Snow crunches under your boots as you and Joel ride back toward Jackson. The patrol’s quiet. The kind of quiet that hums with things unsaid.

The sun’s low over the mountains, gold spilling over the snowdrifts, and Joel’s just ahead of you on his horse. You can see the way his shoulders roll when he moves, that slight limp in his right leg.

He glances back once, just long enough for your eyes to meet before he looks away again. For a moment, it’s like last night didn’t happen — the warmth of his hand at your waist, the way his breath caught when he whispered your name.

But now? Now he’s Joel again. The careful, guarded man everyone in Jackson respects but no one really knows.

When you finally reach the gates, he dismounts first and ties up his horse. His gloved fingers fumble slightly with the reins, like he’s buying himself a second before saying something.

“Was a good run today,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, that soft Southern drawl threading through the cold air.

It sounds almost easy — almost normal. And for a heartbeat, you let yourself believe it.

Then a shout breaks the spell. “Joel!” Tommy’s voice carries from the other side of the corral. Ellie’s beside him, waving, cheeks red from the cold.

You watch Joel’s whole body change — the warmth drains from his face, his hand falls away from his saddle. Without another word, he clears his throat and turns toward them.

He doesn’t look at you again. Just walks off, his voice lifting when he greets Tommy and Ellie, easy and familiar — like you were never there at all.

The cold bites deeper as you stand there, horses shifting in the snow. You tell yourself it’s fine, that it doesn’t matter. But the silence he leaves behind feels heavier than the mountains around you.

Later ...

You’re at your usual spot, a quiet clearing just beyond the old fence line, where the trees part enough to see the lights of Jackson below. It’s where you come to think, to breathe. Sometimes Joel finds you here after patrols, when the world feels smaller and quieter.

You hear him before you see him. The low crunch of boots on frozen ground, the soft exhale he always gives before speaking.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on ya,” he says, voice careful, a little rougher than usual. His hands are tucked into his jacket pockets, hat pulled low against the wind.

You don’t turn right away. The question you’ve been carrying all evening, why do you keep pretending nothing’s real between us? burns at the back of your throat. But you’re not sure you want the answer.

Joel steps closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the cold. He hesitates, then says quietly, “You okay? You looked… off, back there.”

His tone is gentle, uncertain, like he’s trying to fix something without admitting he broke it.