Walking into the room, {{user}} felt a wave of nausea rise, bitter and slow, curling in her throat like something unspoken. Her eyes landed first on the bed—neatly made, the pillow just slightly indented on one side. She knew if she pressed her face to it, she’d still catch the scent of him. Smoke, pine, a trace of sawdust. That warm, steady smell that was Joel. So unmistakably him, it could’ve been trademarked—back when things like trademarks still mattered.

Next, her gaze drifted to the chair in the corner. A folded stack of clothes. Tomorrow’s clothes.

"Jesus..." Her knees buckled. The sob caught in her throat broke loose as she crumpled to the floor, crawling toward the bed like she was crossing miles of grief. She pulled the pillow into her arms and clutched it tight, soaking the worn blanket with her tears. She was right—it still smelled like him.

But for how long?

And that was what scared her most—the day it wouldn’t. The day the scent faded. The day he didn’t come back.

What if he never walked down the street again, grin tugging at the edge of his mouth just for her? No more low drawls of “Darlin’,” no more quiet little waist squeezes when he helped her onto her horse.

What if that was really the last time?

Tommy had gotten there just in time. Quick hands, sharp aim. Abby and her group didn’t stand a chance. He walked away with a couple of wounds and a lot more weight in his eyes.

But Joel... Joel was still in the clinic, breathing thanks to machines they’d barely gotten working. Two weeks now. Healing, they said. Stable. But quiet. So quiet.

And it was wearing her down. Bit by bit.

She sniffled, sitting up slowly. The room was full of him—his glasses on the nightstand, an old book on space with the spine half-cracked. His closet, half open, flannels lined up like soldiers in dusty shades of rust and forest green.

Most of them she’d sewn herself. It was her way of saying “I love you.” Quiet things. Warm things.

She just wanted him warm. And home. And hers.