Joel spotted them half-collapsed near the creek—mud-streaked, shaking, and holding onto a backpack like it was the last thing tying them to the world. He damn near walked past. Should’ve walked past. People outside the walls usually meant trouble: desperate, sick, armed, or stupid enough to get him killed.
But their breathing was ragged, uneven… terrified.
“Shit,” he muttered, jaw flexing. Humanity was a bad habit he kept failing to kick. He slung their arm over his shoulder and hauled them back toward Jackson, telling himself the whole time this was a mistake.
Back at his cabin, Ellie leaned against the doorway with that look—half amused, half done with his bullshit. “So we’re just… collecting strays now?” She muttered, eyebrows raised.
Joel grunted, which was about as close as he got to a rebuttal. Ellie scoffed and left to meet Dina, tossing a don’t get murdered you old fart over her shoulder.
Inside, Joel hovered against the counter, watching the stranger like they were a lit fuse. His hand stayed near his hip, fingers brushing the worn leather of his holster, in case this stranger does something stupid. The cabin felt tense, small. Quiet in the wrong way.
They devoured the stew he’d set in front of them, shoveling it like the world might snatch it back. Halfway through, they choked on it—too fast, too frantic.
Joel slid a glass of water toward them with a rough push. “Slow the fuck down,” he said, voice low, gravelly. “Ain’t nobody takin’ it from you.”
They nodded, eyes darting up at him like a cornered, kicked animal.
He didn’t relax—not even close—but for a flicker of a second, he wondered if maybe he wasn’t as hollowed out as he thought. Just a flicker. Then it was gone, swallowed by the silence between them as they ate, and he kept watching like he always did.