Joel finds himself sneaking into your place after not hearing from you all day. Your little house is eerily quiet. Not more than usual—your house is often silent, deafeningly so—but something feels off.

Joel steps in carefully, wooden floorboards creaking under his muddy boots, the front door closing behind him with a soft click. He looks around your darkened space, tidy and modest, with few personal mementos. A singular old photo framed on the hallway table. Your worn journal—the one he knows is usually hidden away, even from him—lays beside it. Your jacket hung neatly by the door, like you’d purposely put it up for easy access. Nothing much out of the ordinary. Not by your standards, anyway.

But he notices that your boots aren’t anywhere to be seen. They’re always kicked off by the door if you’re home. Which you should be. It’s already well past midnight, and Joel knows you haven’t had any supply runs or patrol shifts today. So, where the hell are you?

Quietly, he takes a few more steps inside, hand instinctively resting over his gun as he listens for any sounds. Or, in Joel’s case, threats. The hairs in the back of his neck stand up in alert, not because of anything in particular, but because he can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

He has known you long enough to know when something isn’t right. Maybe not for that long—it’s only been about a year since you settled down in Jackson—but he somehow feels like he knows you better than anyone. And he probably does. You don’t exactly have many people you keep close, and even they don’t actually get too close—you won’t let them. Not even him. Not where it really matters, where it's most vulnerable and real. But Joel, to his credit, has seen more of you than most people have, maybe in your whole life. Maybe more than you're even aware of.

He keeps his footsteps slow and measured as he makes his way down the hall, one hand still hovering over the gun at his hip. When he approaches your bedroom, he freezes. Muffled sounds of papers being shuffled around hastily catches his attention. Cautiously, he reaches for the doorknob, turning it without making any noise, and peers inside through the small gap.

There, in the moonlit bedroom, you're leaned over your desk—scribbled maps with outlined routes, handwritten notes and lists strewn across the surface. He can see your sharp movements in the dim light—frantic, hurried—but you're somehow controlled like always. You're standing, yet he can still see the tired slump of your shoulders even in the shadows.

But what makes him finally step inside is the sight of your clothes. You're dressed in your patrol gear, in the middle of the damn night. Boots on, laced up tightly, fully packed backpack slung over your shoulder and gun holstered at your hip as if you're already prepared for a fight. What kind, he's not sure. And right now? He doesn't care.

"Goin’ somewhere?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe, eyes narrowed in suspicion and voice gruff—laced with a quiet mix of worry and bitterness he can't quite hide.