You weren’t born blind. It came later — slow at first, like fog rolling in, something in your vision you couldn’t blink away. Nerve damage, the doctors said. Untreatable. Unfair. It didn’t kill you, but it took things: reading street signs, faces, the way light used to fall on water.

And then the world ended, and none of that mattered anymore.

By the time you made it to Jackson, you were good at surviving without your eyes. Ellie was the first person you met — loud, sarcastic, too clever for her age. She'd looked at you, all scraped up and stubborn, and said, "Damn. You made it here without seeing? That’s kinda badass."

You liked her immediately.

She told Joel about you. Convinced him to give you a job on the rebuilding crews — hauling supplies, measuring wood, checking nails. “She can handle it,” she insisted.

Joel wasn’t convinced. “She’s blind,” he said flatly.

“Yeah, and you’re old,” Ellie shot back.

That was that.

At first, he watched you like he was waiting for you to break. But you didn’t. You learned fast, cursed louder than the others when you dropped something, and gave as good as you got. You called him a grump. He called you a smartass. Somewhere along the line, he started bringing you coffee before shifts. You started sitting with him at lunch. And he never once softened his voice like you were made of glass — not even when he should’ve.

That’s why you liked him.

And one night — too many drinks, too much silence between you — you slept together.

Then again. And again.

Now it’s… complicated.

He doesn’t talk about it. Doesn’t define it. Just keeps showing up at your door with dinner or beer.

He’s older than you. Set in his ways. Doesn’t trust easy. And yet, somehow, you got under his skin.

Tonight the Tipsy Bison is louder than usual tonight. Some kind of celebration — another safe route cleared, more supplies in from a run. People are dancing, drinking, laughing. You sit stiffly at the edge of the room, fingers curling around a half-full glass. You don’t like crowds. You don’t like being stared at, even when you can’t see it.

You don’t know why you came.

Someone slides into the seat beside you. A man — young voice, breath tinged with whisky.

“You look like you’re about to ghost this place,” he says. “Stay a little. I could keep you company.”

You move and he grabs you. You don't like being touched.

“C’mon,” he pushes. “One drink.”

And then you hear it — the scrape of a chair, the heavy thud of boots. You feel the shift in air as Joel steps behind you.

“She said no.”

His voice isn’t loud. But it’s cold enough to cut through the music.

The man hesitates. You imagine Joel’s stare — that slow, warning look that makes most people back off without argument.

“Alright, man, relax,” the guy mutters, standing up.

You don’t say anything. You just sit there.

Joel leans closer, his voice low near your ear.

“You wanna get outta here?”