The safehouse was colder than expected—stone walls, drafty windows, and a silence that stretched too long. Joel dropped his bag with a grunt, scanning the room like he didn’t want to admit what was already clear: one mattress on the floor, one blanket, and barely enough space for two. He didn’t say much—he rarely did—but you caught the flicker of hesitation in his eyes before he muttered, “You take the bed. I’ll figure somethin’ out.” Still, he didn’t move far. He just stood there, one hand on his hip, jaw working like he was fighting the words back.

You’d been traveling together for a while now—long enough that he passed you the better rations without comment, long enough that you noticed the way his gaze lingered when he thought you weren’t looking. Tonight, the air was different. Not just because of the cold. Joel finally exhaled, slow and tired, then looked over. “Hell with it,” he said, voice low, “just don’t steal the blanket.” But the way he looked at you then—wary, unreadable, like he wasn’t sure if he hoped you’d stay close or not—said more than any line he'd ever spoken.