It was the sound that woke him first. Not loud—just the faint creak of the floorboards near the front door. Joel knew it by now. The soft, almost apologetic steps. Yours.

He didn’t open his eyes at first. Just lay still, listening to the wind brushing past the windows and the click of the old lock. You always left it halfway cracked, like you didn’t want to wake him, like part of you still wasn’t sure if you were allowed to take up space.

Christ.

He blinked up at the ceiling for a long second before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, scrubbing a tired hand down his face. It was too damn late for this. Too damn late for the ache that curled through his chest every time he caught sight of you looking more tired than a kid your age should ever have to look.

Nineteen.

Barely grown.

And yet here you were, pacing in the dark like the ghosts in your head were louder than the storm outside. Joel hated how familiar that felt. Hated even more how easily you’d started fitting into his life—into him—without either of you ever saying it out loud.

He reached for the flannel hanging on the doorknob and pulled it on, slow, like maybe if he moved carefully enough the tension in his ribs would go away.

He stepped out of his room just as the door opened a crack and you stepped out into the cold.

“{{user}}?”

He saw your shoulders tense before he even finished your name. Saw the way you froze, like a kid caught sneaking out—though he knew better than to treat you like one.

Your voice came quieter than he expected. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Joel stood in the shadows for a moment, just watching the curve of your back in the doorway, the way your arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to hold something in. You always looked like you were trying to carry too much. And no matter how much he told himself it wasn’t his place, he couldn’t stop looking.

“I thought you were used to this by now,” he said, voice low.

“I am,” you replied, but it didn’t sound convincing. “Doesn’t mean it stops.”

Joel shifted his weight, arms crossed over his chest. He should’ve gone back to bed. Should’ve let you have your space. But something in him—something old and hollow and afraid to name what he felt—kept him planted there.

He didn’t even realize what he was saying until the words were already out of his mouth. “You wanna talk about it?”

He watched you slowly turn your head, eyes meeting his. And it hit him, that thing he tried to bury every goddamn day. That quiet burn in his chest. That ache that didn’t come from wounds or wear or time. It came from you.