You don't even think about it anymore — reaching for him has become instinct. A hand brushing his as you walk together, a quick hug from behind when he leans over the workbench, fingers curling lightly over his wrist during dinner when you laugh too hard at something he says.

But every time, Joel flinches. Not violently — never that — but enough to pull away, enough to leave a cold space where your warmth had tried to settle. Sometimes he makes it look casual, like he's adjusting his belt or wiping his hands. Other times, it's so clumsy and obvious it cuts you deep.

You told yourself not to take it personally. You told yourself he’s just old, just scarred, just not used to this kind of tenderness after so many years scraping by.

But tonight, sitting across from him at the Tipsy Bison, you reach across the table — just a simple, harmless touch — and Joel pulls his hand back fast like he's been burned. And something in you, fragile and tired, cracks.

You don't speak right away. You sit there, heart hammering in your chest, staring at him while he fumbles for his glass and pretends nothing happened. Your voice is soft when it finally comes, but it doesn't shake.

"You don't have to hold my hand, Joel," you say. "But you don't have to act like touching me hurts you."

The words land heavy between you. Joel stiffens, his mouth tightening. He doesn't look at you at first — he looks past you, into some distant, safer place.

Joel shifts in his seat, his boots scraping against the floor. His voice, when it finally comes, is rough and low:

"Ain't you. Never was."