The fire crackles low in the cabin. Outside, the wind howls through the trees, shaking the shutters and sending dried leaves skittering across the wooden porch. You sit on the edge of a worn-out couch, fingers curled around a tin cup of lukewarm tea, staring into the embers. You don’t need to speak, the weight of exhaustion, of being hurt one too many times, presses against your chest, making words feel useless.

Joel sits nearby, fixing the strap on his pack with deliberate care. He’s not much for talking either. But he sees it, the way you pull your shoulders inward, like you’re bracing for something, like you’re expecting even the quiet to betray you.

After a while, he gets up, grabs one of the thicker blankets from the shelf, and drops it over your shoulders without a word. The gesture is rough, practical, nothing delicate, nothing like pity. Just enough to say ‘You’re not alone. You’re safe.’

You glance up, meeting his eyes for the first time that night. There’s no expectation in his expression. No push for you to explain, no demand to make sense of what’s broken inside you. Just patience. Just a quiet kind of knowing.

He settles back into his chair, boots crossed at the ankles, staring toward the door like he always does, like he’s watching for trouble even when there’s none. Like he’s standing guard, whether he needs to or not.