Safe With You
18+ account - minors do not interact
qz!joel x f!reader Word Count: 7.3K Rating: E
Summary: After your friend is violently assaulted in the Boston QZ, fear grips you—and you turn to Joel, seeking his help to protect yourself.
Warnings: acquaintances to lovers, language, mentions of violence, angst, mutual pining, competency kink, mentions of sex in exchange for safety (spoiler: joel is horrified you think you have to do this), consent king joel, alcohol, mentions of death, jealousy (both reader and joel), pet names, sexual tension, dirty talk, praise, oral sex (f receiving), cockblocking (it will make sense once you read it), some joel miller humor during a chaotic moment
A/N: Writing QZ-era Joel absolutely terrifies me; that stretch of his life is so layered and brutal and fascinating, and I can’t tell how this landed. I’ll be honest, I felt pretty rusty writing a Joel story, so I just hope it resonates, maybe there’s room for a part 2… but for now, this is it.
Your shower had been busted for over a week, and the grime clung to you like a second skin. There was a public wash station near the outer fence, but you hadn’t dared to use it—not since what happened to Maryanne.
She’d gone out there alone a couple weeks ago, just after curfew lifted. Left her clothes and backpack outside the stall like everyone did. But when she stepped out, they were gone. That’s when she saw them—two men lurking, one of them rifling through her bag, the other going through the pockets in her pants.
She shouted.
Tried to run.
The first punch knocked her to the ground. The second came before she could even scream. By the time someone found her, she was barely conscious. Broken ribs. Swollen eye. She spent a week in the infirmary.
You told her to report it. Begged her, really. But she was too scared. Said it wouldn’t matter. Said they’d come back for her if she talked. She never told you who it was, but you had a feeling. Robert’s crew had been getting bolder lately—shaking down traders, skimming rations, making people disappear.
You were scared.
You’d come to the Boston QZ a couple years ago, alone and desperate, clinging to the hope that things here might be better. Safer. Structured. But that illusion had long since rotted away. The walls kept the infected out, sure—but they did nothing to stop the rot inside.
Every day felt heavier. The streets were meaner. The soldiers more twitchy. The people more desperate. You kept your head down, made quiet trades—ammo for meds, meds for food, food for favors. You were building something. A stash. A way out. You didn’t know where you’d go, just that it had to be somewhere else. Somewhere that didn’t feel like a slow death.
But you felt it. The way people looked at you. Like they could smell the solitude on you. Like they knew you didn’t have anyone watching your back.
No partner.
No crew.
No one to come looking if you vanished.
You started walking faster. Sleeping lighter. Keeping a blade tucked in your boot even inside your own apartment. You didn’t trust the guards. You didn’t trust the traders. You didn’t even trust the neighbors who smiled too easily.
It was only a matter of time. You knew it. You could feel it in your bones.
One wrong step, one bad deal, one late night—and you’d end up like Maryanne.
Or worse.
But, there was one person whose presence still managed to carve out a sliver of safety in your mind.
Joel Miller.
You knocked on Joel’s door, the cold metal biting into your knuckles. After a moment, it creaked open, revealing his weathered face, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He didn’t speak, just lifted an eyebrow, and for a brief second, you wondered if he’d let you in. You had traded with him before—not enough to call it friendship, but enough to hopefully keep the door from slamming shut.
"Hey," you whispered, voice tentative. "My shower’s shot. I was hoping… maybe I could use yours,"
Joel didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flicked over you, cautious and calculating. He shifted, and for a moment you thought he might step aside—until he suddenly reached inside his back pocket and pulled out a gun, pointing it directly at your chest.
Your heart pounded in your chest, sweat prickling at your brow.
"Why the fuck are you pointing a gun at me, Joel?" you demanded.
"Why the fuck are you here?"
"I just told you why," you repeated. "My shower’s fucking not working. I need to use yours—just for a few minutes. That’s all."
"No," he said coldly.
"Joel—"
"I fuckin’ said no," he hissed.
Slowly, you reached into your pack, pulling out a handful of pills. You held them out.
"I’ll trade you," you said quietly. "Whatever you want. Just… I need to clean up. I’m not here to cause trouble."
Joel kept the gun trained on you, eyes dark and unyielding. His expression was unreadable.
"Come on, Joel," you said, voice rough with exhaustion. "Look at me. I look like shit, and I smell like shit."
"The last time Tess let someone in her space, she got her ass beat half to death,"
Your eyes widened slightly. Tess was his smuggling partner—you’d heard stories, but never knew the full details. You weren’t sure if they’d ever been anything more than comrades-in-rough, but it didn’t matter now. She’d recently moved in with another man in the QZ, though she still worked with Joel heavily.
"Last I heard, the public wash station’s still standin’ so fuckin’ use that,"
"You remember what happened to Maryanne," you said, voice cracking. "Two guys jumped her. She’s still recovering. If I go out there, I might not come back."
He hesitated, the gun still steady. You could see the flicker of consideration in his eyes. But then, he tightened his grip on the firearm.
"It’s not personal. Turn round’ and get lost,"
You glared at Joel, frustration boiling over in your eyes. Without a word, you lifted your middle finger sharply, flipping him off with a clenched jaw and a burning look. You turned sharply on your heel, and started to tremble. The tears came suddenly—hot and uncontrolled—dripping down your face as you walked away from him.
It was about a ten-minute walk from Joel’s place to your apartment, but to you, it felt like ten miles of walking through a nightmare.
As you navigated through the street, a pair of familiar figures caught your eye. Robert and his goons were loitering a little further down the street, leaning against a battered storefront, their eyes flicking over you as you passed. They noticed you, of course—they always did. But instead of the usual threats or intimidation, they only exchanged a few kissy faces, puckering their lips and winking at you like a couple of idiots.
Robert raised a hand in a sloppy salute, grinning wide. "Hey there, gorgeous! Looking fine this evening," One of his crew members mimicked him and winked exaggeratedly.
Another nudged Robert and added, "You know you wanna come hang out with us, beautiful…"
Their antics made your stomach turn, but you kept your head down and kept walking, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.
You didn’t look back. Your focus was solely on getting home. You fished out your key, fumbling slightly in your trembling hands, and finally turned the lock. The door creaked open with a groan, and you stepped inside, shutting it tight behind you. You double-locked it, clicking the bolt into place.
Inside, the apartment was small and battered, but it was yours. You made your way to your kitchen. The only thing available was a can of beans—shitty, canned beans that you cracked open and ate straight from the can, the salty, bland taste barely registering anymore. Hunger gnawed at you, but it was mostly the exhaustion that weighed down your limbs. After dinner, you shuffled to the sink, which barely dripped out a weak stream of water. You brushed your teeth, the bristles scraping over your teeth as the tap sputtered and stopped. The water was barely enough to rinse, but you did what you could. Finally, you crawled into bed and picked up the book you had been reading—you had been meaning to finish it, though you were only halfway through after six months. With everything going on, you barely had time to read, and every time you managed a few pages, sleep would catch up to you before you could see what happened next. The story was about a cowboy who met a city girl. Part of you wondered if that cowboy would really fall for her, despite their differences. Honestly, it all felt kind of silly—being so attached to a story and still feeling so far from it, so unreachable.
You flipped to the next page, the paper soft and worn at the edges. The cowboy had just returned from a long ride—dust-covered, bruised, but still standing. The city girl had been waiting, arms crossed, unsure if he’d ever come back. And then he said it:
"I ain't good at soft words, but I know this—when the world turns mean, you’re the only thing that makes it feel less cruel."
You closed your eyes, the book resting on your chest, and suddenly you imagined Joel standing in the doorway saying those very same words to you.
Sleep took you before you could finish the chapter.
You woke to the sound of metal clinking and water sputtering. Groggy, heart thudding, you reached instinctively for the knife tucked in your boot and crept toward the bathroom, every step slow and deliberate.
The door was ajar.
You pushed it open with the blade raised—ready to strike.
Joel was crouched by the shower, sleeves rolled up, fiddling with the rusted plumbing. The showerhead dangled in his hand, half-disassembled. He glanced over his shoulder, completely unfazed.
"Mornin'…" he said, like he hadn’t pointed a gun at you the night before.
"What the fuck, Joel?" you snapped, lowering the knife but not the fury in your voice. "I could’ve stabbed you."
"Not likely," He gave you that half-smile—barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"How did you even get in?"
Joel didn’t look up.
"Your locks are shit. Took me bout’ ten seconds."
You blinked, jaw clenched. "So let me get this straight—you can break into my home, but I can’t go to yours to take a damn shower?"
"Sounds bout’ right."
He tightened a valve, tested the water pressure with a flick of his wrist, then glanced back at you with that same unreadable expression.
"You were right. You do smell like shit," he said flatly. "When you left my place last night, it stunk up the whole damn room. Had to light a fuckin' candle."
You blinked, stunned into silence for a moment.
What a fucking asshole.
He stood, wiped his hands on a rag, and tossed it onto the edge of the sink. "Figured if I didn’t fix this, you’d be back again tonight. Reekin’ even more."
There was no malice in his voice—just that dry, brutal honesty.
"You’re welcome," he added, almost as an afterthought.
"Yeah, well, next time you decide to 'fix' my shit, maybe ask first, huh? I don’t need you sneaking in and playing handyman."
"You want it fixed or not?"
You wanted to scream. But you needed a working shower.
"Yes," you snapped.
Joel didn’t say anything else. He just turned back to the shower, crouching low again. You watched as he worked—the wrench in his hand moved with precision, tightening bolts, adjusting pressure, testing the flow. The water sputtered, hissed, then finally ran in a steady stream.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying not to let your guard down. "Anythin’ else not workin’ in this place?" he asked without looking up.
You snorted. "Everything."
His hands moved with confidence, veins visible beneath the worn skin, knuckles scarred from years of use. You’d seen him with a gun, seen him trade, seen him shut people down with a single look.
But this was different.
You hated admitting it, but he looked good doing something like this… something domestic. He was so competent. You caught yourself staring at the curve of his forearm, the way his shirt clung to his back when he leaned forward.
And it made your chest ache in a way you didn’t want to name.
He glanced up, catching you staring, and you quickly looked away, pretending to inspect the cracked tile on the wall.
"Hot water should hold for a while," he said, standing and wiping his hands again.
You hadn’t had hot water in over a year.
"Thanks," you said quietly, the word feeling heavier than it should.
Joel paused, eyes flicking toward you. He gave a small nod, but didn’t say anything. His jaw tightened, like the word made him itch.
You watched him step out of your bathroom and toward your front door, his movements stiff, like he couldn’t get out fast enough. "Don’t mention it," he muttered, and then he was gone.
You stared at the closed door for a moment, then turned toward the bathroom. The steam was already curling into the air, and when you took off your clothes to step under the spray, it felt like heaven. The grime, the fear, the exhaustion—it all melted away, rinsed down the drain in waves of warmth. You stood there longer than you should’ve.
For the first time in a long time, you felt human.
Later, you met up with Maryanne at one of your usual spots—a half-collapsed building tucked behind a car dealership. The roof was mostly gone, but the second floor still held enough shelter to sit and talk. You brought a couple of cans of food, and she had a half-loaf of stale bread. Between the two of you, it felt like a feast.
She winced as she sat down, and you instinctively reached for the bandages tucked in your bag. Her bruises were still fresh. You dabbed at one near her collarbone, careful not to press too hard.
"How are you feeling?" you asked.
Maryanne shrugged. "Better. Still hurts to breathe, but I’m not seeing double anymore."
"That’s something."
There was a pause. The kind that hung in the air when you both knew there was more to say but didn’t want to say it.
"Joel Miller fixed my shower," you said abruptly.
"Joel Miller? Seriously?"
You nodded.
"And…did you… thank him?" Maryanne raised an eyebrow. She smirked, then gave you a look—one of those long, knowing glances that said more than words ever could.
"What?" Your cheeks heated instantly, the warmth crawling up your neck before you could stop it. You turned your face slightly, pretending to focus on the bandage you were smoothing over Maryanne’s shoulder.
"No, Maryanne," you muttered, trying to sound firm. "Nothing like that happened."
"I wouldn’t judge you if it had. It’s a hard world out there. Having a strong man in your corner sometimes comes at a price."
You looked at her then, really looked. Her face was still bruised, her lip healing, but her eyes were sharp.
The idea Maryanne had just floated—trading 'comfort' for protection—settled in your chest like a stone. You’d never considered it before. Not seriously.
"I did it once," she said. "There was a guy in the last QZ I was in… he’d keep me safe, and I’d keep him… company."
Her voice didn’t waver, but her eyes drifted away from yours, settling on a crack in the wall like she didn’t want to see your reaction. You felt your stomach twist—not in judgment, but in imagining what that must’ve been like for her. Knowing that safety came with a price tag, and sometimes that price was your body.
You didn’t know what to say. You just nodded slowly, the silence between you thick with understanding. Maybe survival wasn’t always clean. Maybe it never had been.
"I’m sorry," you finally whispered.
"I’m not," she replied, eyes locked on yours. "I’m alive because of it."
She didn’t say it with shame. She said it like a fact. Like a choice she’d made and stood by.
"So…" you said slowly, "should I thank Joel?"
Maryanne didn’t answer right away. She reached for the half-loaf of bread beside her, tore off a piece, and popped it into her mouth like you’d just asked her what time it was—not whether you should sleep with a man for protection.
"It’s not the worst thing to consider," she said finally, chewing slowly. "Everyone’s terrified of Joel. Robert, his crew… even the guards give him space."
You watched her, unsure if she was joking or dead serious.
She swallowed, then gave you a sideways glance. "And let’s be honest—he’s easy on the eyes."
You scoffed, but the heat crept back into your cheeks before you could stop it.
"Don’t act like you haven’t noticed… and who knows…maybe he’s a good fuck," she sing-songed.
You rolled your eyes.
But you had to admit… you were intrigued.
You knocked once.
Joel opened his front door faster than you expected, like he’d been waiting. His mouth parted, ready to speak, but you didn’t give him the chance.
You pushed past him, brushing against his shoulder as you stepped inside like you belonged there.
Joel turned, brow furrowed, but you were already pulling the bottle from your pack—a heavy flask of whiskey, the kind that burned going down and numbed everything else.
"Thought that would shut you up," you said, setting it down on the nearest table with a thud.
Joel stared at the bottle, then at you.
You dropped your pack, and leaned against the wall like you’d done this a hundred times before. Like you weren’t still figuring out what the hell you were doing.
Joel didn’t speak. He just walked over, picked up the bottle, and turned it slowly in his hands.
"You came here to drink?" he said finally.
You met his gaze. "I came here to thank you."
Joel’s grip tightened around the neck of the bottle.
"Listen, sweetheart," he said finally, "I told you—I can’t have you in my space. So, I need you to—"
You didn’t let him finish.
"Outbreak day," you said, stepping forward. “I had to kill my husband.”
Joel’s eyes flicked to yours, but he didn’t interrupt.
"We’d just gotten married. Just came back from our honeymoon. We were gonna start our lives together. Maybe try for a kid." You swallowed hard, the words scraping their way out. "And then that fucking day came. He was infected. Tried to bite me. I didn’t have a gun. I didn’t have anything."
Your voice cracked, but you kept going.
"He came at me—eyes wild, mouth foaming. I locked him in the bathroom. Thought maybe I could wait it out. Thought maybe it wasn’t real. But he kept screaming. Kept throwing himself against the door."
You paused, the memory clawing its way up.
"I found a crowbar in the garage. When the door finally gave way, I didn’t think. I just swung."
The silence that followed was thick. Joel didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask questions. Just stood there, still as a statue.
"Thought I’d break the ice by telling you something personal…Since you’re so good at talking," you said sarcastically.
Joel didn’t respond. He just uncapped the whiskey, took a long, burning gulp, and walked over to the couch.
The silence stretched. Joel sat on the couch, the whiskey bottle resting against his thigh, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the walls. You stayed standing, arms crossed, the weight of your confession still lingering in the air.
You cleared your throat, not because you needed to, but because the quiet was starting to feel like punishment.
"So," you said, voice casual, "why did you and Tess break up?"
Joel’s head turned slowly, his brow knitting as if he didn’t hear you right. "What?"
"I told you something personal," you said, shrugging. "Seems fair you share something personal back."
He exhaled sharply, rolled his eyes, and muttered, "We were never together."
"You were never together, but you lived together?"
Joel didn’t answer right away. He just took another swig, jaw tight.
"You chose to stay close to her," you continued. "That’s not nothing."
Joel set the bottle down a little too hard. "We’ve survived together. We work together. That’s it."
"Did you ever sleep together?" you tilted your head, watching him.
His reaction was instant.
"Jesus Christ," he snapped, standing up. "Who the hell d’you think you are askin’ me that?"
You didn’t flinch.
"Just asking,"
"It’s none of your damn business."
“Maybe it’s not,” you said quietly. "But you two were clearly having sex,"
Joel groaned, rubbed a hand down his face. "Sure, fine," he said finally. "We fucked a couple of times over the years. Wasn’t anythin’. It was convenient."
Convenient.
He didn’t move when you pressed a hand to his chest, firm but not forceful, guiding him back down onto the couch. He landed with a grunt, more surprised than angry.
"When’s the last time you had sex, Joel?" you asked.
He stayed silent, and you caught the subtle movement of his throat as he swallowed hard.
"I can’t remember the last time a man touched me… I miss it," you said honestly, starting to unbutton your flannel and then throwing it on the floor. You weren’t wearing an undershirt—or a bra, so your breasts were on display for him.
Joel’s eyes widened.
"What the hell are you doin’, sweetheart?"
The way he said it made your legs feel like jelly. You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him—really looked at him.
Maryanne was right. He was easy on the eyes.
"What do you think I’m doing?" you tried to ask seductively.
"I think—I think you’re not thinkin’ clearly,"Joel’s eyes darkened as he bit his bottom lip, and you couldn't help but notice the growing bulge in his lap. "Have you been drinkin’?"
"No… I’m dead sober. I told you—I’m here to thank you," you continued, starting to unbutton your pants. "It was really nice of you to fix my shower, and I just want to show my appreciation."
You saying that clearly had the complete opposite effect you were going for because suddenly he pushed himself off the couch. Without a word, he reached out swiftly, grabbing your flannel from the floor. His hand closed around the fabric, and he yanked it upward, pulling the material to cover your chest. The rough motion made you stumble slightly, but he held the flannel firmly in place, his gaze intense and unwavering.
"Stop," he growled. His brow furrowed sharply as he looked at you, "Zip up your pants. You’re embarrassin’ yourself,"
You stood there, stunned, the flannel clutched awkwardly against your chest where Joel had shoved it.
"I’m not gonna say this again. You need to fuckin’ leave."
You had just offered yourself on a shameful platter, and he was kicking you out.
Your mouth opened, but the words tangled in your throat. You clutched the flannel tighter against your chest, fingers trembling.
"I—I just thought…I thought maybe—"
"Yeah. I know what you thought.:
You blinked, eyes stinging, heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to escape.
"You thought you had to give me somethin’, but I don’t want anythin’ from you," he said, turning away from you, his back rigid.
You tried to speak again, but the words came out broken. "I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to—"
"Put your god damn shirt back on,"
You nodded even though he couldn’t see, fumbling with the buttons on your pants and flannel, your fingers clumsy and slow. The silence between you now wasn’t just heavy—it was suffocating.
"You decent?"
You swallowed hard, the flannel finally buttoned, and you didn’t look up when you whispered, "Yeah."
Joel turned slowly, his eyes scanning you, but you kept your gaze locked on the floor. You couldn’t bear to meet his eyes—not after this.
You started toward the door, dragging your feet, and then his voice stopped you.
"I’m sorry," he mumbled. "If I ever did somethin’ that made you feel like you had to…to… do this,” he spat out, sounding completely disgusted.
You froze, hand hovering near the doorknob.
"You didn’t."
"Before the outbreak… I was a contractor. Built things. Fixed things. That was my job."
You turned slightly, just enough to see the edge of his profile.
"So, fixin’ a busted shower? It’s just somethin’ I know how to do. You don’t—you don’t fuckin’ owe me for that. You don’t owe me for anythin’ sweetheart."
You nodded, barely. The words wouldn’t come, but something in your chest loosened—just a little.
Joel, for all his roughness… hadn’t taken advantage. He’d drawn a line.
Mortified didn’t even begin to cover how you were feeling.
The market was loud—you kept your head down up, weaving through the crowd like a ghost.
You spotted Joel before he saw you—standing beside Tess, arms crossed, face unreadable. It had been two weeks, and you had been avoiding Joel as if he were a clicker himself. Tess was talking, animated, and she looked annoyingly fucking beautiful—she leaned in close to Joel, her hand brushing his arm.
Just work partners? Yeah, fucking right.
You froze mid-step, heart lurching. The sight of them together made your blood run hot. You turned sharply, ready to vanish into the nearest alley.
"Hey!" Tess’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a blade. She said your name.
You winced, shoulders stiffening. Slowly, reluctantly, you turned around.
Joel’s eyes met yours, and the tension was instant. His jaw clenched. Yours did too. Tess stepped forward, oblivious—or maybe just ignoring the awkwardness radiating between you and Joel.
"I was just talking to Robert," she said, hands on her hips. "He said you’ve got a battery."
"I might have one."
Tess narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. "Don’t play dumb. I’ve been watching you trade for months. You’ve got some serious gear stashed away. You’ve clearly got an exit plan. And if I’m noticing, that means that others are noticing too,"
Joel shifted beside her, his posture stiffening like a wire pulled taut. His eyes didn’t leave yours.
"Tess," he said, the single word laced with warning.
She glanced at him, brows raised, but he didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The way he said her name was enough to make her pause. Enough to say back off without saying it outright.
"Well, don’t you wanna get to Tommy?" Tess asked, turning to Joel, her voice sharp with purpose.
The name hit you like a slap.
You’d met him a few years back—briefly, but enough to remember. He used to live here, used to run with Joel. Then he vanished. Rumors swirled afterward, whispers that he’d joined the Fireflies. That part had always unsettled you. The Fireflies were dangerous, unpredictable. No way in hell were you going to help anyone get to Tommy Miller.
Your feet moved before your brain caught up. You turned, started walking away, fast. You didn’t owe them anything. Especially not that.
But Joel was quicker.
You heard the scuff of boots behind you, then felt his hand close around your arm—not rough, but firm enough to stop you. He spun you gently, urgency written all over his face.
"Wait," he said, breath short.
You stared at him, your face contorting with nerves, suspicion crawling up your spine. "Let's talk. I’ll explain everythin’ okay?” he said, voice low, almost pleading. "Just… will you be home tonight?"
"Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?"
"You weren’t home last night."
Your stomach dropped. He was right. You’d passed out at Maryanne’s after too much moonshine and too little sleep. But how the hell did he know that?
"How do you know that?"
Joel hesitated, then shrugged, eyes flicking away for a beat. "I just do." His eyes lingered on you a beat too long, his jaw working like he was chewing on something bitter, "Were you… with Robert?"
The implication of his question curled around your gut like smoke. You cringed, your face twisting before you could stop it.
Joel noticed.
"Why the fuck would I be with Robert?"
"I don’t know. Maybe he did you a favor, and you felt the need to thank him," Joel barked, running a frustrated hand through his hair.
Your breath caught. You stared at him, stunned, his words hanging in the air like poison. Joel’s expression shifted. His eyes widened slightly, regret flashing across his face. He realized it. The second it left his mouth, he knew he’d said the wrong thing.
"I didn’t mean—" he started, but stopped himself, jaw tightening again.
You blinked rapidly, your hands balled into fists at your sides as you felt the unfamiliar vulnerability wrap tightly around you. "Fuck you, Joel,"
You turned on your heel, fury pulsing through your veins, and stormed off without another word. You didn’t care if he followed. You didn’t care if he stood there and watched you disappear into the crowd. You just needed space—distance—from the mess he’d made of your insides.
But the asshole did follow you.
You could hear him. The steady rhythm of his footsteps trailing yours, never too close, never far enough. You didn’t look back. Not once. But you knew he was there. Half an hour passed like that—by the time you reached your apartment door, your nerves were frayed. You fumbled with the key, jaw clenched, and then you felt him behind you—close now.
He was too fucking close.
You spun around, eyes blazing. "I swear to god, Joel, if you don’t leave me alone right now, I’m going to punch you in the fucking face."
He didn’t step back. Just stood there, eyes locked on yours, something raw flickering behind them.
Then he spoke.
"My daughter died on outbreak day. She was just thirteen."
You froze.
"She was injured. A FEDRA soldier thought she was infected—and he shot her."
The silence that followed was deafening. Your breath caught in your throat, the fury draining from your body like a slow leak. Joel wasn’t looking at you anymore—his gaze had dropped to the ground, shoulders hunched, like the weight of that memory had finally crushed him.
You stared at him, the air thick between you, your pulse still hammering. His words echoed in your head—She was just thirteen. You didn’t know what to do with that kind of grief. Didn’t know how to hold it, or respond to it, or even breathe around it.
So, you said the only thing that came to mind.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"You told me bout’ your husband," he said, voice rough. "That night. You didn’t have to, but you did."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"So, I figured… it’s my turn to be personal."
"I’m sorry about your daughter,"
"I’m sorry bout’ your husband,"
You didn’t say anything more. Just turned, unlocked the door, and pushed it open with a quiet creak. You stepped aside, motioning with your head for Joel to come in.
He hesitated for a beat, then crossed the threshold, his boots heavy against the floor. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look around. Just stood there.
"Wait here," you mumbled.
Joel nodded once, staying rooted in place as you disappeared into your bedroom. The door didn’t close all the way behind you, but he didn’t move. Didn’t peek. Just waited.
You came back a minute later, the battery cradled in your arms like something sacred. It was heavy, and fucking valuable. You held it out, but didn’t let go.
"Why do you need this?" you asked.
Joel looked at the battery, then at you. His expression shifted—less guarded now, more worn.
"Tommy," he said. "He’s in Jackson."
"Like…Wyoming?"
Joel nodded.
"There’s this settlement."
You watched him closely, the battery still in your hands, your grip tightening.
"It’s not just some camp or outpost. It’s a real fuckin’ town. They’ve got walls—strong ones. Solar power. Running water. Gardens. Livestock. Kids go to fuckin' school there."
You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. It sounded like a fantasy. Like something someone would make up to keep themselves from falling apart.
Joel saw the doubt flicker across your face.
"I didn’t believe it either," he said. "Not at first. But it’s real. Thought Tommy was just chasin’ some dream. But he sent word. Said it’s safe."
Safe.
The word felt foreign in your mouth. Unreal.
He paused, eyes flicking to the battery, then back to you.
"I need to get there. And this"—he nodded toward the battery—"this gets me one step closer."
"So, you and Tess are trying to get to Jackson?" you asked.
Joel shook his head slightly. "Not exactly." He shifted his weight, eyes flicking toward the floor before meeting yours again. "Tess and her guy—they’re lookin’ to peel off once we hit Lincoln."
"Lincoln?" you echoed.
"Yeah," Joel said. "It’s this old town on the way we’ve passed through before. Quiet. There’s only one other couple livin’ out there. Half the homes are still standin’, just sittin’ empty. She’s thinkin’ they could settle there, make a life."
You stared at him for a long moment.
"What do I get in exchange for giving you this?"
"You could come with us."
You were caught off guard by the simplicity of his response.
"Figure out if you wanna try out Lincoln," he said. "See if it suits you," he paused, then added, “Or you come with me—to Jackson.”
You could come with us. Just like that. Like it was easy. Like it didn’t crack something open inside you. You felt overwhelmed. You weren’t used to choices. Not real ones. Not ones that sounded like hope.
"And what happens if I don’t give you this battery?" you asked, voice sharp, defensive. "You and Tess gonna hurt me? Take it anyway?"
Joel scoffed, the sound dry and humorless. "No."
You stared at him, waiting.
He shook his head. "You think I’d follow you all the way here just to rough you up for it?"
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.
Joel’s eyes flicked to the battery again, then back to you. "But I gotta ask… what’s your plan with it?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it. The truth was, you didn’t have one. Joel saw it. Saw the hesitation. Saw the way your silence gave you away.
"Exactly," he said quietly.
And damn it—he had you there.
You set the battery down on your shitty dining room table.
"Look— I…I shouldn’t have said what I said earlier—about Robert." Joel admitted, his voice lowering as he stepped further into your apartment and set his gun down on your table. "I was worked up, and you know how I can be."
"Yeah, Joel, you’re just a total gem when you’re being an asshole," you responded dryly, "Or should I say when you’re worked up?"
You felt the sting of your own words.
"I deserve that—” he cut himself off, rubbing his hand over his jaw. "but the idea of you and Robert—"
Your eyes narrowed. "What?"
"It drives me fuckin’ crazy" he growled.
You blinked, pulse kicking up again. "Why?"
"You know why."
You didn’t know who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was you—but suddenly the space was gone. His hands were on your face, yours gripping his shirt, and then—
His lips were on yours, and he was cradling the back of your neck, slipping his tongue into your mouth. Joel’s tongue was warm, desperate, and you matched it, pouring every ounce of fury and longing into the kiss like it might burn the whole damn apartment down. You stood on your toes, and he used the opportunity to grab a handful of your ass while his mouth moved to your neck. His moustache tickled as he nipped at your throat.
"Oh fuck—Joel," you gasped, making soft noises of pleasure.
Joel pulled back suddenly, breath ragged, his hands now resting on your hips. Your breath caught in your throat as you pondered what he could be thinking. Why the fuck did he stop?
"Wait. I don’t want you to think you have to do anythin’ just cause of this god damn battery situation,"
You blinked, lips still parted, heart thudding against your ribs. Then you smirked, teasing, "I still haven’t told you I’m giving it to you."
Joel huffed a quiet laugh, but his eyes stayed serious, searching yours.
You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself.
"Joel… I didn’t want to sleep with you the other night just because you fixed my shower."
He tilted his head, waiting.
"Okay...I mean, maybe I did. You looked hot doing it," you teased, cupping his cheek with a crooked smile.
That earned a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but you didn’t stop there.
"But I think it’s more than that. You make me feel safe. You’re the only person in this QZ who’s ever made me feel safe."
"Then come with me," he murmured, turning his head to the side and kissing your palm. "Come with me to Jackson," he said again, slower this time. "We don’t have to do anythin’ right now. We don’t have to do anythin’—ever. We can go our separate ways once we get to Jackson. I just want to get you the hell out of here."
"I don’t know how to do this." you said, feeling a lump in your throat and swallowed it thickly as you stared into his beautiful brown eyes.
"You don’t have to know," he said, stepping closer, like he knew you might bolt. "You just have to come." The expression on his face intensified and the tenderness in his eyes made you melt.
"If I promise to come with you, will you please touch me?"
He shook his head.
"Please, Joel," you whined, hating how you sounded. "I want you."
"You do?" he brushed a knuckle across your chin.
"Are you fucking kidding me? You’re a fucking stud. Please—please—touch me," you whimpered, gripping onto his impossibly huge biceps.
"Yes, ma’am," Joel’s lips curled into a grin. You felt it hit you in the chest, that grin. That dimple. Like a snapshot you wanted to trap in your memory and never let go of. Because in a world that had taken so much, this—this—was something you could keep.
He stole a kiss that had you chasing his tongue. Suddenly, his arms were at your back and beneath your knees as he lifted you in his arms, carrying you to your bedroom. He nudged open the door to your room with his foot, not bothering to turn the light on as he crossed over to the bed.
He sat you on the edge of the bed.
"Lay back," he instructed, looming tall over you.
You followed his instructions, settling against your pillows as he removed his shirt and pants, remaining only in his boxers. Your mouth watered at the sight, your slick leaking into your panties. Your thighs pressed together in your pants, searching for some kind of friction.
He noticed.
"Take them off," he growled.
You licked your lips and wiggled out of your sweater, exposing a black bra, and worked to undo the buttons of your jeans to shimmy out of them. Your bra was fine—supportive, even a little flattering. But your panties? Fuck. You felt heat crawl up your neck as you realized they were just plain ugly cotton. No lace, no mesh, no daring little straps. Just practical, really faded, low-key granny panties.
Joel didn’t seem to care.
"F-fuck…baby," Joel’s voice startled you, thick with the unmistakable gravel of want, "Come on, don’t be shy, take everythin’ off."
You hesitated for a beat, suddenly hyper-aware of the way Joel’s eyes were on you. That loose curl falling across his forehead.
"Be good for me and let me see baby," he begged, his hard length begging to be released from the confines of his boxers.
You held your breath when you pulled down your panties, and a low groan vibrated from his chest when he saw you glistening with your arousal in the dim light. He removed his boxers while you made quick work of removing your bra.
You take a moment to admire him—and his cock.
"Good girl," he praised. See what you fuckin’ do to me?” he said, voice strained while you gawked at his angry red tip.
"Please, please, Joel," you didn’t even recognize your own voice at this point. "Need you."
"You want somethin’, you gotta use your words. Got it? What d’you need?"
"Your mouth," you confessed.
Joel’s hands shot out to grab your ankles, tugging you back to the edge of the bed. He was on his knees in an instant, urging your legs apart to make room for his body. Suddenly, you felt his tongue between your folds, and you let out a pornographic gasp while you threaded your fingers in his hair. He devoured you and guided the roll of your hips against his mouth, showing you how to take what you needed from him and fucking you relentlessly with his tongue. He then brought his fingers into the mix, curling them against that sweet spot of yours, forcing a scream from your throat. You could hardly form a coherent sentence, and so you didn’t have the time to warn him when your orgasm crashed through the surface.
He hummed in satisfaction, continuing to lap at you and work you through it until you pushed weakly at his head. He pulled away, his mouth and mustache wet from your release. Gazing down at him with heavy eyes, you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth and closed his eyes savoring the taste.
"You’re so fuckin’ perfect," he grunted, crawling over your limp body and kissing the side of your neck. "Did so good for me."
Your heart pounded in your chest as he continued to pepper your neck with kisses, and you felt his thick cock notch at your entrance.
"So beautiful," he murmured, holding your face, hands keeping you firmly in his vision. His warm brown eyes bore into you in a way that felt like they were piercing into your soul.
But then—the moment shattered like glass.
A gunshot cracked through the night—sharp, unmistakable, too close.
You and Joel froze, eyes wide, breath caught. Then came the second sound: the shrill, piercing wail of the QZ alarm. Not the usual curfew warning. This one was different. This one meant intruder.
You bolted.
Joel was already moving, grabbing his clothes off the floor, yanking them over his head and legs. You scrambled for your own clothes, heart hammering.
"Shit," Joel muttered, pulling on his boots in record time. “That’s the breach alarm.”
You nodded, adrenaline surging through your veins as you shoved your arms into your sweater. The siren outside wailed louder now, echoing off the concrete walls of the QZ. You could hear shouting in the distance—guards barking orders, people running.
Joel moved toward your door, his steps quick and deliberate, already reaching for his gun that he had set down earlier. His eyes scanned through the peephole, jaw clenched tight.
"Stay here," he said, voice low but firm.
"Joel, no—don’t. Let’s just stay here."
"I have to check on Tess."
Jealousy flared hot in your chest, tangled with fear. You knew it wasn’t romantic...anymore. You knew they were partners—had been for years. Of course he had to check on her. Of course he did. But still… it stung.
You swallowed, trying to push the feeling down. "Wait."
You darted to the closet, yanked the door open, and reached behind a stack of blankets. Your fingers closed around cold metal. When you turned back, Joel’s eyes widened slightly.
"Take this," you held out a rifle.
Joel stepped forward, took it from your hands, his fingers brushing yours. He looked at you like he hadn’t expected that.
"Okay," he said, clicking his tongue, "we need to have a serious conversation bout’ some of the trades you’ve been doin’ sweetheart,"
You gave him a flat look. Then you saw it—the faint curve of his mouth, the way his brow relaxed just enough to let the tension bleed out. You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.
"Now’s really the time for a lecture?"
Joel shrugged, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder. "I mean, if you’re gonna be handin’ out military-grade weapons like they’re candy, I gotta ask what else you’ve got stashed in that closet."
Then he leaned in and kissed you.
"Please come back," you whispered against his mouth.
His eyes focused on your face, and he moved one of his hands down to lace his fingers with yours. Joel kissed you again, harder this time, like he was sealing a promise.
And later that night—he did come back to you.
Left it as an open ending... for now.
