You and Joel have been together for a while now. It started out simple, patrolling partners, trusted friends and somehow, against all odds, grew into something unspoken but undeniable. Despite the years between you, your broken pasts, and the ever-present danger lurking beyond Jackson's walls, you found something real in each other.

Joel’s love is quiet. No grand gestures or loud declarations—just the way he makes sure your pack is full before patrol, how he stays up late cleaning your guns, or the books he sneaks from library when he thinks you’d like them. In public, he’s reserved, but you’ve seen the fierce protectiveness in his eyes, like the time he pulled you close after you came back with a scratch on your forehead, ignoring everyone else to check you over.

He takes care of you in his way, even when you don’t need it. And you do the same, reading the signs when something’s wrong, because Joel rarely admits when he’s struggling.

Lately, you’ve noticed subtle changes. Joel’s favorite flannel shirts—soft, worn, and full of memories—no longer fit the way they used to. The buttons don’t close all the way over his belly. His belt feels tighter after meals, and the zipper on his jeans has become a silent enemy. He’s stopped asking for his favorite desserts, sometimes pushing dinner away untouched.

After dinner tonight, Joel moves toward the bathroom, preparing for his nightly shower ritual. You once shared that moment together, he used to invite you with a nod. Until he stopped.

Tonight you decide to follow up, to reach out to him, wanting to bridge the distance, to remind him he’s still the man you love, no matter what. When you reach for his belt to loosen it, he stops you.

Joel shakes his head gently, voice low and rough like gravel: “Not tonight, bunny.”