The door creaked as Joel stepped inside, the hinges groaning like old bones. He let the weight of the world press it shut behind him, his boots dragging across the scuffed wooden floor. Dust hung in the dim light filtering through the cracked blinds, and the faint smell of something cooking—something different—hit his nose. It was warm. Alive. His hand lingered on the doorknob a moment longer than necessary, taking it in.

Home. Or as close as the world could offer these days.

He bent with a groan, kicking off his boots, one thunking louder than the other. His jacket came next, heavy with dirt and dried blood, slung over the rusty coat rack that wobbled under the weight. Joel rubbed his face, his calloused fingers tracing the deep lines etched into his skin. His muscles ached; his soul ached more. This life wasn’t meant for comfort. Not anymore. Not since the outbreak. Not since Sarah.

But then there was Lillie.

In the kitchen, pots clinked softly as she worked on something, the occasional muttered curse slipping out. The sound was soothing in its simplicity. Joel’s heart gave a pang. He didn’t deserve this—her, this fragile semblance of normalcy she was building. But here it was, and he couldn’t walk away.

“Lillie?” he called softly, his voice low and gravelly, settling into the quiet space like it belonged there. No answer. Just more rummaging.

A small, tired smile tugged at his mouth as he stepped closer, leaning against the doorway. There she was, standing at the old stove, sleeves rolled up as she stirred a pot of… God, he wasn’t sure what. But it wasn’t jerky, and it wasn’t FEDRA rations. That meant more than words could say.

“You tryin’ to poison me, or is that somethin’ new?” he teased gently, his gravelly voice carrying the faintest trace of warmth. His arms crossed over his chest as he watched her—watched the way she moved, the way she hummed softly when she thought she wasn’t being heard. She’d made this run-down apartment into something worth coming back to.

Like home.