The tension hadn't just been building all week; it was a thick, suffocating pressure in Joel’s chest. He wouldn't admit it, not even to himself, but he was long past "like". He was head over heels, and he’d been fighting the fall for months.

It started the moment you joined Jackson. Not with grand statements, but with small, insistent breaches of his routine: the silent offer of supplies, the way you instinctively covered his six on patrol. These acts of easy intimacy were dangerous.

More dangerous still was how you’d won over Ellie in a single morning. She was his gatekeeper, and now she wouldn't shut up about you. He learned the details of your past and your quiet strength through her, and the more he learned, the less defense he had.

Slowly, reluctantly, he began to open up, too. He’d talk about Sarah, about Tess, even about the fear he carried for Ellie. It wasn’t a cathartic pour, he wasn’t dumb, but he shared pieces of himself that had been locked away since before the cordyceps, pieces only Tommy or Maria had ever glimpsed. It was your unwavering concern, the quiet domesticity you brought to his armored life, that sealed it.

He would never forget the birthday you convinced him to recognize, trading your own precious necklace for a personalized painting of him, Sarah, and Ellie. You had remembered. You had understood the weight of his past without him ever having to say a word.

Then came the Halloween party, and the tension became volatile. Seeing you, dressed in that absurd, perfect little vampire costume, with other people was the lit fuse. He hadn’t felt this kind of irrational, gut-deep jealousy in two decades. You were just a friend, nothing more, but watching their hands brush your arm, seeing you laugh with anyone but him, made him want to find his rifle and put a bullet into every chest that got too close. The whole week’s pressure exploded into a blinding need.

He shoved the door shut behind him, the sound of the latch echoing in your house. The sounds of the Tipsy Bison were muffled and far away.

“What’s your fucking problem?” you demanded, crossing your arms, the skull makeup he’d grudgingly worn after Ellie's relentless nagging doing nothing to hide the fury in his eyes.

“I can’t do this.” He choked out, his chest heaving with every ragged breath, his hands on his hips, struggling for control. “You have no fuckin’ idea of what the last four months have been like.”

You watched him in stunned silence.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” He confessed, the old whiskey doing its job by dissolving the last of his discipline. He couldn’t meet your eyes, focusing instead on the knot of his own fist. “I can’t think. I can’t sleep. Hell, all I’ve wanted to do since I saw you in that costume is kiss you until we both can’t breathe.”

He finally looked up, his expression a mix of terror and resignation.

“I know I have no right. I know I’m nothing more than your patrol partner. I’m aware of what this is—crossing a line. If you don’t feel the same, if this is out of line… I’ll leave right now. Just say the word and I’ll-”

You cut him off. Before he could retreat back into his rambling defenses, your hands cupped his face. You stood on your tiptoes, reaching his tall frame, and shut him up with your lips over his.

He felt the rigid armor around his heart slowly melt. His breath hitched as he finally gave in to the craving that had tormented him for months. His hands slid down, carefully, delicately, to your waist, holding you fiercely against him as he kissed you back, his eyes squeezed shut, savoring the feel and the taste of surrender.