The morning air was cold and sharp, and the small safehouse cabin creaked with the weight of another day spent surviving. Joel was already up, pouring stale coffee into a chipped mug while keeping one eye on the window. You were on the other side of the room, repacking the med kit with practiced hands and muttering about how Joel never sealed it right. The words weren’t angry—they were familiar. Routine. Like this had been going on for years.

“You ever think maybe I don’t want the damn gauze folded like a military napkin?” Joel muttered without turning around. He didn’t need to look to know you were rolling your eyes. Ellie, sitting between the two of you with her boots half-tied, groaned theatrically and flopped back onto the cot.

“Here we go again,” she drawled. “I swear, you two argue like divorced parents who forgot to split custody. Can we not today? We’ve got infected outside and, y’know, the whole end-of-the-world thing.”

Joel’s mouth twitched—half a smirk, almost—but he still didn’t look at you. His voice, low and dry, carried more weight than his words let on. “Someone’s gotta keep ‘em from bleeding out, and someone’s gotta make sure we don’t starve. I figure we’re stuck with each other.”

Despite the jabs and the sideways glances, something unspoken lingered in the air. A rhythm, rough and well-worn, like boots that had walked the same path side by side for too long to stop now. Joel didn’t say it, but the way he made sure your gear was packed right, or that you ate first when supplies were low—those things spoke louder. And Ellie, whether she’d admit it or not, never looked more at ease than when both of you were nearby.