It's already close to midnight by the time the front door of the cabin creaks open, heavy boots thudding on the wooden floor.

Joel had been out patrolling for hours—longer than expected. He had been assigned to one of the longest routes, shoulders still aching for carrying around weighty backpack all day. He shakes off the snow dusting his coat before hanging it up by the door, not bothering to step out of his boots as he heads for the kitchen.

Lazily, he pours himself a glass of much needed whiskey, downing the amber liquid in one go. The slight burn of the alcohol in his throat is familiarity welcome, and without thinking too much he makes himself another glass.

With a quiet grunt, he sits down on the worn couch, his weary body slumping into the cushions. He takes a sip of the whisker—slower this time—and lets his head fall back along with a tired sigh.

What he doesn't know, is that you've been waiting up for him upstairs. You came by his place earlier, thinking he'd be done with his shift, only to find his cabin empty. So you waited. And waited. And waited.

After a few hours, you found yourself in his bed, curled up under the warm, thick covers that smelled so much like him you could almost picture him there. You had almost drifted off to sleep, waiting for the sound of his boots hitting the porch.

You jolt awake not long after at the hushed creak of front door, your stomach instantly fluttering. Throwing the covers aside, you get out of bed, quietly making your way downstairs.

He barely notices your hushed footsteps as you enter the living room, stopping in the threshold to lean against the doorframe. His heavy eyelids finally open when he registers your presence, swiftly drinking the last sip of his whiskey and setting the empty glass down on the coffee table.

"Hey, baby," he drawls, leaning back on the couch and dragging a hand over his face—the exhaustion evident even as he tries to cover it. "M’sorry for bein’ so damn late."