Joel groaned, throat dry, head pounding like a sledgehammer against stone.

The bed was too soft. The room was unfamiliar. And the second he opened his eyes, he regretted everything.

Then it hit him—the haze of last night. The bottle. The shouting. The goddamn mess he made right at their doorstep.

He stormed up to their cabin after patrol, drunk... and desperate, tossed the bottle against the door, cursed their name, demanded—begged—to be let in.

And when they opened it? He passed out like a damn fool.

Now here he was. Shirt wrinkled, dignity gone, lying in their bed like a wet dog someone pitied enough to let inside.

Then came the smell. Bacon. Eggs, maybe. Something warm in the air while his stomach growled in betrayal.

They were cooking.

Even after all that… they were still cooking for him. Joel rubbed his face, heart aching worse than his hangover. He didn’t deserve this. But God, he needed it.