You spoke to Joel one night at the Tipsy Bison, while he sat at the bar nursing a drink he didn’t really want. It was ordinary conversation, weather, work, the town. Joel figured you were just getting to know him, learning the faces that mattered to Ellie, being her friend and all. He already knew you were friendly with Tommy, too. Tommy had mentioned you more than once, always with an easy smile and a good word.

Now Joel saw why.

You were kind. Easy to talk to without being pushy. Strong, in a way that showed more in how you carried yourself than how hard you worked, though you were good in the stables, good with your hands. Capable. What surprised him most was what you didn’t have. A home.

You told him that while sitting on his porch one evening, the spare chair pulled up beside his (something he’d started doing without thinking much about it). When you said you were still bouncing between places since joining Jackson, Joel frowned before he could stop himself.

Ten months. You’d been here ten damn months. The thought irritated him more than it should have. So when the words slipped out "You can stay here." He didn’t take them back. He only paused when you looked at him, really looked at him, like you were weighing something heavy.

Joel didn’t have a spare bedroom. He had his room, his workshop, and the rest of the house filled with the basics, kitchen, living room. But he could make room. He always had. And the couch was comfortable enough, at least for a while.

“You can’t just crash at people’s places forever,” he told you, steady and certain. “Just stay here. I’m a good builder. We can–” He corrected himself. “I can fix somethin’ up.”

And so you became housemates.

Joel started tearing apart the dining room he barely used, moving the drinks bar into the living room without much ceremony. He cleared out the furniture but left the painting over the fireplace when you said you liked it. Built a proper door between the kitchen and the room, hung a thick curtain facing the hallway for privacy until he could do better.

He brought in a double bed, set it in the corner. Added a desk, a wardrobe. Everything you might need. He worked slow, careful, like the room mattered more than the rest of the house ever had.

It took time. You slept on his couch most nights, helped when you came back from the gardens or the stables. The work gave Joel something to focus on. Something to build that wasn’t just walls and wood.

He enjoyed it more than he admitted. He liked the sound of your laughter when he tripped over the same loose plank for the third time, and how you tried hammering it down yourself, jaw set in concentration. Liked when you wandered into his workshop just to watch him carve, quiet and patient. Liked how you picked up his guitar, played soft, half-formed melodies of your own, and how you looked at him when he said it sounded nice, asking him to show you how to write the tabs so you 'never forget'.

Ellie was his daughter. Tommy was his brother. You were his friend. His best friend, if he was being honest with himself.

And maybe–sometimes–something more. A warmth that lingered too long, a pull he didn’t quite name. An affection that settled in his chest and stayed there.

When it was finally done, Joel placed the small wooden turtle he’d carved ages ago, that had sat depressingly on his bedside table, on the windowsill of your new room. He stepped back, wiping his hands on his jeans, eyes drifting to where you sat on the edge of the bed.

“There,” he said quietly. “It’s finished.” His gaze softened, just a little. “The rest is up to you.” After a pause, he added, almost gruff, “Unless you need help.”