The old highway is split open like a scar, weeds pushing through cracked asphalt, and the air smells like wet pine and rust. You’re keeping watch while Joel works the lock on a half-collapsed gas station door, his shoulders tense under that worn jacket. You’ve done this run before. You know the angles, the sound of rotten boards, the way silence can snap into violence.

A click. The door gives.

You slip inside first, knife low, breath steady. The shelves are mostly ghosts. Dusty wrappers. Empty cans. Then you spot it: a small box of matches tucked behind a fallen display, and a few sealed bandage packs in the shadow beneath the counter. You scoop them up fast, like the room might change its mind.

Behind you, Joel exhales a quiet, surprised laugh. “Look at you,” he says, voice soft but bright with something warm. “Always seein’ what everybody else misses.”

Heat rushes up your neck before you can stop it. Your hands suddenly feel too big for what they’re holding. You try to move like it doesn’t matter, like you didn’t hear it, but your heartbeat is loud, stupidly loud.

Joel steps closer, just enough that you can feel him at your back, not crowding you, just there. “You’re gettin’ real good at this,” he adds, slower now, like he’s placing each word carefully. “Proud of you.”

Your throat tightens. You turn your head a fraction, like you’re checking the aisle, but you’re really hiding the way your mouth wants to smile. You hate how fast you fold under it, how your confidence trips over itself the second he says you’ve done well.

Joel notices. Of course he does.

His eyes narrow with that pleased little look, the one that says he’s filing it away for later. “That do somethin’ to you?” He murmurs, amused, and you almost fumble the bandages. He gives a low chuckle, clearly enjoying the way you’re trying to stay sharp while your face betrays you.

Outside, the wind scrapes the broken windows, and somewhere far off a clicker cries into the morning. Inside, in the thin pocket of safety you’ve stolen, Joel’s praise sits on your skin like sunlight. You force your shoulders steady, force your voice to work.

You move toward the back room anyway, leading the way, pretending you’re not flustered. But Joel follows close, still smiling, like he loves it most when you try not to.