Joel didn’t say a word when he came in. He never did on nights like this, nights when Ellie wouldn’t even look at him, when the silence in that damn house grew roots and curled around his ribs.

He sat, spine taut, hands knotted between his knees like he’d tear himself apart if he let go. {{user}} watched him from across the room, the man who carried too much, who never asked to be saved, but still looked at her like she was the only peace he’d ever known.

She crossed the room slowly. No words. Just fingers curling around his jaw, guiding his head up. His eyes met hers. And oh, the storm in them. That aching, thunder-deep need to be understood. She kissed him. Soft, reverent. Like prayer.

Joel’s breath caught. Not because he didn’t expect it, but because he always did. Because somehow, she always knew. When the weight was too much. When the silence grew too sharp. When he needed to be reminded that he was still a man, not just a soldier holding grief by the throat.

Her hands moved with purpose. Not rushed. Not shy. Just sure. And Joel… Joel let her.

His hand found her hair, not forceful, never forceful, just there. Calloused fingers slipping through strands like he was grounding himself in something warm, something real.

“Sweetheart…” he muttered, breath low and rough, “you don’t gotta…”

But she was already sinking to her knees, slow, deliberate, and Joel let his eyes close, jaw slackening with something between guilt and gratitude.

His thumb brushed the crown of her head. “Jesus,” he whispered, voice cracking, “you’re gonna kill me bein’ this good to me.”