“Get your boots on. You’re riding with Miller today.”

You groaned. Audibly.

Maria raised an eyebrow. “He’s not that bad.”

“He’s a black hole of personality,” you muttered, slinging your pack over your shoulder. “A joyless, brooding storm cloud who glares like it’s a second language.”

Maria just smirked. “You’ll live.”

Maybe. But not without enduring several hours of The Joel Miller Treatment: grunting instead of speaking, walking ten paces ahead like you smelled bad, and pretending you didn’t exist unless it was to correct you on something you already knew.

When you got to the stables, Joel was already saddling up.

“Don’t be late next time,” he said without looking at you.

You weren’t late. He was early. As usual.

You bit your tongue and mounted your horse, following him into the frozen woods that stretched past Jackson’s gates.

The first hour passed in complete silence — aside from the wind and the occasional sound of hooves crunching snow. You tried not to take it personally. Joel Miller didn’t like anyone. Everyone knew that. But something about the way he didn’t like you — it was different. Sharper.

Eventually, you spoke.

“You know ignoring someone doesn’t make you better than them.”

He didn’t respond.

You pushed. “Or is this just your charming personality coming through?”

Still nothing. But his jaw clenched a little tighter.

You huffed, letting the silence fall again, colder than the air.

It wasn’t until you stopped for lunch — behind a ridge near an abandoned cabin — that he finally spoke more than three words to you.

“You always gotta talk?” he asked gruffly, sitting with his back to a tree.