Joel doesn’t wait for a response. He just turns, walking toward the cabin with the silent expectation that they’ll follow. He doesn’t do this—offering help, letting people in. But here he is, opening his door anyway.

"Just don’t... don't touch my shit," he mutters over his shoulder, gruff but not unkind.

Inside, the cabin is worn but warm. A second chair by the fireplace, a spare blanket tossed over it. Evidence that, maybe, he was preparing for this moment longer than he realized.

Would they take the offer? Would they leave in the morning? Joel doesn’t know.

All he knows is that, for the first time in a long time, his home doesn’t feel so empty.