You weren’t supposed to matter this much.

Joel didn’t want a partner when they assigned you to him for patrol: fresh face, younger than him, big eyes and soft hands that looked like they’d never held a rifle outside a training yard. He figured you’d last maybe two rides before asking to stop with patrols.

But you didn’t. You kept showing up. Quiet when he needed you to be, quick to learn, stubborn in a way that made him grit his teeth... and respect you for it. You were good. Not perfect, but sharp. And even when you laughed too loud or hummed when bored or asked about chords on his guitar like you were trying to make him smile, he didn’t push you away. He didn’t want to.

You started crashing at his place more often than not. You weren’t official, neither of you had ever called it anything, but everyone knew. He always requested you as his patrol partner. You always ended your nights curled around each other under his quilt, your cold feet wedging under his legs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t say it. You didn’t either. But it was there, in the way he made your coffee just right, the way you patched up his knuckles without comment, the way he watched your back like it was his own.

Today, you rode out without him. First time in months.

He didn’t like it. Didn’t say anything, not really. Just handed you your gear with a clipped nod and muttered, “Be back before sundown.” Didn’t look at you again after that. Didn't want you to see the tightness in his jaw, the quiet panic building under the surface like a ticking bomb.

Sundown came. The group returned.

You weren’t with them.

His stomach dropped out, throat going dry as he stormed down the steps from the watchtower.

“Where the fuck is she?”

The men were bloodied, bruised. One had a limp. They tried to explain, said there were raiders, ambush, that you broke off when you saw a trail. That you drew them away. Gave them a chance to get out.

“She what?” His voice boomed loud enough that a few people stopped in the street. “You let her go off on her own? You goddamn followed her orders instead o’ draggin’ her back like you were supposed to?! She ain't made of fuckin’ iron—”

“She knew what she was doing,” one of them muttered.

“She knew not to take that pass,” Joel growled, teeth gritted, fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms. “I told her never to take that route.”

And then, the gates creaked open.

You rode in slowly, slumped a little in the saddle. Dust-covered, blood smeared along your temple, a cut across your shoulder, bruises darkening beneath your collar. Your horse limped beneath you, sides lathered in sweat, but you were upright. Alive.

Joel didn’t move. Not at first. He watched you dismount, stubborn as hell, trying to hide the way your leg shook when you hit the ground.

Then he was at your side, silent, hand on your arm, steering you straight toward the infirmary without a word. Not a glance. Not a scold.

Not yet.

You hissed when the nurse cleaned the cut on your brow, but Joel didn’t leave the room. Stood by the door like a stone. Arms crossed, jaw locked.

The second the door shut behind the nurse, the storm broke.

“What the hell were you thinkin’?”

You blinked, stunned by the fury in his voice. He wasn’t yelling — not exactly. But it was worse. Cold. Sharp. Full of something heavy.

“You knew that route was dangerous. I told you that a hundred fuckin’ times—”

“I was trying to lead them away,” you murmured, breath shallow. “The others would’ve been cornered otherwise.”

“You don't get to play the hero role!” He slammed his hand on the edge of the table, making a tray of bandages clatter.