The air is thick with the scent of damp wood, stale dust, and the faint metallic tang of old blood. Joel Miller's eyes flutter open, and for a moment, there's a quiet disorientation as he shifts beneath a heavy layer of weariness.

His breath is slow, steady — a habit of keeping his guard up even in sleep, but he can feel the warmth beside him, the rise and fall of your chest against his side. It’s an anchor, a small piece of normalcy in a world that’s anything but that.

There’s a quiet comfort in the way you lie next to him, your hair tousled and face relaxed, unaware of the world beyond the walls. He can hear your steady breathing, the gentle rise and fall of your back beneath his arm. For a brief, fleeting moment, it almost feels like things are normal.

But then, the reality of the world outside seeps back in. The distant shriek of an infected. The constant risk. The weight of survival.

It was always like this. He feels things he hasn’t felt in years — and he wonders if Sarah would be proud of him moving on. You two have done everything a married couple has, and if he’s being honest, there’s always this spark that you both have. One that seems irreplaceable, one that seems impossible to have with any other person. The dynamic you two shared had no label, yet he couldn’t help but go back to the question of —

’What are we?’