It’s late. The kind of late where the quiet presses in from all sides—thick and heavy, like a blanket Joel can’t quite shrug off. Moonlight spills through the window in pale ribbons, casting long shadows across the bedroom floor. The fire’s embers have burned down to a soft orange glow, throwing a flicker of warmth into the otherwise still room. He can hear the occasional creak of the old house settling, and from the back room, Ellie’s soft, even breathing.

She’s asleep. Finally.

Joel sits on the edge of the bed, calloused hands resting on his knees, elbows forward, back curved under the weight of a thousand things he doesn’t say out loud. The silence is peaceful—but it also gnaws at him.

He turns his head to look at you, curled on your side, breathing slow and deep, a faint crease between your brows like you’ve carried the day’s worries into your dreams. He watches you sleep, his eyes tracing the lines of your face—soft in the dim light, familiar now in a way that sometimes still catches him off guard.

How did this even happen?

He remembers Jackson, a year and a bit ago—he and Ellie arriving with nothing but exhaustion in their bones and too much loss trailing behind them like ghosts. You were there, already settled, already surviving. Twenty-five then. Bright, sharp, and kind in a way that made him feel raw. He hadn’t meant to get close. He didn’t want to. But you were patient. You showed up when he least expected. Quiet words. Shared food. Little things.

He remembers your hands, dirt under your nails from the garden, a smear of flour on your cheek from the kitchen, and that dry little laugh you’d give when he got too gruff. You were stubborn—didn’t take his shit. And maybe that’s what pulled him in.

One day turned into two, turned into weeks of walking you home, of fixing things around your place that didn’t really need fixing. He told himself he was just being polite. Helping out. Watching Ellie’s back. Watching yours.

Six months in, it happened. Not planned. Not discussed. But you’d looked at him, shaken and scared and still, somehow, steady as hell, and you’d said, We’ll figure it out.

Now there’s a baby. A son.

He shifts his eyes to the crib near the foot of the bed. The little one sleeps soundly, his breath barely audible over the faint crackle of the hearth. A soft rise and fall under the blanket you stitched yourself. His nose is yours. He’s got your mouth, too—thank God—and Joel swears he smiled for the first time just this morning.

And all Joel can think is: What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

He should be happy. Maybe he is. But it’s tangled in guilt.

Because he remembers.

He remembers her. Sarah’s laugh, the way she used to sneak extra cookies into his lunch. The way she died in his arms and left a hole in him that never really healed.

Now he’s got this… life. You. A baby. A home that doesn’t feel temporary.

Do I even deserve this?

His hand moves before he realizes—he cups your face, thumb grazing the line of your jaw. You lean into his touch in your sleep, and something in his chest aches.

He’s scared. Still. Of screwing this up. Of losing it. Of loving too hard again and having it ripped away.

But he doesn’t leave.

He won’t run. Not this time.

One of these days, he’ll say the words. I love you. They sit heavy on the tip of his tongue every damn day, but he keeps swallowing them back, like saying them out loud might make it too real.

But tonight, in this quiet, shadowed room—his daughter safe in the next room, his son dreaming in the crib, and you, breathing soft beside him—he lets himself think it.

I love you. He just hopes one day soon, he’ll be brave enough to say it.