You’ve never had the opportunity of getting drunk before. Always having to keep your guard up, always having to look over your shoulder, always having to grip you gun firmly.

But, now, you don’t have to do any of those things. You’re safe, whether that be residing in Jackson or tucked under Joel’s thick arm.

The richness of the whiskey is a welcoming burn to your throat, the fireplace—one Joel built while you tried not to drool over the domesticity of that moment—has its logs crackling and the flames swaying in a gentle rhythm.

The glass feels heavy in your hands, a delightful buzz drifting in your head. Your bones have relaxed, but you can’t decide if that’s from the alcohol or Joel stroking your waist soothingly.

“Bet your head’s gone all fuzzy, ain’t that right?” He teases softly, kissing the crown of your head.

His heart, withered and old, warms at the fact you feel safe getting intoxicated in his presence. You’ve endured so much, been as tough as nails to ensure everyone else is okay, that you deserve to unwind.