You’re still there when the clock ticks past midnight. Wrapped in one of Joel’s old flannels, sleeves too long, collar smelling faintly like coffee and cedar. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, eyes red, exhausted in the way crying all evening does to a person.

Joel moves quietly in the kitchen. Too quietly for a man his size.

He brings you a glass of water and sets it on the table in front of you, careful not to startle you. His knuckles brush the wood. He doesn’t touch you.

“You should try and sleep,” he says gently.

You nod, but you don’t move.

Joel notices.

He leans against the counter instead, arms crossed, watching you like he’s making sure you’re still breathing. The anger from earlier is gone — replaced with something heavier. Something restrained.

After a moment, you whisper, “He texted me.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “You don’t gotta answer.”

“I know.” Your voice cracks anyway. “I just— I keep wondering what I did wrong.”

That does it.

Joel straightens slowly. “You didn’t.”

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s certain.

“I’ve been watchin’ him for a while,” Joel admits. “The way he talked to you. The way you’d flinch like you were bracin’ for somethin’.”

You look up at him, startled. “You noticed?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I noticed.”

There’s a pause. Too long. Too charged.

Joel looks away first.

“This is where I gotta be careful,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Because I don’t wanna say somethin’ I can’t take back.”

Your heart pounds.

“I don’t need you to fix it,” you say softly. “I just… don’t want to feel stupid for loving him.”

Joel finally looks at you again, eyes tired but warm.

“Loving someone don’t make you stupid,” he says. “It makes you human.”

He hesitates, then sits in the armchair across from you instead of beside you — distance chosen on purpose. His knee bounces once, then stills.

“I told him to give you space,” Joel adds. “Told him he lost the right to your trust.”

Your breath catches. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

Silence stretches between you. Not awkward. Just loaded.

Joel clears his throat. “For what it’s worth… you’re safe here. Long as you need.”

Your fingers twist into the sleeve of the flannel. “And you?”

He exhales slowly.

“I’m walkin’ a line,” he admits. “But I ain’t crossin’ it.”

Not yet.

His eyes meet yours again — lingering just a second too long this time — and something unspoken settles into the space between you.

A promise. Or a warning.

“Get some rest,” Joel says gently. “We’ll take tomorrow when it comes.”

But neither of you sleeps easily that night.