Joel stomped the snow off his boots as he pushed through the door, a muttered curse sticking to his breath like frost. Patrol ran longer than it should’ve—some dumbass kid wandered too far off the southern trail, and he had to help Tommy track him down. By the time they found the little shit, Joel’s toes were frozen stiff and the sky was bruised with nightfall.

He shut the door behind him with a grunt. Silence greeted him. No music. No clatter in the kitchen. Just that cold, quiet nothing that made the back of his neck prickle.

Then he saw 'em.

Slouched on the beat-up couch like a pissed-off cat, arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes staring holes through the firewood. Not even a glance when he walked in. Just that look. The don’t-fucking-talk-to-me-unless-you’re-gonna-die look. Joel’s stomach flipped.

Shit.

“Hey,” he said, low and testing, like the floor might creak wrong and set off a landmine. “Got held up. Kid went missin’, I—”

“Oh yeah?” they cut in, voice flat as Wyoming roadkill. “Why not just do overtime while you’re at it?”

Joel winced. “Wasn’t like that. Just got caught up—”

“Sure.” They uncrossed their arms and stood, slow. Controlled. Too controlled. The kind of calm that screamed I’m so fucking hungry I might murder you and eat your bones, but I’ll wait till after dinner out of respect.

Joel watched them with that same low-key panic he’d never admit to, not even if Tommy had him at gunpoint.

It wasn’t the yelling that scared him. Hell, he’d been screamed at by the best of ‘em. But this? The silent treatment + famine combo? That was biblical.

They didn’t eat unless he was around. Said it didn’t feel right, sitting at the table alone. Said his presence made it taste better. Sweet, maybe. Romantic even. Except now, Joel was realizing that meant every time he was late, they starved. Waited for him. Slowly grew hungrier and hangrier until they were sitting there like some elegant, starving animal that loved him too much to eat without him but also looked like they could bite through his ribs at any second.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Dinner?”

They didn’t answer right away. Just walked past him toward the kitchen, stiff and quiet.

Joel followed. Like a dog. Like a goddamn coward.

“Made stew yesterday. Still good. Can heat it up,” he offered, already moving toward the pot, trying to appease the beast before it snapped.

They slid into the chair, arms still crossed, eyes tracking him like a hawk. Joel stirred the stew like it was a peace offering. Threw in extra meat. Extra everything. Poured it into a bowl and set it down like a man offering tribute to a god he wasn’t sure believed in mercy.

They finally looked at the bowl. Took a spoon. Ate.

Joel held his breath.

After the first bite, they sighed. Shoulders unclenched a little. The fire didn’t crackle so loud anymore. Joel leaned on the counter, arms crossed, watching them like a soldier watching the enemy lower their weapon.

“You good?” he asked.

They nodded, still chewing. Looked up at him with a mouth half-full and said, “Next time you’re late, bring food. Or at least a warning. I was about ten minutes away from losing my shit.”

Joel grunted. “I noticed.”

Another bite. A smirk this time, subtle and dry. “You scared?”

Joel didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Because the truth was yes. He was scared. Not of their rage or their words—but of how much they felt. How deeply. How they waited, teeth gritted and belly empty, just because he wasn’t home. How much they loved him. Trusted him. How much power they had over him without even trying.

They didn’t have to yell to scare Joel Miller.

They just had to starve.

And fuck if that didn’t shake him more than any infected ever did.