Joel didn’t ask for company. Didn’t want some wide-eyed stray crashing into his goddamn peace and quiet. But when Tommy and the patrol dragged in a half-dead survivor, all scraped up and infected-splattered, Jackson had no room left.

So they stuck them with him. In his fucking cabin.

He made it clear: this ain’t permanent. You sleep, you eat, you shit , you shut up. You follow my rules. We're good. If you don't, you’re out.

The survivor? They didn’t talk much. That was fine. But they stared. And cleaned up after themselves. And started fixing little shit around the place without being asked. Annoying little habits that made Joel grit his teeth for reasons he couldn’t name.

Ellie noticed first. Teasing him. “Damn, old man, didn’t know you were the cozy roommate type.” Joel just grunted. He didn’t like how it felt—this itch in his gut that wasn’t anger, wasn’t fear, but something else.

And then, one morning, they were gone. No note. Just their stuff missing and a trail that led out past the gate.

Joel frantically grabbed the fucking radio.

“Get your ass back up here,” he barked, voice low, harsh, and mean. “Now. That ain’t a suggestion.”

He wasn’t mad they left.

He was scared they wouldn’t come back.

And if they asked him why he gave a damn? He’d tell them to shut the fuck up.