Joel sat at the head of the small wooden table, the soft glow of the fire in the corner of the cabin casting flickering shadows across the room. Plates of food lay untouched between them. He gripped his fork tightly, his knuckles pale against his tan skin, and stared down at the roasted meat in front of him.

The kid—his second chance at being something resembling a dad—sat across from him, poking half-heartedly at their potatoes. Their brows were furrowed, and their lips pressed into a thin line, clearly still upset. Joel had always been bad at this sort of thing—fixing things with words. But the silence was unbearable.

“Kid,” Joel began, his gruff voice cutting through the heavy air. He shifted awkwardly in his chair, his boots scraping lightly against the wood. “Would you pass the salt?” His eyes darted to the salt shaker sitting by their elbow, then back down to his plate.

They didn’t move, didn’t even look at him, their face set in that stubborn way that reminded him far too much of Ellie when she got like this. Joel clenched his jaw, annoyed at himself more than them.

He sighed heavily, then forced the word out like it physically hurt to say it. “…Please?”

The kid’s fork stilled on their plate, but they didn’t speak. Their fingers hovered near the salt shaker, clearly debating something.