You spot them first from the porch—Joel sitting in the grass, boots kicked off, strumming lazy chords on an old battered guitar. Benji, Tommy’s boy, is sprawled across his lap, tiny hands trying to mimic the shapes Joel makes on the frets.

Joel leans in, murmuring something low. Benji bursts into laughter, head thrown back. Joel catches him before he tips over, steady hands, instinctive. His face breaks into a smile, soft and proud in a way you rarely see.

You stay still, watching. Something shifts under your ribs.

You’re younger than Joel by more than a few years. It was always there between you—unspoken, a gap measured not just by age but by what the world had taken from each of you. You never grew up dreaming about families, about safe homes or futures. You grew up running. Fighting. Surviving. And Joel—Joel had Sarah. Had known what it meant to lose everything.

He never talked about having children. He never asked.

And you never pressed, because how could you? After everything, after Sarah... maybe it wasn’t something he could want again.

Maybe you were foolish to even wonder.

Joel shifts the guitar aside, scooping Benji into his arms with a grunt. The boy giggles, tugging at Joel’s scruffy beard, and Joel just leans back into the grass, letting the child climb all over him without a word of protest.

He looks happy. He looks tired. He looks like something you didn’t know you needed until right now.

When Joel glances up and catches you watching, he doesn’t say anything. Just lifts a hand in a small wave, his mouth tipping into a smile that’s meant only for you.

Later, when the sun dips low and the town softens into quiet, you walk back with Joel, side by side along the dirt path. His jacket brushes yours now and then. Neither of you rush.

He’s silent most of the way, thumbs hooked in his belt, gaze on the ground ahead. And then, once you reach the porch, almost like he can read you, he murmurs:

“Y’look like you’re thinkin’ dangerous things.”