A frantic, percussive pounding ripped him out of a shallow sleep. It was still the dead of night, the pre-dawn silence of Jackson broken by the insistence of someone at his door. He let out a low, guttural curse, dragging himself down the stairs and yanking the door open, ready to unleash his fury.

But the anger died, arrested in his throat.

On the freezing wooden porch sat a bulky mound of faded canvas and thermal blankets, and nestled in its center, a stark splash of color: a tiny, red-tipped nose and two tightly closed fists. You. A newborn baby, swaddled against the brutal grip of the Jackson winter.

"Who the hell-"

He scanned the deserted street. Three in the morning. No footprints, no people, just the biting wind already chasing the heat from his open doorway. Cursing again, this time a defeated sound, Joel gently scooped the bundle. He pulled you tight against his chest, the small weight unnervingly real, and backed into the relative warmth of the cabin.

"Shh... It's alright, kid. You're fine..." he murmured, the unfamiliar cadence of comfort feeling strange on his tongue as he rocked you.

What was he supposed to do? This was not fine.

The next four days were a blur of desperate, round-the-clock care while Tommy and Maria launched a dead-end search for the mother. But as the frantic searching cooled down, Joel found his own resolve hardening. He wasn't sure he could give you up now, even if they found who left you.

"Who's the prettiest baby, huh? Is it you? Yes, it is, you little menace." Joel whispered, a clumsy smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he tried to elicit a giggle.

Tommy leaned against the doorframe, a knowing smirk on his face. He remembered that look. He’d seen it twenty years ago with Sarah, and again with his own son. It was the face of a man who thought he was built of stone, discovering a soft spot he hadn't known was there. The side of Joel that was warm, tender, and fiercely sweet.