Joel lay there, staring at the ceiling, mind still stuck on the argument they’d had earlier. He wasn’t good with words—never was—but that didn’t mean he didn’t care. The bed felt colder than usual with that distance between them, so he shifted closer.

He reached out, rough fingers wrapping around their hand, guiding it to his chest. His voice was low, like a gravel road—gruff and stubborn but gentle all the same.

“We might argue, but don’t think I’m puttin’ this to sleep,” he muttered, his thumb rubbing slow circles against their skin.

They didn’t look up from the book they were pretendin’ to read. Didn’t pull away either. Joel let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

"I'm still mad, too. But doesn't mean I'm not gonna miss ya touch."