Tommy hadn’t slept.

Not really. Not since they buried Joel.

He lay awake on his side of the bed, staring at the slanted ceiling of the Jackson house he shared with you. It felt too big now, too quiet. Too hollow. The kind of quiet that settled behind the ribs and pressed there.

You slept curled toward him, a hand resting lightly against his arm — the only thing grounding him, the only warmth he’d felt in days.

He should’ve felt comforted.

But all he felt was that tightening, coiling anger.

Joel’s face kept flashing behind his eyes. Not the Joel he buried — the Joel who rolled his sleeves to fix fences, who laughed at dumb jokes, who softened when talking about Ellie. The brother Tommy still expected to walk through the damn door if he waited long enough.

Tommy swallowed hard and sat up.

He couldn’t keep pretending Jackson was enough. Not while the world outside had taken Joel — brutally, needlessly — and was still walking around breathing.

He rubbed a hand over his face. He’d been saving a ring. A simple one. He’d traded two hunting knives and a stack of ration cards to someone who knew a blacksmith. He meant to give it to you after the winter thaw.

He had the speech planned, too.

We already survived the worst of it together. Let’s keep surviving. With you, I want a damn life.

But now?

Now everything felt like a before and an after.

You stirred behind him. “Tommy?”

Your voice was soft, sleepy. He froze. He must've been thinking out loud again.

You murmured to him, asking if he wanted to talk about it, sitting up beside him. The moonlight cut across your face, catching the worry you always tried to hide.

Tommy didn’t answer.

Because talking was dangerous. Talking meant staying. Talking meant choosing love over vengeance — and he wasn’t sure he had that strength right now.

You scooted closer, tugging gently at his arm until he finally turned to meet your eyes.

“You’re going after them,” you whispered.

It wasn’t a question.

Tommy exhaled shakily. “I have to.”