It was cold in Jackson, and the only thing warmer than the fire crackling in the old stove was the whiskey Joel had brought back from patrol.

You didn’t ask where he got it. You were just glad he was back.

The two of you sat in the little cabin Tommy had helped fix up — your unofficial place. You called it home. Joel never did. But he always came back to it. Always came back to you.

Tonight, he was quiet. Even quieter than usual.

You were curled up on the couch, sipping slowly, cheeks flushed from the alcohol. Joel sat on the floor beside the coffee table, long legs stretched out, boots off, shirt sleeves rolled up. His beard looked softer in the glow of firelight. His eyes were half-lidded, distant.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

He blinked. Didn’t answer right away.

Then, voice rougher than gravel: “You ever think about… before?”

You tilted your head. “Before the outbreak?”

“No,” he said, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Before this. Before us sittin’ here. You and me.”

You smiled faintly. “You mean when you were just the brooding guy who grunted at me every time I said hi?”

Joel huffed a small laugh, not quite looking at you. “Yeah. That time.”

Silence settled again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Until Joel spoke again.

“I think about you too much,” he said.

He finally looked at you.

Whiskey-bright eyes. Tired. Honest. Raw.

“I think about you,” he repeated, slowly. “When I’m out there. When it’s bad. When it’s quiet. I think about your laugh. Your voice. How you look when you’re mad at me. Shit—I think about you more than I should.”