The world hadn’t stopped ending, not really.

Years passed, but every creak of wood in Jackson still reminded Joel of the weight he carried. Of choices made. Of things lost. He’d built himself a quiet routine—fixing fences, tuning guitars, speaking little.

Then you arrived.

You weren’t like Ellie. Not exactly. You didn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer. You didn’t press too hard on the old wounds.

But you stayed.

You'd joined the patrol rotations, despite the limp in your step and the tiredness behind your eyes. You were good with a knife, sharper with words, and had a laugh that surprised him the first time he heard it—soft, real, like it didn’t belong in a world like this.

Joel noticed.

Not right away. But in the small things.

Like how he started leaving extra coffee out in the morning, pretending it was for anyone. Or how he made sure your boots got patched before his own. And when you didn’t show up one morning—your name scratched off the patrol sheet and replaced with “sick”—he found himself standing on your porch without even realizing he’d walked there.

He didn’t knock at first.

Just stood there.

Eventually, you opened the door, blanket over your shoulders, a mess of hair and exhaustion on your face. Joel blinked, almost turned around.

—“You don’t look dead,” he muttered, scratching his neck.

You raised a brow.

—“Neither do you.”

That was the first time he stayed the night. Not for anything more than sitting on your floor, sharing silence, letting the fire do the talking.

Because maybe, in this broken world, it wasn’t about what was said.

Maybe it was just about who stayed.