It had been a month since you pulled him from the edge of death.

No one knew. Everyone thought Joel Miller had died that day. But you had gotten to him in time—barely. And now, here he was, sitting at the edge of your bed, shirtless, wincing as he pressed a hand to his side.

“Damn thing still hurts like hell,” he muttered, voice gravelly, eyes focused on the scars like they were mocking him.

You didn’t say anything, just handed him the painkillers and sat behind him, wrapping your arms around his torso gently—careful not to press too hard.

He let out a breath, the kind that held more than just air. The kind that carried guilt, exhaustion, disbelief that he was still here. With you.

“Don’t know why you risked everything for me,” he mumbled, leaning his head back against your shoulder. “But I’m glad you did.”

You rested your chin on his shoulder, and for a moment, the silence between you was louder than the storm outside. A month had passed, but healing—real healing—was just beginning.