Chapter Text
You pull up in front of the ranger’s cabin and slide your sunglasses into place before you even kill the engine.
Anything to dull it.
Anything to stop those eyes from burning straight through you the second he steps outside.
This was a bad idea.
Not yours, you’d argued that part thoroughly, but here you were anyway. Thirty-two years old. Fully capable of making your own decisions. Fully capable of not being intimidated.
Especially not by Joel Miller.
You switch off the ignition, the truck ticks as it cools, loud in the quiet. Its the kind of quiet that only exists far from roads and neighbours and things that hum.
You push open the door and step down onto wet earth.
The ground gives slightly beneath your boots, dark soil soaked through from two straight days of rain. The air smells clean and sharp, pine and damp bark and something mineral from the rocks higher up. Mist still hangs low between the trees, drifting lazily like it hasn’t decided whether to lift or settle.
The cabin sits tucked into the treeline, timber-dark, practical, no unnecessary charm. A small porch, stacked firewood under an overhang a Ranger insignia nailed beside the door.
Beyond it, the land rises.
Dense woodland first, towering pines and firs crowding together, their trunks straight and patient. Moss clings to the shaded side of everything. Fallen branches lie half-submerged in the undergrowth. And past that, climbing steep and certain, the mountains. Grey stone cutting through green. Their peaks still capped in late-season snow.
You move to the back of your car and open it.
You’re kitted out properly, not that he’d expect anything less. Heavy-duty walking boots already laced tight, waterproof jacket folded neatly, a rucksack packed with maps, spare layers, first aid kit, protein bars you probably won’t eat.
You look prepared. Capable. Not fragile.
You shut the boot with more force than necessary.
The cabin door creaks open.
You don’t look immediately. You busy yourself adjusting a strap on your bag. Tugging your sleeves down. Checking your watch.
Then you feel it. That stare that always slow, assessing. Not warm in the slightest.
You turn.
Joel stands on the porch, one hand resting against the frame like he’s been there a while. Flannel shirt rolled to his forearms. Jeans. Work boots mud-marked. Dark hair threaded with more grey than you remember. His expression unreadable, which somehow makes it worse.
His eyes land on you properly now.
Travel over the boots. The rucksack. The set of your shoulders.
Then your face.
Even behind the sunglasses, you feel it. The weight of it.
He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile.
Just nods once. Curt.
You swallow, lift your chin a fraction.
You’re not her anymore, not the sharp-tongued girl who didn’t trust his brother. Not the outsider looking in.
You step forward, boots sinking slightly into the damp earth, and make your way toward the porch.
The mountains loom behind him like they’re on his side.
You stop at the bottom of the steps.
“Joel.” Your voice is steady. You’re proud of that.
“Ma’am,” he replies, gravel-deep, polite in a way that isn’t polite at all.
The distance between you feels longer than the drive it took to get here.
Rain drips from the edge of the roof. Somewhere deeper in the trees, a bird calls, sharp and sudden.
You adjust the strap on your bag again, because your hands need something to do.
“Well,” you say lightly, like this isn’t the most uncomfortable welcome you’ve ever had. “You gonna let me stand out here all day, Ranger?”
One corner of his mouth moves, not quite a smile.
He steps back from the doorway.
“Cabin’s dry,” he says. “That’s about all I can promise.”
It’s not warm.
But it’s not a refusal.
You climb the steps.
The cabin smells like cedar and old smoke, the kind that settles into beams over years and never truly leaves. It’s warmer inside than you expected, the air thick with the lingering heat of a stove that’s clearly been working overtime the last few days. Light filters in through narrow windows, dulled by cloud and mist, casting everything in a muted grey that makes the space feel smaller than it probably is.
Joel shuts the door behind you.
You stand there for a moment, taking it in.
A small kitchen to the right, practical and worn. An iron stove with a kettle resting on top. A sturdy wooden table in the centre of the room. Maps pinned along the far wall, topographic lines and elevation markings overlapping in careful layers. A couch facing a stone fireplace. Boots lined neatly by the door. Everything in its place.
Orderly. Controlled.
Very him.
“Set your stuff there,” he says, nodding toward a chair near the table.
You slip your rucksack off your shoulders and place it down carefully rather than dropping it. You’re aware of how you move in this space, aware of his eyes following you, measuring something he hasn’t quite decided on yet.
“Long drive?” he asks, crossing toward the kitchen.
“It was fine,” you answer, keeping your tone even.
He turns on the tap and fills the kettle, the pipes groaning faintly in protest before water hits metal. “Tommy says you’re plannin’ on doin’ some of the higher routes.”
It isn’t phrased like a question, and you recognise the undercurrent immediately, concern disguised as criticism, or maybe just distrust disguised as concern.
“That’s the idea,” you reply, meeting his back with quiet steadiness.
He makes a low sound in his throat that could mean anything. Agreement. Disapproval. Resignation.
“You want coffee?” he asks, still facing the counter.
There’s the opening. The familiar rhythm of it. The part where you would usually tilt your head and say something cutting, something designed to remind him that you don’t bend easily.
“Tea,” you say instead.
He pauses. Not dramatically, but enough.
“Tea,” he repeats, as if testing whether he heard you correctly.
“If that’s not too much trouble.”
He turns then, one shoulder angling toward you, expression tightening almost imperceptibly. You can see it, he’s waiting for you to add something sharp, something about how coffee tastes like ash or how you’d hoped a ranger might stock something civilised.
You feel the instinct rise in you. It would be easy, familiar to snap, but you don’t. You move to the table and sit down, smoothing your jacket as you do. Instead, you rest your hands loosely in your lap and hold his gaze without challenge.
The kettle is placed on the stove with a little more force than necessary.
“Don’t keep tea,” he says after a moment.
“That’s alright,” you reply lightly. “Hot water’s fine.”
He studies you properly now, leaning back against the counter, arms crossing slowly over his chest. There’s a narrowing in his eyes, not anger exactly- more confusion. You can almost see the recalculation happening.
“You sick?” he asks bluntly.
The question catches you off guard, but you don’t let it show. “Excuse me?”
“You’re quiet.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Didn’t realise that was a requirement.”
Still, you keep your tone measured. Calm. There’s no bite in it.
That’s what unsettles him.
Because he came prepared for the version of you that pushes back. The one who bristles. The one who meets fire with fire. Instead, you’re composed. Polite. Almost pleasant.
You see the moment he realises you’re not going to give him what he expected.
And you let a small, controlled smile curve at your mouth.
It isn’t sweet. It isn’t warm.
It’s smug.
Subtle, but unmistakable.
His jaw tightens slightly, and he looks away first, pushing off the counter as the kettle begins to hiss.
“Cabin ain’t a hotel,” he says, his voice gruffer now, searching for footing.
“I know,” you answer easily. “I didn’t come here to be waited on.”
“You’ll pull your weight.”
“Of course.”
He hesitates, as if deciding whether to try again. “You snore?”
You almost laugh, but you swallow it back. “Not that I’m aware of.”
He pours hot water into a chipped mug and brings it over, setting it down in front of you without ceremony. Steam curls between you, rising in thin, wavering threads.
He takes his own coffee black and finally sits across from you, though he doesn’t relax into the chair. He perches there like he might stand again at any moment.
You wrap your hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into your palms. Outside, rain begins again, tapping steadily against the roof and windows, soft but persistent.
“You plannin’ on stayin’ long?” he asks, watching you over the rim of his cup.
You glance down at the steam swirling in your mug before answering. “Long enough.”
He holds your gaze, searching for something beneath the surface, an explanation, maybe. A crack. You don’t give him one.
Then the fight leaves you.
It slips out slowly, carried on a tired breath you didn’t realise you were holding. Your shoulders sink, the rigid line of you softening as the weight of the drive, the past year, the last decade settles back where it’s been living, squarely in your chest.
You can’t keep sparring like this. Not tonight. Not here.
“Look,” you say quietly.
Joel’s posture doesn’t change, but his attention sharpens.
“I know we’re not exactly…” You search for something neutral. “Close.”
A flicker crosses his face.
“And I know this wasn’t your idea,” you continue. “It was mostly Tommy’s.”
At the mention of his brother, something shifts again, protective instinct, ingrained and immediate.
It’s always been that way.
From the beginning.
Back when your sister first brought Tommy home and you decided too quickly, too sharply that he wasn’t good enough for her. Joel had clocked it within seconds, the way you’d held yourself, the questions that sounded polite but weren’t. The way you’d watched his little brother like you were waiting for him to slip.
You’d misjudged Tommy.
And Joel had never forgiven you for it.
Even after the wedding. Even after Tommy became more than just your sister’s husband, became family in the kind of way that feels chosen and solid, you and Joel never quite found level ground.
Brother-in-law, technically.
Opponents, practically.
“I know you didn’t agree to this,” you say now. “Not really.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“But I appreciate you letting me stay. I do.”
The honesty feels unfamiliar in your mouth, but you don’t take it back.
“I won’t be loud. I won’t be in your space. I’ll get my own groceries, just show me where the nearest shop is and I’ll sort myself out. I’ll be out most days anyway.” You swallow. “You probably won’t even notice I’m here.”
“And I don’t want to bicker,” you add, meeting his eyes properly now. “Or fight. Or whatever it is we’ve been doing since my sister started dating your brother.”
The rain intensifies outside, tapping steadily against the roof.
“I don’t have it in me.”
Silence stretches between you, but it’s no longer sharp.
Joel leans back in his chair slightly, studying you in a way that feels different from before. Less defensive. More careful.
“You think I’m lookin’ for a fight?” he asks, voice lower now.
“I think we’re very good at finding them,” you reply, and there’s no heat in it. Just truth.
A corner of his mouth shifts, almost a reluctant acknowledgment.
“You came at Tommy hard,” he says after a moment. “Back then.”
“I know.”
“He’s my little brother.”
“I know that too.”
You let out a slow breath. “I thought I was protecting my sister.”
“And I thought I was protectin’ him,” he says.
There it is. The root of it. Two people who loved the same people fiercely and didn’t know how to stand beside each other without bristling.
You nod once. “We were both wrong.”
He considers that.
Something unreadable moves behind his eyes, a quiet weighing of words, of history, of whatever version of you he thought had just walked through his door.
Then he nods once.
And just like that, the softness shutters.
Business.
“Alright,” he says, pushing back from the table and standing. “Room’s down the hall on the left. Only spare one I got. Sheets are clean.”
His tone shifts completely into an efficient, ranger-briefing calm.
You watch him move around the cabin, opening a small drawer near the counter and pulling out a folded piece of paper.
“Bathroom’s at the end. Hot water’s decent if you don’t run it too long. Septic’s old, so don’t flush anything that ain’t meant to be flushed.”
You blink at him.
“Yes, Joel.”
He ignores the hint of humour.
“I’m out most mornings by six,” he continues. “Back ‘round four, give or take. Depends on patrol routes, weather, if someone decides to wander off trail and make it my problem.”
He hands you the paper. A list of numbers written in neat, block handwriting.
“Station number’s at the top. That’s direct. Cell service is spotty up here, so don’t rely on it. If somethin’ happens and I’m not here, you call that. Ask for dispatch.”
You glance down at the list.
Fire. Search and Rescue. Nearest clinic.
Your chest tightens just slightly at that last one.
“Nearest grocery’s about twenty minutes down the mountain,” he adds. “Small place. Overpriced. But it’ll have what you need. Bigger store’s forty-five out.”
“I can manage,” you say quietly.
He nods again, already halfway turned away, mentally filing you into his routine like an extra piece of equipment he didn’t ask for but now has to account for.
“There’s a spare key on the hook by the door,” he says. “You come and go as you please. Just lock up.”
There’s no hostility in it now.
Just structure.
Boundaries.
He walks toward the hallway and gestures once. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”
You stand, following him past the maps and down the narrow corridor. The wood floors creak under your boots. The cabin feels smaller back here, more private. Intimate in a way you hadn’t anticipated.
He stops at a door and pushes it open.
The room is simple. A double bed with a thick quilt folded at the end. A small dresser. One window overlooking the treeline, the mountains just visible through rain and mist. A chair tucked in the corner. No frills. No decoration.
Practical.
“Closet’s empty,” he says. “You can use it.”
You step inside slowly, setting your hand on the back of the chair. The window draws you for a moment, the sweep of green, the low-hanging cloud, the sense of being very small in something very large.
“Thank you,” you say again, softer this time.
He lingers in the doorway, arms folding loosely across his chest. Not defensive now. Just… there.
“You’ll be safe up here,” he says after a moment.
It isn’t said lightly.
It isn’t said as a boast.
It sounds like a promise he takes personally.
You nod.
“I know.”
And for a second- just a second- the tension between you doesn’t feel like hostility.
Then he clears his throat, stepping back into the hallway.
“Dinner’s usually ‘round seven,” he says, already retreating into routine. “You don’t like what I make, you’re welcome to cook.”
There’s the faintest edge there. Familiar. Almost comfortable.
You raise a brow. “I’ll take my chances.”
He huffs something that might almost be a laugh as he turns away.
And you’re left standing in the quiet of your new room, rain tapping against the glass, mountains watching from a distance.
…
Your phone buzzes violently against the bedside table, dragging you out of a shallow, restless sleep.
For a second you forget where you are.
The ceiling above you isn’t yours. The air smells faintly of smoke and pine instead of city rain and fabric softener. The mattress is firmer. The quiet is heavier.
Then it settles.
Jackson. Cabin. Joel.
Your phone buzzes again.
You roll over and squint at the screen.
Mae.
Eight messages.
You frown and swipe them open.
Are you ok?
Did you get there safe?
I reckon you have no service.
Tommy said not to kill Joel!
I’m serious. Don’t antagonise him.
Call me when you can.
Please.
You can’t help the smile that tugs at your mouth.
Your sister worries almost like it’s stitched into her bones. Even as kids she hovered, checking homework twice, triple-knotting your laces before school trips, calling you every time you travelled somewhere new. She carries concern the way other people carry handbags: everywhere, automatically.
Completely unlike you.
Apparently, service up here is “spotty.” That’s what the guy at the gas station had said when you’d asked about signal. Comes and goes with the wind.
You hadn’t asked what that meant.
All you know is last night you had nothing. No bars. No messages sending. No calls going through.
You plug your phone out of charge and sit up, pushing hair back from your face. There are two bars this morning. Faint. Flickering.
Before they disappear again, you press call.
She answers on the first ring.
“Are you alive?” she whispers urgently.
You laugh softly into the phone. “Yes.”
There’s a pause. “You don’t sound dead.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“Why are you so calm?” she hisses. “Tommy said Joel was in a mood yesterday.”
“When is he not?” you reply, swinging your legs over the side of the bed.
She exhales sharply, the sound muffled. “I’m whispering because Tommy is still asleep.”
You grin despite yourself. “Of course you are.”
You stand and stretch, feeling the stiffness in your shoulders from the drive, from the tension of yesterday evening. The cabin is quiet beyond your door. No footsteps yet. No clatter of pans. Either Joel’s already left for patrol or he moves like a ghost.
“Did you get there alright?” Mae asks, her voice softening.
“I did.”
“And?”
You hesitate, opening the bedroom door and stepping into the narrow hallway. The wood is cool beneath your feet.
“And it’s fine,” you say. “It’s… quiet.”
“That’s good.”
There’s more she wants to ask. You can hear it sitting just behind her teeth. How are you really? Did you cry? Did he say something awful? Are you okay being there?
You head into the kitchen.
It’s early enough that the light is pale and grey, filtering through low cloud and lingering mist. The mountains are barely visible this morning, only faint outlines beyond the treeline.
You reach automatically for the kettle.
“Is he being civil?” she presses.
“Yes.”
A beat.
“Are you?”
You pause, fingers resting on the metal handle.
“Yes,” you say again, and this time it surprises you a little.
She hums in approval. “Good. I don’t need the two of you reenacting the Cold War.”
You smile faintly. “We’re fine, Mae.”
“Fine,” she repeats sceptically.
You fill the kettle and set it on the stove, only then remembering.
There is no tea.
Of course there isn’t.
You glance at the cupboards as if a miracle might have occurred overnight.
Nothing.
“Everything okay?” she asks when you don’t speak.
“Yeah. Just forgot there’s no tea here.”
She laughs quietly. “That’s tragic.”
“I’ll survive.”
You lean against the counter as the kettle begins to warm, the low rumble filling the silence of the cabin.
“You sure you’re alright?” she asks more gently now.
You look out the window.
The forest is still. Damp. Washed clean from days of rain. Somewhere far off, a bird calls once, sharp and clear.
“I just needed a break,” you say.
“I know.”
“And he’s… not unbearable.”
“That’s glowing praise for Joel.”
You smile. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
“As if I’d ever give him the satisfaction.”
The kettle is still ticking faintly from where you pulled it off the stove when a voice sounds behind you.
“Who’s that?”
You jump so violently the mug nearly slips from your hands.
“Jesus Christ-” you gasp, spinning around so fast hot water sloshes over the rim. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”
Your heart is hammering. Properly hammering.
Joel stands a few feet behind you, arms loosely folded, expression flat. Completely unimpressed.
Your phone is still clutched in your hand.
Mae’s voice bursts through the speaker at full volume.
“WHAT? What happened? Are you okay? Is that him? Did he say something? Are you fighting already? I told Tommy-”
“I’m fine!” you hiss, pressing the phone closer to your ear while glaring at Joel. “He just… snuck up on me.”
Joel raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t sneak.”
“You absolutely did,” you shoot back, still trying to steady your breathing. “Do you have to move like a serial killer at six in the morning?”
Mae makes a strangled sound. “Oh my God, I can hear him. I can actually hear him. Put him on.”
Joel’s eyes narrow slightly. “She listenin’?”
“Yes,” you snap.
“Tommy up?” he asks.
Mae answers before you can. “No. And don’t start.”
Joel’s mouth twitches faintly at that.
“I’m not startin’ anything,” he says evenly. “Just askin’.”
“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” you mutter, pressing a hand to your chest.
He looks you over once, assessing, like he’s checking for actual damage.
“You’re jumpy,” he says.
“You materialised behind me.”
“It’s my kitchen.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to haunt it.”
Mae makes another anxious noise. “Are you sure you’re okay? Why were you swearing? Are you stressed? Is he being difficult?”
Joel exhales slowly, clearly regretting ever asking the question.
“You can tell her I’m standin’ right here,” he says dryly.
“She knows,” you reply.
There’s a pause as Mae processes that.
“…Hi Joel,” she says cautiously.
Joel stares at you.
You lift the phone slightly toward him in invitation.
He doesn’t move.
“Tell her I said mornin’,” he mutters.
“He says morning.”
Mae lets out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Okay. Good. No bloodshed. Progress.”
Joel rolls his eyes and turns away, moving toward the coffee pot like this conversation is beneath him.
You lean back against the counter, still trying to bring your pulse down.
“I’m fine,” you repeat into the phone, quieter now. “He just walks like he’s trained in stealth.”
“I was wearin’ boots,” Joel calls from across the room.
“Boots don’t negate the creeping!” you shoot back.
Mae snorts. “Oh my God. I’m hanging up before you two revert to twelve-year-olds.”
“Go back to sleep,” you tell her, though there’s warmth in your voice now.
“Call me later.”
“I will.”
“And don’t antagonise him.”
“I’m not antagonising anyone.”
Joel glances over at that.
Mae huffs. “That remains to be seen. Bye.”
The line clicks dead.
Silence settles again, thick but not quite hostile.
You set your phone down on the counter and take a slow sip of your hot water.
Joel watches you over the rim of his coffee mug.
“You scream like that on the trail,” he says, “you’ll scare off half the wildlife.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “You scared me.”
“You’re in bear country,” he replies evenly. “You oughta be more aware of your surroundings.”
You stare at him for a beat.
“Did you just compare yourself to a bear?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “I ain’t the one who startled.”
You shake your head, fighting the urge to smile.
The tension is still there.
But it’s different this morning.
Lighter.
Less sharp.
Joel turns back to the counter, pouring his coffee like nothing happened.
He takes a slow sip of his coffee, watching you over the rim of the mug.
“You plannin’ on startin’ your hike today?” he asks.
You shake your head, blowing gently across the surface of your cup. “No. I think I’ll hang around here today. Get my bearings. Maybe head into town for a bit. See what’s there. Talk to people.”
Joel’s eyebrow lifts slightly.
“Not much of a town,” he says. “One grocery store. A diner that closes when it feels like it. Hardware place. That’s about the extent of the excitement.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s still civilisation.”
He notices. Of course he does.
He chooses not to comment on it.
Instead, he leans back against the counter, crossing his arms loosely. “Road down the mountain’s narrow in places. Watch the bends. Folks drive like they’ve got somewhere urgent to be.”
“I can handle a road, Joel.”
“I’m aware.”
There’s something in the way he says it- not mocking. Just factual.
You sip your hot water again, already missing tea more than feels reasonable.
Silence settles briefly, comfortable enough.
Then he asks it.
“How’s Peter?”
The question lands heavier than the mug in your hands.
You weren’t expecting that.
Your fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the ceramic. You force them to loosen before he notices.
Or before you think he notices.
You straighten slightly, lifting your chin.
“He’s good,” you say smoothly. “Great, actually.”
Joel doesn’t respond immediately.
You press on, because the quiet feels dangerous.
“Work’s busy. He’s… busy. We’re good.”
There’s the smile.
You put it on carefully. Measured. Polished. The same one you’ve been using for months now at dinners and phone calls and when people tilt their heads sympathetically.
Joel watches you.
Really watches you.
His gaze drifts from your face to your hands, to the way your shoulders have drawn inward without you realising. The way your posture has shifted from relaxed to contained.
“You’re great,” he repeats slowly.
“Yeah.”
“And he’s great.”
“Mm-hm.”
Another beat of silence.
Rain taps softly against the window.
“You don’t gotta sell it,” he says quietly.
Your smile falters, just slightly.
“I’m not selling anything.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
“Tommy said you two were havin’ a rough patch,” he says carefully, like he’s testing thin ice.
Your stomach tightens.
“Tommy talks too much.”
“He worries.”
“So does Mae.”
“And?”
You swallow.
“And we’re fine,” you repeat, the words coming out thinner this time.
Joel pushes off the counter and steps a little closer, not invading your space but close enough that you feel it. The air shifts.
“You’re a bad liar,” he says, not unkindly.
Your jaw tightens. “Excuse me?”
“You always have been.”
There’s something in the familiarity of it that presses on an old bruise.
You set the mug down a little too firmly. “I didn’t realise I’d signed up for a character assessment.”
Joel’s jaw shifts slightly. “Didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it, then?”
He hesitates, which only irritates you more.
“You don’t lie well,” he says carefully. “Not to people who know you.”
You let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “That’s generous. Assuming you still do.”
His eyes flicker at that.
“Don’t do that,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Act like I’m some stranger.”
You fold your arms across your chest, mirroring the stance he had earlier. It feels defensive even as you do it. “Maybe you are.”
“That’s not true.”
“Joel, this is none of your business.”
The words land sharp between you. You mean them to.
He studies you for a long second, something tightening in his expression. “It becomes my business when you show up outta nowhere, say you’re ‘fine,’ and then shrink in on yourself.”
You bristle. “I am not shrinking.”
He raises a brow.
You hate that he doesn’t have to say anything else.
“You don’t get to interrogate me in your kitchen,” you continue, voice rising despite your efforts to keep it steady. “I didn’t ask for commentary. I came here to clear my head, not to have you pick apart my relationship.”
“You came here,” he says evenly, “instead of goin’ home.”
Your throat tightens.
“That doesn’t give you ownership of my decisions.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it does give me concern.”
“I don’t need your concern.”
“Seems like you might.”
You stare at him.
There it is, the spark.
The familiar edge you both know too well.
“You think I’ve run away,” you say, your voice low and dangerous.
“If the shoe fits.”
You step toward him without meaning to, heat flaring under your skin. “You don’t know anything about it.”
“I know you’re supposed to be getting married in three months.”
“And?”
“And instead of bein’ with him, you’re here.”
The words feel like a slap.
“In my house,” he finishes.
Your laugh this time is sharper. “Oh, so now that’s the problem? That I’m under your roof?”
“It’s a problem if you’re hidin’.”
“I am not hiding.”
He steps closer too now, not aggressive but solid, immovable. “Then why won’t you say it straight?”
“Say what?”
“That you’re unhappy.”
You feel it like a punch to the chest.
For a second, you can’t breathe around it. The word lingers between you- unhappy- too accurate, too close to something you’ve been carefully skirting around for months.
You refuse to let him see that.
You straighten, gathering the scattered pieces of yourself with practiced precision.
“You know what?” you say, your tone cooling abruptly. “If I’ve come here because I’m unhappy, then I’ve clearly chosen the perfect destination.”
His brow furrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You shrug, but there’s bite in it. “You’re not exactly swimming in sunshine and rainbows, Joel.”
His jaw tightens almost instantly, the muscle feathering sharply beneath his skin. You see the shift- the way he pulls inward, shutters coming down behind his eyes.
“That ain’t got anything to do with this.”
“Doesn’t it?” you press. “You want to psychoanalyse my relationship? Fine. Let’s talk about yours. Or lack of.”
His stare hardens. “Don’t.”
“You don’t get to sit there and diagnose me when you’ve spent the last ten years building a fortress around yourself.”
“I said don’t.”
The warning in his voice is low, controlled- which only makes you push harder.
“You think I’m hiding?” you continue. “At least I’m trying. At least I’m doing something. You just- what? Stay here? Pretend that’s enough?”
You’ve crossed the line.
You know you have.
Joel doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t argue back. He just clenches his jaw so tightly you think it might crack.
For a long moment, he simply looks at you.
Not angry.
Not even surprised.
Just tired.
Then he nods once, like he’s reached a decision.
“Right,” he says evenly. “I’m gonna head out.”
That’s it.
No retaliation. No clever comeback. No escalation.
Just withdrawal.
You open your mouth, some reflex to stop him flickering briefly to life, but pride clamps down hard over it. You refuse to be the one who softens first. You refuse to be the one who apologises.
“Fine,” you say instead.
He grabs his keys from the counter.
At the door, he pauses, not turning around. “Town’s quieter after four,” he says. “If you’re lookin’ to talk to people.”
Practical. Neutral.
Like the last ten minutes didn’t happen.
Then he leaves.
The door shuts with a solid, echoing thud.
And there you are.
You and Joel Miller.
This is how it’s always been.
A decade of constant back and forth. Push and pull. Heat and retreat. Neither of you ever quite saying the thing underneath the thing. Neither of you willing to lose. Neither of you willing to fully walk away either.
You show up.
He challenges you.
You hit where it hurts.
He shuts down.
Repeat.
Ten years of unfinished sentences and almost-confessions. Of caring too much and admitting none of it. Of knowing exactly where the other is weakest and pretending not to aim there.
You lean back against the counter, staring at the closed door.
You tell yourself this is better.
Clean.
Clear.
Familiar.
But your chest still feels tight, and the house feels quieter than it did before.
And somewhere beneath the irritation, beneath the defensiveness and the pride, there’s a truth you don’t want to examine too closely:
No one fights you the way Joel does.
And no one sees you quite like he does either.