Dark fics, slow burns, emotional unraveling. Featuring Joel Miller and who knows who else? Updated regularly — check back often.
Series:
➤ Between the Shadows — Series Masterpost
Slow burn | Post-apocalyptic | Trauma | Found family
A guarded nurse. A man who refuses to care. Survival isn’t the hardest part—trusting someone again is.
Status: Ongoing / Slow updating
Joel Miller One-Shots:
➤ Only in the Dark — [Read Here]
Modern AU | Secret Relationship | Dad’s Best Friend Joel
You’re 25. Joel is not. It wasn’t supposed to happen once—let alone again and again. But neither of you have been able to stop. Until it all falls apart.
Status: Complete
➤ Only in the Dark / Part Two : Final Part — [Read Here]
➤ Torque and Tension — [Read Here]
Modern AU | Dad's Best Friend’s Daughter | Mechanic Joel
You’ve been sneaking around with your dad’s best friend for months. Long nights in the garage. Quiet touches. Dirty secrets. You both know it’s wrong—but neither of you is ready to stop.
Status: Complete
➤ Seared — [Read Here]
Modern AU | Firefighter Joel
You triage trauma. He runs headfirst into it. But nothing prepares either of you for what happens when restraint finally snaps.
Status: Complete
➤ Idle Hands — [Read Here]
Modern AU | Auto Shop Teacher Joel
A slow burn of stolen glances and growing obsession between you and your auto shop teacher, Joel Miller. One late night in the backseat of a car finally pushes you both past the point of no return.
Status: Complete
➤ Idle Hands / Part Two — [Read Here]
➤ A Quiet Kind of Want — [Read Here]
Modern AU | Dad's Best Friend's Daughter
Joel finds you crying after your family taunts you about your career choice. He reminds you that it doesn't matter what they think.
Status: Complete
➤ A Quiet Kind of Want / Part Two — [Read Here]
➤ Doctor’s Orders — [Read Here]
Modern AU | Oldman! Joel x Reader
Joel’s been patient. Careful. Good. But when the doctor clears you for intimacy again, everything he’s been holding back comes rushing forward—love, longing, hunger, and a need so deep it nearly unravels him.
Status: Complete
➤ A Quiet Kind of Want / Part Three - [Read Here]
➤ A Quiet Kind of Want / Part Four (FINAL) - [Read Here]
➤ Summer’s Weight — [Read Here]
➤ Harder to Handle — [Read Here]
➤ Closer Than Fear — [Read Here]
🔥 More fics coming soon…
Authors Note: Thanks to @saradika-graphics for the beautiful theme images! Her work is always magnificent.
❖ Between the Shadows
“Some things survive the fire. Regret is one of them.”
A slow-burn Joel Miller x Reader series set in the post-apocalyptic world of The Last of Us.
You’re a nurse hardened by loss. He’s a man who’s forgotten how to care. In a town that’s too quiet to trust, the two of you collide under reluctant circumstance — tangled in survival, silence, and something that feels too much like hope.
💔 Expect:
Dark themes and emotional tension
Protective, canon-aligned Joel
Trauma, grief, reluctant trust
Found family + slow healing
Heavy prose and slow pacing
Second-person POV (you)
📖 Status: Ongoing
🩸 Warnings: Violence, trauma, PTSD, gore, language, emotional intensity, canon-level dark themes
🔗 Also on AO3: honeyandruin
✦ Chapters:
➤ Chapter One: What’s Left to Burn
➤ Chapter Two: One Step Inside
➤ Chapter Three: Blood, Then Silence
➤ Chapter Four: A Stillness That Screams
➤ Chapter Five: Weathering
➤ Chapter Six: Half-Warm Things
➤ Chapter Seven: Burn Slow
➤ Chapter Eight: When the Fever Breaks
➤ Chapter Nine: Ash in the Snow
➤ Chapter Ten: No Safe Harbor
(More coming soon…)
Thank you for reading. Reblogs and comments help more than you know. This series is deeply personal, and I’m so grateful you’re here for it.
"You don’t believe in peace until you’re standing in it. And even then, it feels like a trap."
Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader
Rating: Mature
Warnings: PTSD, emotional distrust, mild violence, trauma recovery, survivor’s guilt
POV: Second person
Status: Ongoing
"You're safe now—at least, that's what they say. But your hands won't stop shaking."
----
The snow crunches louder the closer you get to the valley.
Your legs are stiff from the last stretch—four days of cold air and quiet trees, ribs bruised from the last close call you don’t talk about. You’ve got a tear in your coat from a fence post and a knife hilt that keeps bruising your hip. There’s dried blood under your fingernails you haven’t had the luxury of washing off.
And still—you keep walking.
Because on the other side of the next ridge, something breaks the trees.
A wall.
It rises massive out of the mist, built from timber, scrap, and silence. You slow without thinking, gloved hand braced on your thigh as your boots grind to a halt. It doesn’t look like much from a distance—just another collection of defenses pretending to be civilization—but you know better. He told you about this place.
Jackson.
If it’s real. If he wasn’t delirious. If this isn’t just another dead promise someone bled for.
You approach from the south, crossing a thin frozen stream and a field dusted in bone-colored snow. No movement. No voices. Just your own breath fogging the air and the slow ache building behind your knees.
Then—movement on the wall.
A figure. Rifle slung across his chest. He watches you from the tower, then disappears. A second later, a smaller door near the main gate creaks open.
And out comes the welcoming party.
Three of them. One with a shotgun. One with a walkie clipped to his chest. One—closer—carrying nothing but an attitude.
He steps forward first. Tall. Pale. Thin-lipped and narrow-eyed, like he’s always half a second from assuming the worst.
“Stop right there.”
You do.
“I’m not armed,” you say, lifting your hands. Slow. Controlled.
“Don’t care,” he snaps. “What the fuck you doin’ walkin’ up to a settlement alone?”
“I’m looking for someone,” you say. “Tommy Miller. He—”
“Convenient.” His tone sharpens. “That’s a name we all know. Makes it easy to lie.”
You don’t flinch.
He circles you slowly, boots grinding into the snow. The other two stay near the door, but their eyes are sharp. You keep yours forward.
“I helped him,” you say. “A few weeks ago. He told me if I made it here—”
“That he’d let you in?” The guard chuckles low. “That’s cute.”
You say nothing. Your hands stay up. But your knife is a breath away. Always.
He stops in front of you, close enough to smell his sour breath and see the red in his knuckles. His jaw tightens.
“You could be infected,” he mutters. “You could be lying. Could be anything.”
“I’m not—”
The butt of his rifle slams into the side of your head before the sentence’s done.
Pain flashes hot-white behind your eye. You stagger, foot sliding sideways in the snow, and hit your knees hard enough to rattle your teeth. The world shifts. Tilts. Your ears ring.
You gasp, one hand bracing on the ground.
“Let’s check her bag,” the guard mutters. “Bet she’s hiding something.”
He reaches toward you.
You move first.
Your knife is out before he touches the strap—blade pressed to the inside of his jugular. Not deep. But enough to warn.
“I wouldn’t,” you whisper.
He jerks back with a curse.
“You bitch—”
“Hey!”
The shout cracks like a gunshot.
You freeze, the guard turns.
Tommy.
He’s already halfway down the path from inside the gate, coat open, rifle slung. His boots kick up snow and gravel as he storms forward.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He barks.
The guard steps back instinctively. “She was armed—she didn’t answer, she came at me—”
“She saved my life,” Tommy growls. “She’s the only reason I’m standing here, and you just clocked her like she was carrying spores in her fuckin’ blood?”
Tommy reaches your side in seconds. Drops to a crouch. His gloved hand hovers near your temple.
“You alright?”
Your head throbs. Your teeth ache. But you nod once. “I’m fine.”
He exhales through his nose—sharp. Controlled. Then stands again, turning toward the others.
“Get him off the wall. Now. Go tell Maria.”
They don’t argue. The guard who hit you mutters something under his breath, but backs off. The others follow.
Tommy helps you up—not rough, not careful. Just steady.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “That’s not how we do things here.”
You don’t answer. Not because you don’t believe him. But because the gate is behind him now—open.
Inside: rooftops. Smoke curling from chimneys. The faint sound of children laughing.
It doesn’t feel safe. Not yet.
But you’re here, and you’re not about to turn back.
The gate shuts behind you with a clang that echoes all the way down your spine.
You follow Tommy in silence.
Your boots leave slush prints on the salted stone path, your shoulders still tense, blood still drying under your collar. The blow to your head throbs dull and slow, but you grit your teeth and walk anyway.
Because this—this whole place—can’t be real.
But it is.
At least, it looks like it.
The houses are close together, each one painted in faded tones like a Norman Rockwell painting left out in the sun. Pale blue. Moss green. Soft yellow. Window boxes hang crooked but full, stuffed with dried herbs and early-spring frost. Quilts flap gently on clotheslines strung between porches. Firewood is stacked neatly beside doorways.
It smells like pine and ash and, impossibly—fresh bread.
You pass a woman sweeping her steps with a worn broom. Two children race past with scarves trailing behind them like flags. One of them laughs—loud, high, unafraid. It hits you harder than the rifle did.
No one’s watching you with suspicion. Not anymore. Not since Tommy waved them off. But you feel eyes anyway. Like a muscle memory you can’t shake.
You keep your hands at your sides. Not near your blade. But close.
Tommy walks ahead with that familiar limp, hands tucked into his coat pockets.
“We’ve got over two hundred in here now,” he says. “Give or take. It shifts when we trade with other groups. Or when winter does what winter does.”
You don’t answer. You’re trying to memorize everything.
There’s a garden off to your right, protected by a chicken-wire fence. Frozen now, but tended. You see labels sticking out of the ground. Carrots. Kale. Beans.
Solar panels line the roof of one building, and a rust-streaked windmill creaks softly overhead. Someone’s hung fairy lights between the eaves of a community center, blinking gently against the late-afternoon gloom.
It’s too clean.
Too warm.
Too quiet.
You scan every alley. Every second-floor window. Every stranger’s hands.
You don’t breathe easier.
Tommy glances back once. Like he knows.
“This ain’t a trap,” he says gently. “It’s not a trick. Took us a long time to get here.”
You say nothing.
He stops in front of a two-story house near the end of a long, sloped lane. The roof’s a little caved on one side, but the porch looks solid. There’s a swing on the corner, wrapped in a wool blanket to keep it dry. Two boots sit beside the front door, mismatched and mud-streaked.
It looks lived in, but not claimed.
Tommy steps up to the door and pulls a key from his pocket. “We’ve got a rotation,” he says. “When people leave or don’t come back… we clean it up. Reset it. Make it available.”
He offers the key to you.
You don’t take it at first.
He waits.
“You sure?” You ask finally.
He doesn’t blink. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
You take the key. It’s warm from his hand.
Inside, the house smells like cedar and something else. Lemongrass, maybe. You stand just inside the doorway, boots still on, pack still on your shoulders. The place is quiet, dim, full of furniture that doesn’t look like it’s been touched in months.
A fireplace. A battered armchair. A bookshelf filled with mismatched titles and faded spines.
There’s a rug under your boots that muffles the echo of your step.
It feels like a memory. One that you don’t trust.
Tommy hangs back near the doorway. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Bedrooms upstairs. We’ll get you some clean clothes, food, whatever you need. Maria’s on her way.”
You nod once.
It’s all you can manage.
“I’ll give you a minute,” he says. “Lock the door if you want. It locks from the inside.”
He turns, walks down the steps, and disappears into the street.
You stand in the quiet a long time before you move.
Then you lock the door.
And for the first time in years—You are alone in a room with four solid walls.
And no one is coming to take it from you.
----
You don’t sit down.
You pace the edges of the house instead—boots still on, pack still slung tight over your shoulder. You haven’t unclenched your jaw since the gate. Your hands twitch every few seconds, searching for a threat that never comes.
There’s dust on the shelves. A mug left near the sink. A faint, unplaceable smell—like old soap and cedarwood, something untouched but not unloved.
The windows are clean.
That’s what makes your throat ache. You haven’t seen a clean window in two years.
You’re halfway through opening the hallway closet when the knock comes.
Three taps. Polite. Not urgent.
You don’t flinch—but you do go still.
You open the door to find a woman standing there, bundled in a green coat, her long hair pulled back in a no-nonsense braid.
Maria.
You know it’s her before she even says it.
“I brought some clothes,” she says simply. “Figured Tommy wouldn’t think of that.”
She offers the bundle—folded jeans, a thick wool sweater, socks, and a fresh towel. You take it without speaking.
Maria’s eyes travel over your face. Not judging. Just seeing.
Then she nods toward the hallway. “There’s hot water,” she says. “Plumbing’s been steady the last few weeks.”
You blink.
She softens, just slightly. “Take a shower,” she says gently. “You’ll feel better.”
The words hit something you didn’t expect.
Not because they’re cruel.
Because they’re not.
You swallow hard, nod once, and step back. She doesn’t follow. Just hands you the last item in her arms—a bar of soap, wrapped in wax paper and twine. It smells like lavender and something sweeter. Almond, maybe.
“Lock the door if you want,” she says. “No one’s coming in without a key.”
You don’t believe that. But you nod anyway.
Maria gives one more look—not pitying, not soft, just steady—and then turns and walks away.
You close the door and slide the deadbolt into place.
The bathroom is small. Lined in tile that’s chipped in a few places but clean. The mirror above the sink is foggy in one corner. There’s a towel hook behind the door. The shower curtain is blue, faded, dotted with soap scum and time.
You strip slowly.
Everything is stiff—your coat, your shirt, the pants you haven’t changed in who knows how long. The fabric scrapes your skin as it falls. You peel the bandages from your arm, the bruises from the road still yellowing at the edges.
Your body doesn’t look like yours anymore.
Too many scars. Too much lean muscle, too many memories cut into the skin. You press a palm to your side where the blade slid too close last month. The scar’s healing wrong. Doesn’t matter.
The water comes on with a clunk in the pipes and a groan of metal. Steam hits the air.
You step in.
And freeze.
Not because of the cold, the heat is immediate. Wrapping your shoulders. Clinging to your ribs. Scalding your scalp. You stand there for a moment, unable to move. Your hands pressed to the tile like you’re trying to find your balance.
It’s too warm. Too easy. Too much.
You grip the soap. It slips in your palm.
You wash slow—one limb at a time. Dirt turns the water brown. Blood slides off in streaks. You scrub your arms, your chest, the back of your neck, your legs, your hands—twice.
The smell of lavender fills the air.
And before you can stop it—your eyes burn.
You don’t cry.
But your chest tightens. Like the grief wants to come out but can’t find the space.
So you let the water run. And run. And run.
Until the silence hurts less. Until you’re able to muster enough strength to pull yourself from the hot water.
You towel your hair dry in slow, steady passes.
The sweater fits. A little loose in the shoulders, soft at the wrists. The jeans ride high on your hips, stiff with new seams. The socks are thick, the kind you haven’t worn in years—stitched without holes, untouched by cold or blood or desperation.
You sit on the edge of the bed and press your heels to the rug, grounding yourself. The house creaks. A board somewhere upstairs ticks as it adjusts to heat. The walls smell faintly of soap and cedar.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, you feel like a person again.
You hate it, because it makes you want to believe this place is safe.
That’s when you hear it.
A sound.
Not the wind. Not the pipes.
A footstep.
Downstairs.
Your heart stops—then hammers so loud it drowns out everything else.
You stand fast, wet hair clinging to your neck. Grab the knife from your pile of clothes. No shoes. No jacket. Just the blade and the weight of your breath.
You step into the hallway slow. Silent.
Your bare feet barely whisper over the wood.
Another sound. A low clatter.
Someone in the kitchen.
You grip the knife tighter, slipping along the banister, moving like you did before—all instincts and calculation. Every step downward is practiced. Controlled. You keep to the wall where the boards don’t creak. Your pulse is in your ears.
The kitchen comes into view around the corner.
And you freeze.
She’s standing with her back to you—Maria, stocking the cabinets.
You don’t lower the blade.
She doesn’t turn around. Just says, “You’re quiet.”
You don’t respond.
Maria places a can on the shelf, then slowly lifts her hands. Open. Calm. “Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
You stay in the hallway. The knife still raised between you.
“I locked the door,” you say flatly.
“I’ve got a key,” she replies. “Tommy asked me to bring some food over.”
You eye the shelves—now stacked with cans, dry goods, a box of tea bags. There’s a cloth sack on the counter with apples inside. Real ones.
Maria finally turns. She doesn’t flinch at the sight of the knife. Just looks at you, her expression unreadable. “You can put it down,” she says gently. “Or don’t. That’s your call.”
You don’t move.
She watches you a moment longer, then steps aside and picks up the empty crate from the floor. “I’ll knock next time.”
The silence stretches.
You want to speak. But you don’t trust your voice. Or the tears that are burning behind your eyes.
Maria walks toward the door. Before she leaves, she pauses. Glances back over her shoulder.
“People here won’t hurt you,” she says quietly. “But I get it if you don’t believe that yet.”
The door clicks shut behind her.
You stand in the doorway of your kitchen with a knife still shaking in your hand and a throat that refuses to open.
You’ve been given warmth.
Kindness.
A roof and a locked door.
But trust is harder to give back.
You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, knife still in your hand. The scent of tea and apples fills the kitchen.
And for a moment—you breathe.
Just once.
And it feels like drowning.
----
You don’t answer the door when Tommy knocks.
You just wait. Still. Silent. Knife in your hand, not because you need it—just because. You don’t move until the porch groans and you hear his boots retreat. Only then do you open it and step outside, pack on your shoulders like you’re not staying.
Like you never do.
He doesn’t say anything for a few steps. Just walks. You guess he wants you to follow him, so you do.
It’s quiet again. This whole damn town hums too soft. Too still. Like it’s waiting for something to snap.
You pass a woman hanging laundry. She smiles.
You look away.
Tommy clears his throat once, low. Nervous? Or just unsure. “Was thinkin’,” he says, finally, “might be good to show you something.”
You say nothing. Your breath clouds the air between you. You follow anyway.
He stops outside a small brick building that doesn’t look like much. Old. Square. Rust stains down the sides like blood that didn’t wash out.
There’s a white cross on the door.
You know what that means.
“This was the clinic,” Tommy says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Had someone here a while. She… left.”
You don’t ask why.
He hesitates, hand hovering over the latch like he’s not sure if he should even open it.
“She was good,” he adds, quietly. “But you… I saw what you did. With me.”
You blink.
Not because you’re flattered.
Because you feel the walls pulling closer.
“Thought maybe you’d want to see it,” he says. “If nothin’ else.”
He opens the door.
The smell hits first—dust, and something sterile gone stale. The inside is all shadows and sharp edges, old tile underfoot and sun slicing in through narrow windows.
It’s small. Cold. Quiet.
But not empty.
You step inside.
Dust kicks up with every footfall, thick in the air. There’s a counter, a few cracked chairs, a shelf of bandages turned yellow at the corners. A rusted tray still holds a pair of tweezers, long forgotten. The air smells like copper and memory.
You keep walking.
There’s a cabinet that sticks. You tug until it creaks open. Inside, someone left a bottle of pills and a photo—curled with age, the corners torn. A man smiling in a white coat.
You close it like you didn’t see it.
Tommy stays by the door.
He doesn’t follow you in. Just stands there like if he crosses the threshold, he’ll spook you.
Smart.
“This place needs someone,” he says. “Someone who knows what they’re doin’. Someone people’ll trust.”
You laugh. Just once. Dry. Sharp. “Don’t know if that’s me.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not. You get to decide.”
Your fingers twitch.
The counter is chipped in places. There’s a ring on the surface where someone used to leave their mug. You touch it. Just barely.
You haven’t had a place like this since before.
You haven’t let yourself want one.
But now…
Your chest tightens.
You don’t say yes.
You don’t say no.
You don’t say anything at all.
Tommy doesn’t wait for it. Just gives you one last look and steps out into the light again.
The door clicks behind him.
You stand alone in the middle of that room.
Breath shallow.
Hands still.
And for the first time since the world ended, you think:
“It wasn’t the noise that haunted you. It was the silence that came after.”
Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader
Rating: Mature
Warnings: PTSD, blood, graphic violence
POV: Second person
Status: Ongoing
“You didn’t say anything. You didn’t cry. You just sat there and breathed like someone who barely made it.”
----
The clinic is closed today.
For the first time in weeks, your hands aren’t soaked in antiseptic or wrapped around gauze. No one’s waiting on the steps. There’s no blood to scrub from the floor, no bandages to change, no fractured ribs to tape. The quiet is strange—not unwanted, just… unfamiliar. You don’t remember the last time you sat still without being on edge.
Your boots are kicked off beside the door. The radio is silent. The only sound is the low crackle of the fireplace, the occasional pop of wood splitting under heat. You cradle a mug of coffee between your palms, elbows resting on the table as you stare out the frosted window.
It’s better than usual.
Smoother. Less bitter. Still strong, but not that acrid, burn-your-throat kind of strong. You take another sip, frown faintly, then get up and walk toward the cabinet.
Your half-used bag of old grounds is still there, shoved in the back.
But beside it—tucked neatly behind a chipped mason jar—is a new bag. One you don’t remember trading for. Different brand. Sealed. You pause, fingers brushing the edge of the paper package. There’s no note. No explanation.
You stare at it for a moment longer than necessary.
Weird.
Still, you brewed it. And you’re drinking it. And you’re not dead yet.
You’re halfway through the cup when a knock breaks through the morning stillness.
It’s firm. Not urgent, but definite. You set the mug down and step into your boots without lacing them. Your fingers twitch toward the knife at your hip—not out of fear, just habit, but when you open the door, it’s Maria.
She stands alone, her jacket still dusted with melting frost. No guards. No clipboard. Just her.
“Morning,” she says, glancing past your shoulder. “Did I catch you on a break?”
You nod once. “Clinic’s closed. First time in a while.” You grab the mug again, welcoming the warmth back into your palms.
Maria steps inside without asking, rubbing her hands together against the morning chill. You close the door behind her.
“You look better,” she says, eyes scanning your face, your shoulders, your posture. “You were damn near a ghost when you got here.”
You shrug. “Not dead yet.”
Maria smirks. She notices the coffee, lifts an eyebrow. “New brand?”
You look down at the cup. “I must’ve got it last week at the trading post,” you shrug and take another sip, “much better than the usual shit though.”
She hums but doesn’t press it. Just moves to the small table near the window and leans against it, folding her arms.
“I need to ask something,” she says, tone shifting.
You wait.
“There’s a run going out tomorrow. Could be a little rough—some of the routes haven’t been checked since winter hit. One of the locations is a med supply depot. Joel and a few others are going. I want you to go with them.”
Your breath stills. Not from fear. Just surprise.
“Why?”
“You know why.” Maria’s eyes don’t soften. “You’re the only one who knows what half that stuff even does. And Joel—he’s not a medic.”
You look away. Stare at the coffee. Still warm.
“I don’t need you patching people up on the road,” she adds. “But if something goes south, I want someone there who knows what to do.”
Silence stretches.
“I’ll go,” you say quietly. “For the town. For Ellie. Not for—” you stop yourself. “I’ll go.”
Maria nods, satisfied. She pushes off the table, heads for the door.
“There’s an extra rifle in the armory if you want one,” she says before she leaves. “Joel’s leading. He’s not thrilled, but he won’t say no.”
Your jaw ticks. Of course he’s not. He thinks you’re a liability.
You don’t answer. Just watch her go.
----
The sky is still bruised with purple when you sling your pack over your shoulder.
There’s no one else awake on your street yet—only the distant sound of boots near the main gates and the occasional howl of wind curling around rooftops. You’ve layered up: thick coat, reinforced gloves, your own rifle strapped to your back. A knife is sheathed against your thigh, a pistol tucked into the holster at your hip. You left nothing to chance.
By the time you reach the stables, the lanterns are already lit inside. The scent of hay and old leather hits first—then something sharper underneath it, like sweat and tension. It’s not warm, but the air is thick with the sound of people trying not to speak.
Joel’s already there.
He’s tightening the cinch on his saddle, rough hands working through the motion with sharp, practiced pulls. He doesn’t glance your way. Doesn’t greet you. You can feel his mood from across the space—coiled, impatient, and unwelcoming.
Jesse stands off to the side, pulling on his gloves. He gives you a faint nod, friendly enough, but his usual energy is dulled by the early hour. A little behind him, you spot two others you’ve seen on patrol: Miles—older, quiet, reliable—and Brooke, who looks barely old enough to be out here. Her face is drawn and focused as she checks her gear. No one is talking. Just the sound of leather straps, shifting boots, and nervous breath.
You step toward your horse. He lifts his head as you approach, ears flicking, breath steaming from his nostrils. You stroke his neck once, then move to the stirrup.
As you begin to mount, the sound cuts through the silence like a knife.
A low scoff.
It’s quiet. Subtle. But unmistakable.
You freeze mid-motion. Your hand tightens on the saddle.
For a second, your tongue sharpens in your mouth—ready to slice back. But you bite it. He’s not worth it. Not today.
Joel turns away as if nothing happened, like the dismissive sound wasn’t meant for you—wasn’t meant to jab at your ribs and sit behind your teeth. He busies himself with a bedroll strapped to his horse, shoulders stiff beneath the worn fabric of his jacket.
Your pulse spikes, but you shove it down. You climb into the saddle on your own, ignoring the burn in your legs, the tension in your jaw. He didn’t say anything out loud—but he didn’t have to.
He thinks you don’t belong here.
Jesse glances between the two of you, clearly picking up on the charge in the air.
“Everyone good?” He asks, trying to break the silence. “Cold as hell out here. Let’s get moving before I can’t feel my face.”
Miles gives a quiet nod. Brooke swings onto her horse, jaw tight, her fingers white against the reins. Joel mounts wordlessly, gaze fixed on the trail ahead. No one looks at you.
The gates creak open slowly. Cold wind slices across your face as you follow the others out into the dawn.
The sky's the color of ash. The world beyond the walls stretches out—quiet, gray, and endless.
Nobody speaks much after the gates close behind you.
The horses move in a loose line, hooves crunching over frost-hardened dirt. The trees stretch tall and skeletal overhead, their branches bare, reaching. Fog clings low to the ground, curling between trunks like something alive. You keep your rifle slung but ready, fingers brushing the trigger guard every few minutes just to feel it there.
Joel rides at the front.
Jesse trails beside you, offering the occasional small smile, but even he stays quiet. The other two—Miles and Brooke—keep to themselves, eyes scanning the forest like they expect it to reach out and grab them.
By midday, the cold has crawled into your gloves and stiffened your fingers. Jesse calls for a brief stop when they find the remains of a wooden lean-to—half collapsed but still enough shelter to take the edge off the wind. You dismount, jaw tight, and ignore the way Joel glances your way as you move toward the clearing’s edge.
He doesn’t say anything. Just sharpens the blade strapped to his hip with slow, deliberate strokes.
Everyone eats quickly. No fire. No warmth. Just cold rations and silence.
Something in your chest feels wrong. Tense.
You chew a strip of jerky and scan the woods. You can’t see anything—can't hear anything either—but something in your gut curls up tight. A wrongness in the quiet.
You don’t say anything. Not yet.
Fifteen minutes later, Joel is already mounting again. “Depot’s not far,” he mutters. “Let’s finish this.”
They move quickly. The trees thin, giving way to a weathered parking lot coated in frost. The building stands half-sunken behind layers of broken chain-link and barbed wire, its sign barely visible beneath rot and bullet holes: Pine Creek Medical Supply.
Joel halts at the edge of the lot and scans the building. His voice is low, clipped. “Jesse, Brooke—stay with the horses. Miles, you’re with me.”
You dismount before he finishes talking.
“I’ll check the back rooms. Should be faster if we split.”
Joel turns toward you, mouth hard. “Don’t go far.”
You don’t answer him. Just tighten your coat and move through the crumbling doorway.
The interior is worse than expected. Shelving collapsed in on itself, empty containers scattered across the floor. The ceiling tiles are waterlogged and sagging. The smell of mildew and rot is sharp enough to sting your nose.
You keep your steps quiet as you push deeper into the building, weaving past overturned stretchers and shattered glass.
Eventually, you find what you’re looking for.
The back supply room is mostly intact. Rusted drawers. A toppled filing cabinet. An open cupboard full of gauze, tape, IV tubing—real supplies. You shove everything you can into your pack, breathing harder now.
A soft sound behind you makes you freeze.
Gravel shifting.
You spin toward the doorway, rifle raised.
Too late.
The raider slams into you from behind, driving you to the floor. Your rifle flies from your grip, skidding out of reach. You hit hard—shoulder first—air knocked from your lungs. Before you can recover, he’s on top of you, knife gleaming in his hand.
You grab a piece of broken shelving and swing. It clips his jaw, staggering him long enough for you to scramble backwards, your palms bloodied against the tile.
The raider snarls, charging again.
A shot rings out.
He jerks mid-step and collapses hard, blood spraying from a fresh hole in his skull. You gasp, whip your head toward the doorway. Joel stands there, rifle raised. His face is pale. His hand pressed tight to his side. Blood blooms beneath his jacket abd he stumbles forward, barely catching himself on a nearby desk.
“Shit,” you breathe, rushing toward him. You catch his weight as he sways.
“You alright?” He mutters, voice rough and slurred.
You lower him behind the desk, hands already pressing to his wound. “You’ve been shot,” you say. “Hold still.”
Joel grits his teeth. “One more. Somewhere. Didn’t see where they went—”
The words die on his tongue.
A shadow moves behind you.
You barely have time to turn before another raider barrels into you, slamming your back against the floor. Your gun is gone. Your pack is gone. His blade arcs down.
You catch his wrist mid-swing.
Your other hand scrabbles for anything—anything at all—until your fingers close around your belt knife. You bring it up fast.
The first stab catches him in the ribs.
He growls, shoving against you. The knife slips.
You stab again. This time in the gut. Then the neck.
He gurgles, blood splattering across your arms, but you don’t stop.
You drive the blade into him again. And again. And again.
You stop aiming. You stop thinking. You keep stabbing, even as he slumps and his body goes still beneath yours. Blood pools across the floor, warm against your knees, soaking into your sleeves. His face is unrecognizable now. Red and ruined.
Hands grab your shoulders.
“Hey—hey! That’s enough!” You’re being pulled back. Arms locking around your torso. “Stop! He’s dead!”
Jesse’s voice.
You blink. Your vision swims. Your breath catches in your throat. The knife slips from your hand and hits the floor with a wet sound.
Your breath comes in shallow gasps. You blink, but everything’s red. Red on your hands, your sleeves, your chest. It’s in your mouth. Under your nails.
He was going to kill you. He would’ve—
You don’t realize you’re shaking until Jesse grabs you.
Joel stares from where he leans against the wall, blood still seeping from his side. He doesn’t speak. You wipe your face with a shaking hand. Blood smears across your cheek. You can feel the sticky warmth as you collapse against Jesse.
You don’t say anything.
No one does.
----
You made it to the end of Chapter Four and for that… you deserve a medal. Or at least a strong drink.
To everyone who liked, reblogged, commented, or sent me psychic energy in the form of Joel Miller-related screams — thank you. Seriously. You make this emotionally devastating slow burn worth it.
Got a burning question? A one-shot idea? Want to request a soft moment or an unhinged one? Drop it in my inbox — I live for chaos and character pain, preferably served with tension and eye contact.
Also — special shoutout to @orcasoul for wanting to be mentioned, that means the world to me that you're enjoying this. 💚
"It was never the blood that broke her. It was the silence after."
Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader
Rating: Mature
Warnings: PTSD, emotional distrust, mild violence, trauma recovery, survivor’s guilt
POV: Second person
Status: Ongoing
"You didn't cry when it happened. Not once. But the silence afterwards—that's what stayed."
----
It’s been two days since you told Tommy you’d take the job.
He was elated—thanked you about ten times, and told you to take your time setting up.
Even though you could feel that he was hoping it’d be sooner rather than later.
You start with the cabinets.
The top ones first, where someone crammed mismatched jars of gauze and tape beside a cracked ceramic mug. You toss what’s expired. Keep what’s salvageable. Make a pile in the corner for anything that might still be useful—half-full bottles, torn gloves, unlabeled antibiotics.
The room smells like dust, antiseptic, and something faintly metallic that never quite left the tile.
You open the window to let the cold in. Fresh air cuts through the stillness.
It helps, just a little.
You’ve been seeing minor things—splinters, rashes, sprains, a boy who split his chin on ice, a man with a bad cough. Nothing urgent. Nothing dangerous. Just the kind of work you’d never let yourself imagine again.
It’s quiet. Routine. Peaceful.
And it terrifies you.
You don’t trust calm. Not when it lasts this long.
You’re halfway through writing a supply list when the clinic door slams open hard enough to rattle the hinges. The sound jolts straight down your spine.
You whip around—and freeze.
Ellie is standing in the doorway. She’s pale, wild-eyed, blood smeared across her sleeves and throat. She’s breathing too hard to speak at first, but her arms are full.
She’s dragging someone.
“He’s hurt,” she gasps, stumbling inside. “I didn’t—he—please, I didn’t know what to—”
You move. “Back here,” you say, your voice already steady, already shifting. “Now.”
You rush forward as she hauls the boy toward one of the padded tables. He’s older than her—maybe fifteen—but limp. His shirt’s soaked through with blood, dark and spreading. A jagged wound tears across his left side, just below the ribs.
Ellie helps you get him on the table. Her hands are shaking.
“It was a tripwire,” she stammers. “Out near the mill. He stepped on it. It—” her voice catches. “It was metal. Not infected. I swear. Just metal—”
You press your palm into the wound, hard.
He groans, barely.
“Is he bit?”
“No,” Ellie says. “No, I swear—”
“Then help me.” You grab her wrist, place her hand where yours was. “Hold pressure. Don’t stop unless I say so.”
She nods quickly, jaw clenched. Her fingers are trembling, but she presses down with everything she has.
You’re already ripping gloves from the tray, already opening gauze, grabbing the clamp, the suture kit.
The bleeding is bad. Not arterial, but deep. Long. Ugly.
You’ve seen worse. That doesn’t mean you’re not panicking under your skin.
You work fast, sharp. Clean the edges. Clamp what you can. Stitch in fast, uneven lines. You don’t talk. You don’t breathe.
Ellie stays still beside you. Blood soaks through her sleeves. She doesn’t ask questions. She just keeps her hand where you told her.
Eventually, the bleeding slows.
The boy is unconscious. His pulse is faint, but it’s there.
You sit back slowly, wiping your hands on your jeans, heart hammering.
He’s alive.
You look up—and find Ellie staring at him, shoulders shaking. There are tears on her cheeks she hasn’t noticed. They slide silently down her face, cutting clean through the blood.
You watch her for a moment.
Then you get up, cross to the sink, and start scrubbing your hands.
Neither of you says a word.
You’re still cleaning the blood off your hands when the door slams open—hard enough to shake the frame.
You turn quickly—your hand gripping the knife you keep strapped to you now.
It’s a man you’ve seen around Jackson, primarily with Tommy or Ellie. Broad shoulders. Heavy coat. Jaw locked tight beneath a scruff of salt-and-pepper beard. His eyes burn like he’s searching for someone to blame and already found them. There’s something dangerous about the way he moves—like every step is a threat he doesn’t need to say out loud.
Joel, you think is his name.
Joel storms in like he’s already halfway through a fight, eyes blazing and jaw set hard enough to crack teeth. He sees Ellie first—her bloodstained sleeves, the boy on the table, your hands still red.
“What the fuck, were you thinkin’?” He barks.
Ellie flinches. “I—”
“You left,” he growls. “Didn’t tell anyone. Not me. Not Maria. Not a single goddamn adult knew where you were.”
He takes another step into the room, fists clenched at his sides.
“And now he’s hurt,” he snaps, nodding toward the boy. “Bleedin’ out on a table. You think that’s somethin’ you just walk back from?”
Ellie opens her mouth to speak, but Joel cuts her off before she can.
“You don’t get to decide shit like that, Ellie. Not when people are countin’ on you to be smart.”
You stay near the table, checking the boy’s pulse. Stronger now. Stable. But Joel’s voice is rising, sharp and cutting, and Ellie’s shoulders are curling in like she’s shrinking beneath it.
“You don’t even know how bad it is,” Joel continues. “How the hell are we supposed to explain this to his parents? You didn’t think about that, huh? About what they’ll say when they see him with stitches down to his ribs and no clue how it happened?”
Ellie’s voice comes out small. “I didn’t think he’d get hurt—”
“You didn’t think,” Joel snaps. “That’s the whole fuckin’ problem.”
You lift your head, finally. “That’s enough,” you say.
Joel doesn’t even look at you. Just keeps his eyes locked on Ellie, who’s standing there like the wind’s been knocked clean out of her.
“You’re on thin fuckin’ ice,” he says. “You pull a stunt like this again, I don’t care what you think your reasons are—I’ll have you off patrol rotation so fast your head’ll spin. You hear me?”
Ellie’s voice is raw. “I was trying to help him—”
“This ain’t about help,” Joel growls. “It’s about responsibility. And whether or not you can be trusted with it.”
Silence stretches wide and stiff between them.
You turn back to the boy, adjust the bandage around his torso, and say nothing. Not because you don’t have things to say—but because they won’t hear it right now.
Joel looks at the boy one more time. Then back at Ellie. His voice is quieter when he says, “We’ll talk later.”
And then he leaves. Just like that. No thank you. No apology. To either of you.
Just boots across the floor and the door shutting behind him like a warning.
----
The clinic is quiet now with Joel gone.
The boy is alive, stable, breathing. The crisis has passed, but the tension hasn’t. It clings to the walls, to the floor, to the blood still drying on the tile.
You exhale, slow. Your hands tremble.
You’re about to tell Ellie to go—because she should, because it’s late, because you don’t want anyone else in the room right now—when you hear the soft scrape of a stool.
She’s already moving. Grabbing a bucket. Filling it with water from the sink.
You blink.
Then reach for the towels.
No words pass between you for a while. You scrub the counter where your gloves had landed, where blood pooled and smeared and settled in the grooves. Ellie wipes up the trail near the door, then moves to the wall. There’s a rhythm to it—back and forth, rinse and wring, breathe and hold.
Finally, she speaks. “Do you ever get used to it?”
Her voice is quiet. Not shy, but uncertain. Like she already knows the answer.
You glance at her. “The blood?” You ask.
She shrugs, eyes still fixed on the floor. “The panic. The way it hits your chest like it’s gonna break something.”
You don’t answer right away. You think about all the nights you woke up sweating. About the bodies you couldn’t save. About the ones you didn’t try to.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to,” you say finally.
Ellie huffs a breath that sounds a little too bitter to be a laugh. “Yeah. Joel’s definitely not.”
That makes your lips twitch. Just slightly. “Is he always like that?” you ask.
“No,” she mutters, then sighs. “He’s just scared. But he doesn’t say it. So he yells instead. Acts like a dick.”
You glance at her. She shrugs. “You get used to that, too.”
You nod once. “That part I believe.”
Another pause.
Then Ellie lowers her towel, sets it in the bucket, and leans against the wall. “That boy,” she says, quieter now. “He’s my friend. One of the only ones I got here.”
You watch her.
She doesn’t meet your eyes. Just stares down at the stained floor. “I didn’t think anything would happen,” she says. “I just wanted to show him something. A spot I found. Somewhere quiet.”
You know what that means. You know what it is to want quiet.
“He’s lucky you brought him here,” you say. “And you’re lucky he didn’t bleed out on the ride.”
Ellie winces.
You shake your head. “That’s not a scolding. It’s just the truth.”
She looks up at you, eyes red-rimmed, tired.
You hold her gaze.
And for the first time—you see it.
Not just the fear, but the grief behind it.
How much she’s holding in. How much she can’t say.
“I won’t tell Joel,” you add, “about the place.”
Ellie looks up at you. Her mouth presses into a thin line “Thanks.”
You go back to cleaning. She joins you. Neither of you speak again until the last stain is gone.
----
You lock up the clinic as the sun dips below the ridge. The streetlights glow with soft amber warmth. Chimney smoke curls into the air, carrying the scent of pine and something faintly sweet—bread, maybe.
Ellie walks beside you. She doesn’t ask if she can. She just falls in step, hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched.
The silence feels less heavy now. Not comfortable, exactly—but shared.
Halfway to your house, Ellie clears her throat.
“He’s not always like that,” she says. You know who she means. “He just doesn’t know what to do with people he cares about,” she adds.
You don’t respond. But you understand.
When you reach your gate, she stops.
“Thanks,” she says softly. “For not letting him die.”
You glance at her, but she’s already turning away.
She walks down the path without looking back—until, just before she rounds the corner, she lifts one hand.
