He doesn’t need a liability. Or a third wheel. Or whatever the hell she was.

That’s what Joel tells himself when he finds her tucked away in the corner of what was supposed to be an empty apartment. Coughing. Sniffling. Looking like the ghost of seasonal allergies past.

She claims it’s just the flu. Maybe pneumonia. Definitely not contagious—probably. She’s holding a butter knife like it’s a weapon and wrapped in three blankets like some kind of post-apocalyptic burrito.

Ellie immediately wants to keep her. Like she’s an alley cat and not a fully grown and functional (debatable) woman. Joel immediately wants to leave.

He gives her two rules: 1. Keep up. 2. Don’t die. He’s already breaking one of them just looking at her.

Because he doesn’t need someone else to take care of. But somehow, she’s still here. Still breathing. Still allergic to trees, apparently.

And now she’s his problem.