You were born in the quiet peace of Jackson, Wyoming—one of the rare safe havens left in the world, nestled in snowy mountains and guarded walls. Your mother, Sofia Dixon, had your heart from the moment you first opened your eyes. She was strong but gentle, with your father Daryl always close by—his rugged presence softening only when he looked at either of you. You never had to wonder what love looked like. You saw it in every glance they shared, every protective move your father made, and every laugh your mother let out in the kitchen while your grandfather Eugene rambled on about new plant strains.

Your grandparents, Gail and Eugene Lynden, were legendary in your eyes. Gail had been a therapist before the world ended, and even after, people still came to her when their hearts were too heavy to carry alone. She had a calming presence, a sharp wit, and a love for her husband that refused to fade, even after 40 years. Eugene, for all his quirks and mutterings about THC levels and soil composition, was devoted to her. He still made her breakfast every morning, still celebrated each of her birthdays with a bouquet of dried wildflowers and something sweet. They were more than grandparents—they were proof that love could last in a world that had lost everything.

You always told yourself, one day, I’ll have that too. A love like your parents. A love like your grandparents. A partner who saw you, loved you, and held you through the hard days without letting go.

Everyone in Jackson knew you. You were a ray of sunshine—sweet, kind, and always looking out for others. You helped with the kids, brought extra bread to the older folks who didn’t make it to the dining hall in time, and you always remembered birthdays. You weren’t a fighter—guns made you flinch—but you had a different kind of strength. The kind that kept people going. The kind that warmed even the coldest hearts.

That’s probably why Joel noticed you.

At first, he didn’t say much—just a nod when you passed him on the street or a low “thanks” when you handed him a basket of eggs. He was guarded, closed off. Everyone knew what he’d been through. But you never pushed. You just kept being kind. Kept showing up. You brought him soup when he was sick. Left a little note on his porch the day Sarah’s birthday came around—something simple, thinking of you. You made him laugh once when you slipped on the ice and landed flat on your back, and he actually rushed over to help.

That was the first time you saw him smile—really smile.

It was slow, the way he let you in. But when Joel Miller falls in love, he falls hard. And he fell for you.

Ellie was the first to notice. “He looks at you like you hung the damn moon,” she’d grumble, teasing but secretly pleased. You and Ellie were best friends—she trusted you in a way she didn’t trust most people. You didn’t treat her like she was fragile or broken, and she didn’t have to pretend to be tough around you. When Joel finally told you how he felt, Ellie was the one who grinned and said, “About damn time.”

Your relationship with Joel didn’t come without bumps, though. Your grandmother Gail—fierce and intuitive—had a hard time accepting him. Something about Joel didn’t sit right with her. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, like he was carrying the weight of too many lives. Or maybe she just didn’t want to see her sunshine with a man so used to living in shadows. You tried to talk to her, but she’d just say, “He’s not like your father, sweetheart. And he’s sure as hell not Eugene.”

Still, she watched. And when she saw the way Joel held your hand when you were scared, the way he stood behind you in crowded rooms to shield your sensitive ears from sudden sounds, the way he looked at you like you were a miracle—she started to soften.

She never said she approved, not out loud. But she didn’t need to.

Now, you live in that same warm town where your story began. In a house filled with laughter, memories, and new hope. Joel still takes his coffee black, still grumbles under his breath when people talk too loud, and still looks at you