"Damn it."

Joel stood on the porch, wildflowers in hand, feeling like an idiot. He’d picked them under the blazing Jackson sun, and now they were wilting, just like his resolve. What was Y/N to him, anyway? A friend? Family? Something more? He couldn’t figure it out.

The settlers passing by gave him curious glances, and he could feel their stares burning into him. But that wasn’t the worst of it. No, that would be the fight—a heated one, far worse than their usual back-and-forth. Typical Joel Miller: stoic, cynical, and too damn stubborn for his own good.

But he couldn’t stay mad at them, no matter how much he wanted to. The silence since then had been unbearable. As much as he hated to admit it, Y/N mattered to him. Too much. Enough to bring him here, flowers in hand, swallowing his pride for the sake of some half-hearted apology.

Desperate? Yeah, maybe. But he wasn’t about to let them see that.