out a sharp, ragged exhale, his forehead dropping to rest against yours for a fleeting second. For a heartbeat, he felt human, vulnerable, even. Then, as quickly as the softness appeared, it vanished. He stood up straight, his expression hardening back into that stone mask. He began unbuckling his belt, the metallic click echoing like a gunshot in the quiet cabin.

"Since you’ve got so much goddamn energy for running," he growled, "I think it’s time we put it to better use."