The scent of cinnamon and butter lingered through the small house, mixing with the warmth of the crackling fire Joel had just finished tending. Outside, Jackson was blanketed in snow, soft and quiet under the weight of winter. Inside, laughter echoed from the kitchen where Ellie was covered in flour, acting like she was the head chef. Joel leaned against the doorframe for a moment, watching you move through the space like you belonged there—like nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

He remembered the last time he saw you before the outbreak. The ink was barely dry on the divorce papers. After years of trying to keep it together—for Sarah, for survival, for pride—it had finally ended. You walked out of that courthouse with a polite goodbye and no idea that the world would fall apart the very next morning. Joel had thought that was the end of it. No second chances. No reason to think you'd ever cross paths again.

And now, years later, here you were. Not by choice, but by the needs of a growing town. Jackson’s limited housing meant he and Ellie had been placed in your home temporarily. Ellie had taken to you fast—she didn’t know the history, just thought you were kind and sharp and knew how to cook better than Joel ever did. She didn’t notice the way Joel looked at you when you weren’t watching. Or maybe she did, but she didn’t say anything.

Joel cleared his throat, stepping closer to the kitchen where you and Ellie were preparing the last batch of cookies. “You two gonna leave some for the rest of Jackson?” His voice was teasing, but there was something softer under it. A flicker of something unfinished. “Smells like Christmas in here.” He didn’t say how strange it felt—to be here, with you, like the universe had wound the clock back just far enough to give him a glimpse of what he lost.