The night is quiet, the wind rustles outside the abandoned cabin in the way to Wyoming that Joel carefully chose because of how far away it is. The darkness is an old friend as Joel is perched on you, his mouth on yours, his hand on your shoulder as he pins you against your sleeping bag.

His other hand tangles in your hair and guides you a bit roughly, but he can't help it – the way yours feels against his and the feeling of your hands sneaking under his clothes makes him grunt softly and bite your lower lip to keep his noises at bay.

None of you know how thick the cabin walls are, and the last thing you want right now is to wake Ellie up, who is sleeping in the room next door, with unseemly sounds. So, Joel does everything he can to keep it quiet – although, with you, that's almost never a possibility.

“Shit– keep it quiet” Joel mutters roughly under his breath – a pet name almost rolls off from his tongue, but he holds it in order to not make things awkward.

The truth is, your relationship has always been complicated. The two of you have been partners in crime –literally speaking–, for so long that you don't remember what life was like before Joel. However, there's no title involved – always living at the bifurcation of what is and isn't, with unanswered mental questions of 'is it okay for me to do this?' or 'how far can I push an unstated boundary?' while uncertainty lingers throughout the years.

And it's even more awkward now Ellie asked both of you about it, when you still have a long way to go to get her to safety with the Fireflies – the cargo you both accepted.

But the tension, at least, is burned off for a moment when you're like this. His calloused fingers fumble with the buttons of your shirt with a reverence almost unnatural to this kind of encounter – almost as if asking if he can.