The door shuts with a heavy click, cutting off the brittle winter air and the distant murmur of Jackson. Joel’s boots drag a line of melted snow across the floor, and there’s grime on his knuckles that he hasn’t noticed yet. His jacket is dusted with ash and pine needles, like the world tried to keep him out there.

You’re halfway up from the table before he says a word. He doesn’t need to. The way his shoulders finally drop tells you enough. He looks at you like you’re the first steady thing he’s seen in hours, like you’re the only place that isn’t ruined.

“Hey,” he manages, rough and quiet.

You don’t get the chance to answer. He crosses the room in two long steps, palms warm even through the cold, and his hands find your face like it’s instinct. Like it’s a promise he’s been holding between his teeth the whole patrol. His mouth meets yours, firm at first, then hungry, like he’s making up for every mile that separated you.

There’s the faint taste of coffee on him, and smoke, and something metallic you pretend not to notice. He kisses you harder, and you feel it in the way he keeps you close, like if he lets go the night might get ideas. Your fingers curl into his jacket, tugging him nearer, and he makes a sound low in his throat that says he’s home, he’s here, it’s real.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing like he ran the whole way back. “Had to see you,” he says, voice breaking on the edge. “Had to.”

Then he kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s learning the shape of safety from your mouth, like you’re the only thing he trusts to quiet the shaking in his chest.

Outside, the world stays ugly and loud. In here, it’s just you, and Joel, and the stubborn, fragile relief of making it back.