Summary: After a drunken Vegas wedding, Robby disappears by morning, leaving you with nothing but a ring and a mistake that was supposed to stay in Vegas. But when a pregnancy and state paperwork force you to track down the husband who vanished, Robby learns the truth and this time, walking away isn’t so easy.
WC: 5K
Tags: Drunken Vegas Wedding, Runaway Husband, Unexpected Pregnancy, Forced Reunion, Second Chance Romance, Robby Wants to Stay, Romantic Comedy vibes with some Angst, No use of Y/N
You wake up wrong.
Not slowly.
Not gently.
Not even all the way at first.
Just, awake.
It hits you all at once. Awareness slamming back into place like something dropped from too high, too fast. No adjustment period. No soft landing. Just your body snapping into consciousness like it forgot to ease you into it.
Your head throbs immediately. Deep. Pulsing. Unforgiving. Like something is knocking from the inside of your skull, trying to get out. Your mouth is dry in that specific, awful way that feels like you forgot to drink water for a week straight, and the light cutting through the blinds.
God.
The light.
It feels aggressive. Personal. Like it chose you specifically to ruin.
You groan, dragging your arm over your face, pressing your forearm hard into your eyes like maybe you can force yourself back under. It doesn’t work. Nothing does.
You lie there for a second, breathing through it. Slow. Careful. Like if you move too fast, something worse might happen.
Something’s wrong. You don’t know what yet, but you can feel it. That quiet, creeping sense that something doesn’t line up.
“…okay,” you mumble. “Okay.”
Last night. There was a shift.
You latch onto that first because it’s easy.
Familiar.
The bar, loud, packed, sticky floors, bad music, worse perfume, tourists who thought volume counted as personality.
You’d been tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind that makes everything feel like it’s happening half a second too late.
And then, there was a guy.
Dark hair.
Tall.
Quiet in a room full of people performing. He hadn’t been trying to get your attention. That’s why you noticed him.
Your stomach flips faintly.
And then memory slips in, warm, bright, loud—
You remember leaning against the bar across from him, one hand braced on the sticky wood, watching him over the rim of someone else’s drink.
“You look miserable.”
His eyes had lifted to yours. Slow. Steady.
“That your opening line?”
“It felt honest.”
He tipped his glass slightly. “You always this rude to strangers?”
“Only the hot ones.”
That had caught him off guard just enough to matter.
Not a full smile. Not yet. Just that small shift at the corner of his mouth that told you he was trying not to laugh and maybe losing.
“Good to know your screening process is thorough,” he’d said.
You’d leaned on the bar. “You gonna tell me I’m wrong?”
He’d looked at you for one beat too long.
“No,” he’d said. “I was gonna tell you I’ve had worse openings.”
You exhale slowly.
Yeah. That part. You talked to him.
Not just talked.
Flirted.
A lot.
“Where are you from?”
He’d looked up at that, one forearm resting against the bar. “Pittsburgh.”
You huffed a quiet laugh and shook your head, setting the bottle in your hand down. “And you’re still this unimpressed?”
He glanced up at you. “You just met me.”
You stepped closer without really meaning to, your hip brushing the edge of the bar as you tipped your head at him. “Maybe. But I can already tell you’re bad at this.”
His mouth twitched. “At what?”
“Having fun.”
He swirled what was left in his glass once, eyes still on yours. “Am I?”
“Yeah,” you said, leaning in just a little more. “You’re doing Vegas wrong.”
That had gotten a real smile out of him.
Small. Crooked. Better than the first.
“So why are you here?”
He’d hesitated just long enough to make it feel like a choice.
“Traveling.”
“Traveling,” you’d repeated. “Like fun traveling or divorced-man-with-a-duffel-bag traveling?”
That had gotten him.
A laugh. Low. Warm. Quick.
“Neither.”
“Okay, mysterious. So what kind?”
He’d taken a sip, then, like he wasn’t sure why he was telling you at all.
“Just taking a break at life. Figured I’d disappear for a while.”
You blinked at him once, then snorted.
“Wow. That’s either mysterious or deeply concerning.”
His mouth tipped slightly. “That what that sounds like?”
“You’re in Vegas alone talking about disappearing,” you said. “Yeah. I have questions.”
“Do you?”
“Several.”
A beat.
Then you leaned in just a little, grin creeping back in.
“Should I be worried or intrigued?”
Another small pause, just enough to feel intentional.
“Which one are you going with?” he asked.
You held his gaze.
“Definitely intrigued.”
That one still lands.
You smile despite yourself and instantly regret it because your head protests. Still, you remember leaning farther over the bar. Remember the way he looked at you when you stopped feeling like part of the crowd and started feeling like the only interesting thing in the room.
“So what, you’re soul-searching your way across America?”
“Something like that.”
“In Vegas?”
He’d tipped his head. “Didn’t say I was good at it.”
And you, God, of course you—
“Oh, honey. If you actually want a soul-searching experience in Vegas, you need a local.”
His eyes had come back to you sharper then. Interested.
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely.”
“And where exactly would I find one?”
You’d leaned in just enough to make it obvious.
“You’re looking at one.”
His gaze had dropped, quick but not quick enough. Straight to your mouth, then back up.
“That so?”
“Mhm.”
“And you’d be willing to help me with my ‘soul searching’ sabbatical?”
You’d smiled. Slow. Shameless.
“I’d be honored to be part of your journey.”
That had gotten him. A real grin that time. Not hidden. Not accidental. Warm.
“Very generous of you.”
“I’m community-minded.”
“Are you?”
“Only when I think it’s worth it.”
That had landed. You could see it in the way his expression shifted, subtle, but there. Less detached. More aware.
“And you think this is worth it?”
You’d held his gaze.
“I think you’re bored,” you’d said. “And I think I could fix that.”
He’d let out a quiet laugh, but his eyes hadn’t left yours.
“That sounds like false advertising.”
“Probably,” you’d said. “But I’m fun.”
“I’m getting that.”
“And you’re curious.”
“About what?”
“About whether I’m as fun as I think I am.”
That had hung there. A beat too long. Not awkward. Just charged.
His fingers had tapped once lightly against his glass before he set it down.
“And if I am?”
You’d shrugged, casual, like you hadn’t just tilted the whole conversation.
“Then I’ll show you around.”
“And if you’re not?”
You’d smiled, just a little sharper.
“Then you can go back to your very serious sabbatical and pretend this never happened.”
He’d huffed a laugh, shaking his head once.
“You always this confident?”
“Only when I’m right.”
“And you’re right now?”
You’d leaned in just enough to drop your voice.
“Yeah.”
Another beat. Closer this time. The noise of the bar fading just slightly around the edges.
He’d looked at you like he was deciding something.
“Alright,” he’d said.
Your eyes open. The ceiling is too bright. The room too still. And then the sheets shift against your bare skin.
You freeze.
Slowly, you look down.
Yeah.
Okay.
That explains part of it.
You’re naked.
Completely.
“…great.”
You let your head fall back.
“Fantastic.”
Your brain keeps going anyway. Because of course it does.
You’d smiled at him. Slow. Satisfied.
“Alright?”
“Show me around.”
“Careful,” you’d said. “That’s how bad decisions start.”
He’d picked up his glass and finished it in one go.
“That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”
You sit up slowly. The room tilts. Hard. Then settles in a way that doesn’t feel reassuring at all.
“Okay,” you whisper. “Think.”
Walking. You remember walking. Warm air. Neon. Crowds. Music spilling into the street. His shoulder brushing yours once, then again and neither of you moving away after.
That part.
It feels important now.
“Do you trust me?”
“I trust you enough to be interested.”
“That’s kind of sexy of you.”
He’d laughed under his breath. “You say that to everyone?”
“Only the handsome, emotionally unavailable ones.”
“And you got all that from one drink?”
“One look.”
His brows had lifted. “Confident.”
“You like that.”
A beat.
Then, easy, amused, and just drunk enough to be honest:
“Yeah,” he’d said. “Enough to get myself into trouble.”
Your stomach turns over. Not from the hangover. Or not just from that.
Casino.
There was definitely a casino.
Of course there was.
You’d dragged him through one. Probably more than one.
“This one,” you’d announced, slapping a slot machine like it owed you rent.
“This one looks cursed.”
“That’s why it’s lucky.”
“That logic feels unstable.”
“You’re in Vegas with me at…” You’d checked an invisible watch. “…whatever time it is. Stability is over.”
He’d leaned against the machine beside you, close enough that when you turned your head you caught the clean, sharp scent of him under the casino air.
He’d been smiling like he hated that you were funny.
You’d smiled before you could stop yourself. “Maybe.”
His mouth had tipped at one corner.
“Dangerous answer.”
“For who?”
This time his smile had come quicker.
“Still figuring that out.”
You swing your legs over the side of the bed and freeze. Something white is on the floor.
Crumpled.
Your eyes narrow. You lean down slowly.
Fabric.
Thin. Cheap. Short.
A dress.
Not yours. Definitely not yours.
And next to it—
a veil.
Small.
Ridiculous.
Plastic-edged.
Your brain goes very, very quiet.
“…no.”
Your gaze drops to your hand. And there it is.
A ring.
Silver band.
Cheap diamond.
Your breath catches.
“No—”
Memory slams back harder this time.
Blackjack table.
You absolutely should not have been at a blackjack table.
The dealer looked exhausted.
You leaned toward him, dropping your voice like this was life or death. “What do I do?”
“You’re asking the wrong person.”
“You have kind eyes and a trustworthy face.”
“That feels manipulative.”
“It is.”
He leaned in anyway, shoulder brushing yours as he glanced at your cards. Close enough that you felt it, warm, steady, not pulling away.
A beat.
“Hit.”
You didn’t hesitate.
The card slid across the table.
You leaned in. He did too. Your arms bumped, neither of you moved.
“…wait,” you said.
The dealer flipped.
Busted.
You won.
For half a second, you just stared at the table, then your head snapped toward him, grabbing his arm without thinking.
“You did that.”
“I did not—”
“You absolutely did.”
“That was luck.”
“That was us,” you shot back, still holding onto him.
That got him.
A real laugh. Head tipping back slightly, hand coming up like he was trying to contain it and failing.
You pointed at him, grinning. “Don’t play humble now. You told me to hit.”
“You listened,” he said, still smiling.
“Because I trust you,” you said, a little too easily.
That shifted something. Just slightly.
He looked at you for a beat longer than before.
“Dangerous decision.”
“Worked out.”
You leaned in closer, not letting go of his arm yet, lowering your voice like it mattered.
“You wanna double down?”
His brows lifted. “Already pushing your luck?”
“I’m on a streak.”
“You won one hand.”
“Confidence is important.”
“That’s not what that is.”
You smiled. Slow.
“It is if you’re doing it right.”
Another beat.
You tilted your head toward the table, playful, reckless. “Hit me again.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but he stayed right where he was.
You played again.
Won again.
This time you didn’t even try to pretend you were calm about it.
“Oh, come on—” you laughed, grabbing his arm again, closer now. “That’s not normal.”
“That’s still luck.”
“No, this is a pattern,” you insisted.
“That’s not how patterns work.”
“That’s because you’re not thinking like a winner.”
He looked at you, amused, a little sharper now. “And you are?”
“I just proved it twice.”
A beat.
Then you leaned in just enough to blur the line between joking and not.
“That was foreplay.”
That had gotten him.
A real laugh. Head tipping back slightly, hand over his mouth like he was trying to contain it and failing.
You watched him, delighted.
“Oh, you are fun drunk.”
He looked back at you, eyes warm, something a little looser there now.
“You say that like you aren’t.”
“I’m always like this.”
“Then I’m definitely in trouble.”
“You’re still standing here.”
His gaze dropped, quick, not quick enough, then came back up.
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Don’t think I’m trying that hard to leave.”
And for a second, just one, the noise of the casino felt farther away.
You stand too quickly.
The room tilts. You catch yourself on the nightstand.
“Okay,” you breathe. “Okay.”
Your eyes go back to the dress. The veil. The ring.
Your heart is moving too fast now. Because your brain is finally catching up.
A gift shop.
No—
a bridal gift shop.
Or some tiny Vegas store built entirely to profit off impulse and intoxication.
You’d been half laughing, half stumbling through one of those tiny Vegas stores where every shelf looked like it had been stocked by somebody going through a public breakdown.
Plastic tiaras. Rhinestone veils. Shot glasses with phrases nobody should say out loud.
You’d turned toward him with a rhinestone tiara on your head.
“Be honest.”
“No.”
“That’s not honesty.”
“That’s self-preservation.”
You’d put it on anyway.
“Now?”
He’d looked at you.
Actually looked.
And this time he hadn’t answered right away.
“What?” you’d asked.
He’d leaned one shoulder against the shelf, looking at you in the tiny veil like he was trying not to say exactly what he was thinking.
“You always this committed once you start a bad idea?”
“Only if I look good doing it.”
That small smile again.
“You do.”
You had frozen for half a second.
“Wow. Was that a compliment?”
He tipped his head slightly, watching you. “You always push like this?”
You stepped a little closer, closing the space between you like it was nothing, adjusting the edge of the veil where it sat in your hair, just enough to give yourself a reason to be near him.
“Only when it’s working.”
Your hand dropped, brushing lightly against his where it rested at his side, not quite lingering.
You glanced up at him through the mirror, a small smile pulling at your mouth.
“Is it working?”
His eyes dropped, quick, not quick enough, then came back to yours in the reflection.
A beat.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”
You close your eyes.
Oh, this is bad. This is very, very bad.
Because this would all be easier if he’d been boring.
Meaner, too.
God forbid the man you accidentally married in Vegas had been easy to dismiss.
Then, the chapel.
Your stomach drops straight through you.
You were standing outside the doors with him, both of you staring at the sign like two people who absolutely should not be here.
White trim. Fake roses. Gold script.
You glanced at it, then at him, already smiling.
“Well?”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah?”
You stepped closer, your hand catching his arm like it belonged there.
“You coming or what?”
His mouth tipped. “You always this convincing?”
You pulled him with you. “Only when I want something.”
That got a look out of him.
A real one this time.
“And you usually get it?”
You stepped in closer instead of answering, your hand sliding down his arm before letting go.
“You tell me.”
His eyes dropped, then came back to yours.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think you do.”
You smiled, then turned and pushed the door open.
That one lands even now. Because that’s the thing: you both could have left.
You didn’t.
You scan the room fast.
Bed. Bathroom. Closet. Chair. Floor.
Nothing.
No him.
No clothes that aren’t yours.
No note.
Then your gaze catches on the small table by the window.
A photo.
Face down.
And next to it, paper.
Your stomach drops so fast it feels like you missed a stair. You don’t move right away. Like if you don’t go near it, it won’t become real.
Then you do.
Slowly.
You pick up the photo first. Turn it over. And there you are.
You.
And him.
Standing in front of a chapel backdrop with fake flowers and soft bad lighting.
You’re laughing.
He’s looking at you instead of the camera.
There’s a small, unwilling smile on his mouth like it escaped without permission.
Dark hair a little wrecked.
Tie crooked.
The both of you looking like exactly the kind of trouble that should come with a legal warning.
Your thumb presses against the edge of the photo.
“…oh my god.”
You set it down and pick up the paper. It’s heavier than it should be.
Official-looking. Real.
Marriage Certificate.
Your name.
Clear.
Undeniable.
And underneath—
Michael Robinavitch.
You stare at it.
Blink once. Then again.
Michael Robinavitch.
The stranger from the bar has a name.
A real one. A whole one. A deeply legal-sounding one.
Michael.
Your husband.
Your grip tightens.
“No,” you whisper.
But there’s no weight behind it. Because it’s right there. And the memories won’t stop.
The officiant asked something about vows. You both said no at the same time. You looked at each other.
Laughed.
The officiant sighed.
Then his name—
Full. Formal. Too serious for the room. You turned toward him, already smiling, already gone.
“That sounds fake.”
A beat.
“Oh my god—”
You grabbed his arm, laughing, bending into him like you couldn’t hold yourself up.
The room went quiet.
He turned his head toward you slowly, eyes on yours, something sharp tucked behind the amusement.
“You’re being very disrespectful to your future husband.”
That made it worse.
You laughed harder, clutching at him, forehead nearly hitting his shoulder.
“Oh my god—future husband?”
“You’re the one in a veil.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means enough.”
He was laughing now too, closer, leaning into you like he’d stopped pretending to keep any distance at all.
You pointed at him, still breathless.
“There you are.”
His attention locked on you. Didn’t move. Didn’t drift.
“You’re trouble.”
“You like me.”
You stepped in closer as you said it, no space left now, your hand still curled in his sleeve.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Came back up.
“Yeah.”
Simple.
Not a joke anymore.
Your fingers tightened slightly in his shirt.
“Too late.”
“For what?”
You leaned in just enough that your voices didn’t have to carry.
“Anything else.”
That did it.
His hand found your waist, firm, like he wasn’t guessing anymore.
Then the kiss.
Quick at first, crooked, both of you still laughing into it, breath uneven, mouths not quite lining up because neither of you slowed down enough to make it neat.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, still close, still holding onto him.
“How was it, husband?”
His hand stayed where it was.
Thumb shifting once.
“Rushed.”
You laughed, softer now.
“Oh, you want another?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Just looked at you.
“Yeah.”
That was all it took.
You kissed him again, this time slower, still smiling when you leaned in, until you weren’t.
The room is suddenly too quiet.
You look up again.
Nothing.
No note.
No shoes.
No jacket.
No Michael.
Just the evidence.
And somehow that’s worse.
You walk back to the bed slowly, certificate still in your hand. Each step feels heavier than it should. Like something shifted while you weren’t paying attention. Like you crossed a line somewhere between last call and sunrise and woke up legally tied to a man whose laugh is still stuck in the back of your head.
You sit down.
The sheets are still warm in places.
Your stomach twists.
You don’t think about that. Not even a little. Because that leads to other thoughts. And you are not emotionally equipped for that right now. More memory anyway. Because your brain is not on your side.
There had been room service fries.
Something salty between you on the bed while you sat cross-legged in that tiny white dress, still wearing the veil because taking it off had somehow become part of the bit.
You leaned forward, reaching across without asking, fingers sliding into his space to steal a fry from his side.
His hand shifted just slightly under yours.
“You have your own.”
You didn’t move back.
“These are husband fries.”
His eyes flicked up to yours, slower this time. “That supposed to mean something?”
You smiled, small. “It already does.”
You ate it, still watching him.
A beat.
Then you reached again, slower now. Your fingers brushing him this time. Not accidental. Not quick.
His hand didn’t move away.
“Careful,” he said, voice lower than it had been a second ago.
“Why?”
Your thumb grazed the edge of his knuckle as you took another fry.
“Because you’re starting to sound like you mean it.”
You leaned in just a little, close enough that your knees brushed his under the table.
“Maybe I do.”
That changed something.
Subtle.
But there.
His gaze dropped, your mouth, your hand, the way you were still in his space, then came back up slower than before.
“You married me,” you added, softer now.
His jaw shifted once.
“That’s what happened.”
You tilted your head, studying him like you were figuring something out in real time.
“Then I get to take what I want.”
His hand turned slightly under yours. Not pulling away. Not quite holding on.
“You’ve been doing that all night.”
“Yeah,” you said, just as quiet.
Another beat.
Your fingers lingered this time when you reached across again.
Didn’t pretend it was about the fries anymore.
“Still here.”
His thumb moved, barely, against your hand.
“Yeah.”
That one landed different.
Closer.
Heavier.
And for a second neither of you smiled.
That’s the part that gets you.
Not the chapel.
Not the kiss.
Not even the certificate.
That.
That tiny little pause in the middle of all the chaos where, for one second, it had almost stopped being a joke.
You exhale slowly.
This would be so much easier if the whole thing had been stupid in a simple way. Instead, it had been stupid and fun and weirdly good.
Which, frankly, feels rude.
You look down at the certificate again.
Michael Robinavitch.
You don’t know him. Not really. But you know how he laughs. You know the way he looks at you when you say something ridiculous. You know he flirted back like it was somehow your fault he was enjoying himself. You know he stayed.
All night.
And now—
he’s gone.
You fall back onto the bed, arm over your eyes.
“…well.”
A beat.
“Well fuck.”
The room, unhelpfully, remains silent. You lie there for another second.
Then another.
Then, because apparently the universe has decided humiliation is a full-service experience, your stomach gives a long, ugly roll.
You slap a hand over your mouth and sit bolt upright.
“Oh, no.”
You scramble out of bed, half blinded by light and panic, grab the sheet because modesty apparently matters again now for some reason, and lurch toward the bathroom.
Cool tile under your feet.
Too-bright mirror.
A version of yourself that looks exactly like somebody who got drunk, married a handsome stranger, and woke up alone in a hotel room with legal documentation.
You glare at your reflection. Your hair is a crime scene. Your mascara is somewhere below your eyes now. There’s glitter on one shoulder. You don’t remember wearing glitter.
That feels insulting.
You lean over the sink and breathe through the nausea until it passes just enough to leave you shaky instead of actively dying.
Then you straighten, slowly, and look at yourself again. At the ring. At the sheet you’re clutching around yourself like that’s the thing preserving your dignity.
“You’re an idiot,” you tell the mirror.
Mirror-you looks unconcerned. You rub a hand over your face. Then, because self-pity is apparently not stronger than curiosity, you go back out into the room.
The dress is still there. The veil too.
And now that you’re looking at them with slightly more functioning eyesight, the whole thing is somehow worse.
The dress is cheap in a very specific Vegas way. Not ugly exactly. Just aggressively committed to the bit. Short hem. Thin straps. White fabric with just enough shimmer to look bridal under bad lighting and suspicious under natural light.
You crouch carefully, very carefully, and pick it up between two fingers like it might accuse you. There’s a price tag still attached. You stare at it. Then bark out one shocked laugh.
“You bought the clearance dress?”
You don’t know who you’re asking. Michael is not here to defend himself. The room remains unsupportive. The veil is even worse. Tiny comb. Rhinestone trim. One sad little layer of tulle.
You hold it up.
It looks like something a bachelorette party would dare the least stable friend to wear on Fremont Street.
You did wear it. You wore it while getting legally married.
“Unbelievable.”
You let it drop back to the floor and straighten with the dress still in hand. There’s a chair by the window with your regular clothes draped over the back of it. At least one of you had the sense, or Michael had the sense, to put them somewhere that wasn’t the hallway.
Your shoes are under the chair. One upright. One on its side. Your purse is on the desk. You immediately cross to it and check.
Phone.
Wallet.
Keys.
Cards.
Everything seems to be there. No mysterious missing money. No evidence that you were robbed by your husband, which feels like the kind of standard you shouldn’t be relieved about and yet.
You unlock your phone. Battery at twelve percent. The screen is a graveyard of unread texts.
One from your coworker asking if you got home okay.
One from another asking if you can take her Saturday shift, which at this point feels emotionally offensive.
A blurry selfie of you and two girls from the bar at the start of the night, all eyeliner and bad intentions.
No messages from an unknown number.
No “had fun last night.”
No “sorry I vanished.”
No “by the way we’re legally married.”
Nothing.
You check your recent photos.
There are too many.
Of course there are.
The first few are normal.
Bottles lined up behind the bar.
A shot of somebody’s ridiculous birthday sash.
Then it devolves.
Fast.
A picture of a slot machine.
A close-up of your own face, smiling too wide.
A blurry shot of Michael from across what looks like a blackjack table, his head slightly turned, expression unimpressed, one eyebrow halfway up like he’d caught you taking it.
You stare at that one longer than you mean to.
Even blurred, he looks like himself. Quiet. Sharp. Mildly exasperated by everything around him.
There’s another one.
The Elvis.
You and Michael on either side of him, both looking deeply unconvinced in very different ways. You’re beaming. Michael looks like he’s accepted that resistance has failed him spiritually.
You laugh despite yourself.
Then there’s the gift shop.
A picture of Michael holding the BRIDE tiara with exactly two fingers, looking assumed.
Then—
the chapel sign.
Then—
oh no.
A selfie of you in the veil and him in the background, slightly out of focus, jacket off, tie crooked, caught mid-look in your direction.
Your stomach flips. Because even there, even in a half-blurred phone photo, it’s obvious.
He’d been in it.
Not just physically there.
In it.
With you.
And that makes everything worse.
And then the final one. The photo of the certificate after it had been signed.
Apparently you documented that too.
“Jesus Christ.”
You drop the phone onto the bed and sit down beside it.
The mattress dips.
The ring catches the light again.
You twist it once around your finger.
Cheap. A little loose. Cold.
Still there.
There is a wildly irresponsible part of your brain that wants to laugh. The larger, more functioning part wants to scream into a pillow. You settle for putting your face in your hands.
Think.
Okay.
Okay.
What do you know?
You know his name is Michael Robinavitch. You know he was real. You know you liked him. Not in a profound, life-altering way. You’re not insane.
But you liked him.
You liked talking to him. You liked dragging reactions out of him. You liked the way he flirted back like he wasn’t planning to and then suddenly very much was. You liked the way his face changed when he laughed. You liked the way he looked at you when he stopped pretending this was just entertainment.
You know he left.
That part sits the heaviest.
Not because he owed you forever. But he sure as hell owed you something.
A note.
A number.
A five-second conversation before disappearing into the Nevada morning like some kind of emotionally constipated magician.
Something.
Because this?
This was bullshit.
You got drunk and married each other.
That feels like the kind of thing that should come with at least the bare minimum of follow-through.
Instead, he just—
left.
No explanation. No number. No scribbled note on hotel stationery. No hey, ‘last night was insane, call me when you’re less hungover.’
Nothing.
Just gone.
And no, actually, that was rude as hell.
You stare at the marriage certificate in your hand, then at the empty room again like he might somehow reappear just so you can be mad at him properly.
Because what the fuck was that?
You don’t get to marry someone in Vegas and then vanish before they wake up like this was some kind of weird tax scam.
And that shifts it. Just slightly. From hilarious disaster to something that doesn’t sit right. Something sharper around the edges. Because now it’s not just ridiculous. Now it’s embarrassing.
Now it’s you waking up naked in a hotel room with a ring on your finger and a legal document in your hand while your husband, your actual husband, God help you, is nowhere to be found.
You don’t like the way that thought lands.
You shove it away immediately.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
You are not going to spiral about the emotional cowardice of a man you accidentally married before you’ve had water, aspirin, and maybe divine intervention.
You grab the complimentary hotel pen from the desk. Then the hotel notepad. Then stare at both of them.
“What am I doing.”
Still, you write it down anyway.
Michael Robinavitch.
The letters look strange in your handwriting. Too formal. Too real. Too much like something that exists outside this room.
You stare at the name. Try to hear it the way the officiant said it. Try to hear your own laugh right after.
It doesn’t help.
Nothing about this looks better written down.
You set the pen aside and flop back onto the bed, one arm thrown over your face.
The room is still too bright.
Your head still hurts.
You’re still naked under a hotel sheet with a clearance bridal dress on the floor, a marriage certificate on the bed, and no idea where your husband went after apparently deciding basic decency was optional.
The absurdity of it finally crests.
A laugh slips out.
Small at first.
Then another.
It hurts, God, it hurts, but it’s there anyway, because what else are you supposed to do?
You got blackout-adjacent and married a man with the name of a tax attorney and the face of a very tired sin.
In Vegas.
After a shift.
Because apparently your survival instincts took the night off and left your dignity unsupervised.
You laugh again, then groan and press your palms into your eyes.
“This is so bad.”
It is.
It really, really is.
And yet, underneath the pounding headache and the anger and the rising logistical nightmare, there’s still that faint leftover spark of the night itself.
The joy of it.
The stupidity of it.
The reckless, bright, completely unhinged freedom of deciding, for a few hours, that consequences were for other people.
You don’t know if that makes it better or worse.
Probably worse.
Definitely worse.
You roll your head toward the window without moving your arm.
Too much light.
Too much day.
Eventually, you’re going to have to get up. Eventually, you’re going to have to shower, get dressed, and figure out what the hell you just did to your life. Eventually, you’re going to have to decide whether this is a funny story, a legal emergency, or the opening act of a full-blown personal crisis.
But not yet.
For one more second, you just lie there in it.
The ring on your finger.
His name on the paper beside you.
His laugh still caught somewhere in the back of your head.
And the last thing you said to him, maybe, dragging itself up through the haze with humiliating clarity:
“Don’t ditch me, husband.”
You go still.
Then very slowly lower your arm from your face and stare at the ceiling.
“…oh, you asshole.”
And then, because really there is nothing else left to say:
summary: Joel faces his worst fear when it comes to you.
w.c: 8,7k
warnings: angst, a lot of tears, mentions of blood, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of suicide, joel being a bit harsh on this.
A/N: note at the end of the chapter. AND PLEASE SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS WITH ME. REBLOGS ARE IMPORTANT, THANKS.
dividers by @/saradika-graphics
If somebody asked Joel about his favorite sound, he could come to think about birds, and silence. That kind of silence that doesn’t scream, that doesn’t seem eerie, that one that brought calm in the air, peaceful.
But as the days of his life had turned into more than two decades he had started to enjoy of the little things and he had made up his mind about the favorite sounds and of course it came from you,
From the sound of your voice when you talked sweet nothings to him
From the sound of your humming when you were just looking around
From the sounds of your moans, he got to swallow during kissing
But his favorite sound was your laugh, yes, as simple as that.
The one that came out right after sex or after something had turned out okay and you were glad you had made it to another day because that meant you were alive, that you, his favorite person in the world was alive.
That meant your heart was still beating, that meant his one was still beating, because his life depended of yours, of your own heart beating holding him altogether.
After all, you always carried his heart in your hands.
That's why the silence pressing against his chest now wasn't the kind of silence that followed after your laughter, or your breathing. This was the kind of cursed silence that foreshadowed something was wrong. Joel was aware he didn't possess the gift of sixth sense, but he did believe that the connection between you and him was so strong that you both knew when something wasn't going to end well, when you were both in danger.
This silence now was suffocating and warm, but the kind that burns you, and choke you with bare hands. Probably the same kind you had felt just a few months ago when you found him at the gates of death.
No birds.
No wind.
No laugh.
Just that pounding, ringing silence inside his skull and that terrified Joel as if nature had a way to alert him of something was definitely off.
“We should probably go back to Jackson” Tommy spoke, stopping just behind Joel, who still seemed lost and focused at the same time.
Joel’s fingers twitched at his thigh; near his rifle, he wasn’t even aware of what he was reaching for.
His jaw tensed at Tommy’s suggestion. He didn’t even turn to look at him when he replied because he was listening anything remotely close to your breathing, to the woman whose heart kept his own beating.
“No, we aren’t.” Joel replied, voice strained.
Tommy just exhaled; he knew that fighting Joel right now wasn’t the correct move. “Joel, you don’t even know if she’s hurt. She could just be—"
Joel’s head turned abruptly towards his brother, the look in his eyes seemed defiant and broken at the same time drawn in that kind of gaze someone becoming a weapon instead of a man.
“Just be what?” he asked, tone holding anger on it.
“Joel…”
“Just fucking say it!” Joel pressed.
“Perhaps it was all a move she made up.”
“For what? For leaving?”
Tommy didn’t reply. Joel had already did it for him, but the look inside his brother eyes weren’t holding doubt on you.
Jesse shifted beside them. He knew there was tension. And the heat wasn’t helping at all. Sweat had plastered his to his forehead, but the worry in his eyes wasn’t from the heat.
“Her tracks stop near the trees…” he muttered. “Then nothing. It’s like she just disappeared.”
Joel’s heart constricted hard against his cage. He stopped breathing. For a flicker of a second, he thought of your laugh. He thought of every time he woke with your hand on his chest, keeping him alive.
He thought of the sound of your voice whispering that you were okay. He wanted to imagine that.
Because last night you had promised each other you would start again. You had danced together, you had come to bed together, you had made love and then he got a glimpse of you in the morning when your lips ghosted over his temple before you left for patrol.
Joel swallowed with difficulty, eyes narrowed, sharpening to a point.
Whatever sense of peace these last few days he had was falling away like old dust shaken off.
Tommy and Jesse saw it dancing in his eyes.
“Someone took her,” Joel said, afraid of the truth. The muscle in his jaw tightened.
Tommy stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Okay. Then we find her. But Joel…”
“The lodge.” Joel said, before Tommy or Jesse had the chance to.
Jesse blinked at that “The lodge? Why the hell would she end up there?”
Joel was already jogging toward the horses, leaving no space or time to step back because he didn’t need to sit and think about logic right now, nor a proof. He simply felt it, like a hooked line pulling straight through his chest.
Tommy cursed under his breath and hurried after him.
“Joel she wouldn’t go back there after I found her the other day—"
“She would,” Joel snapped but without. “She wanted to make sure no one followed after that day, I know., but now she is not alone, I know.”
Jesse exchanged a worried glance with Tommy.
“Joel,” he tried carefully, “if it is the same lodge… the last time we were there—”
Joel’s jaw went tense, memories crashing hard and fast, back and forth.
Blood. Yelling. Your hands shaking on his chest, desperately bringing him to life while the world was trying to take him away from you.
He hadn’t forgotten and he would never forget.
Tommy stepped in front of him, trying to slow him down before he mounted the horse.
“Listen,” Tommy said firmly. “If this turns out the way we think—”
Joel looked up at him. There was no fear in his gaze.
“I’m losing time here Tommy.”
Tommy’s face tightened.
“And I’m not coming back to Jackson without my wife.” He added before adjusting his rifle strap across his shoulder.
Your blood made Nick's hands wet and slippery.
He wasn’t sure of how long you had been out cold, maybe a minute, ten, or thirty, his mind was filled with only worry and the sound of his heart beating fast against his ribs
"Hey—hey, please wake up," he begged, his voice strained as he gently touched your face with shaky hands. "Don't die on me, please don’t.”
Your head moved to the side, blood flowing down your head, forming a sticky puddle under your hair. Nick took a shaky breath, trying to stay calm. He pressed a piece of his ripped t-shirt tightly around your head to stop the bleeding.
"I’m sorry," he said quietly, his voice cracked at the end. "I'm really… damn, I got part on this.”
His sight blurred, he tried to blink a few times to clear it, but he couldn’t move, especially with you laying seemingly lifeless on his lap and when Mara’s body laid just a few meters away in front him.
He pressed his hand on your wrist to feel your pulse, it was really soft and slow and your skin was getting colder.
“Wake up," he sighed, moving back a bit. "You are strong. I’ve seen you.”
But fear rose and crept up inside his own throat. You stayed still. You made no sound. He kept you safe from foes but could still fail.
He put one arm by your back and carefully pulled you to the wall, placing you safely to help you breathe. His hands were shaking.
“I can’t take you back to Jackson by myself,” he spoke, voice slow for you to hear. "But I know Joel will find you—” He paused; his voice turned low. “Please, try to stay alive”
Your lashes fluttered softly, but Nick felt some hope building inside his chest.
“Yes, right there," he spoke soft, cleaning blood from your head with care that felt odd near all this mess. “That is, it. Breathe…. just breathe.”
But then, you shuddered and went still again.
Nick's face crumbled, his calm lost.
“I should have warned you, " he said low, eyes so burning due the tears. "I must stop you then. I must have told Joel then. I must have—”
His sound broke and died inside his throat because the sound of horses galloping made him freeze. Instinctively, he became protective over you, grabbing the same gun he had use to kill mara.
Nick gritted his teeth, hardening his gaze as he pointed precisely at the door through which people were going to enter. He stood in front of you for the sole reason of saving your life and being brave and strong enough to take you back to Jackson and save your life.
Nick stayed still as stone. His gun stayed steady in his hands, breathing sharp, set to fire when the door swung wide. But when it burst open, three shapes rushed in fast, guns up and aimed right toward him.
Tommy, Jesse, and of course, Joel.
Nick braced for a firefight, but none of them fired, because the scene hit them like a punch to the chest.
Mara’s body lay collapsed in her own blood on the wooden floor.
And behind Nick—
Joel’s soul left his body, followed by a gasp sound that felt ripped out raw from inside.
“Jesus Christ,” he croaked.
His gun nearly fell from his grip when he saw you there, blood seeping dark from your head, skin so pale, eyes shut, chest barely even lifting.
For one long, frozen moment, Joel forgot the world outside.
Tommy moved quick but calm, Jesse’s eyes opened wide at all the scene in front of them, but Joel,
Joel stumbled close like he’d caught a bullet, his legs shook when he tried to step closer to you.
Nick tried to keep steady, hand still tight on the gun, defending himself from Joel’s upcoming attack.
“She needs some help—”
But Joel didn’t react, his eyes were glued to your form laying there. His whole world limp there in a pool of black blood.
Tommy reached out for his brother, trying to hold him still. “Joel—Joel—slow down. We don’t know what—”
“No.” Joel’s voice cracked. His eyes darted wild. “She’s hurt.”
Nick dropped his gun, his chest rising “I did not do this,” he spat through his teeth. “She—Mara did it—she tried to end her life—she nearly—”
Joel didn’t care who did what. Not just now. Not when your own blood stained the floor in the same way his did.
How had you been you strong after seeing this?
Joel ignored Tommy and Nick's words, walking past them without even being able to take his eyes off you, the same woman he had seen just hours ago safe in the warmth of his arms, now lying in a pool of blood. He fell down on his knees beside you, body shaking.
Your head tilted softly when his hand touched your cheek.
“Baby, come on, open your eyes…Baby?” He whispered, grabbing your face with delicacy as if you were a rose and the petals had started falling out.
Joel was a strong man; anyone could see it. The broad shoulder and the defiant look in his eyes, at the look of them. Most of the days he looked like the strongest man on earth.
Now, on his knees grabbing his world in his arms.
“Come on, baby?” he begged, again, but he was met the silence, the kind of silence that sliced any heart in two. “Baby, open your eyes” he repeated all again, his forehead now touching you.
“Baby…” he mumbled low, the word getting stuck deep in his chest. “I beg you.”
His head touched yours, like touching could make you feel strong now. Like his will could keep your soul right where it should be, in your body.
“Where did you get strength?” he said, voice cracked, different from the man who looked at scary things without any fear. “How on earth did you manage to go through this?”
Tommy knelt beside him carefully, murmuring to his brother “We need to take her back, Joel—let me—”
Joel shook his head sharply, shoulders shaking “No” he rasped, as if letting, even an inch of you, would make you slip away forever.
Nick swallowed hard behind him, his voice cracking. “I tried to keep her awake. She—” He stopped, the guilt strangling the rest.
Joel didn’t even listen to those words. All the strength, all the violence, all the survival instinct that had made him feared across two decades meant nothing here.
Because you weren’t looking at him. You weren’t talking to him. You weren’t smiling that soft morning smile that always made his heart stop.
He shook you just slightly, trying to make you open you eyes, but his his voice broke again. “Baby, come on. This isn’t how it ends,” he whispered. “Do you hear me? Not like this. Not after last night. Not after we said.”
Your hand slipped limply off your stomach when he cradled you closer to his body, he stuttered, something inside him really broke at the sight of you so weak in his arms. He gasped at the touch of your hand, your skin felt colder under his fingertips and it terrified him.
Tommy leaned in, with urgency on his voice. “Joel, we need to move her and take her back to Jackson.”
Joel lifted his head, finally looking up at his younger brother. His eyes were wild, red, glassy, not with rage this time, but filled with the desperation of a man losing the love of his life in his arms.
“Is she gonna die?” Joel asked with a voice so broken Tommy almost loss it in front of him.
Tommy put his hand on Joel’s arm with delicacy on his touch “No. We are getting her home”
“My baby…” Joel whispered, looking at your face again, caressing the skin, his fingertips shook when he got to touch your face, like he was trying to remember it in case he could never touch you again, "She can't… she can't leave me."
Tommy's own eyes stung, but he held it back, trying to stay calm. "That's why we will move. Joel—look at me. She is still alive."
Joel looked away from your face and stared intently at Tommy, as if he was trying to stop himself from breaking down in front of them.
Nick stood still a short distance away, his face looked very scared as if he knew what was coming for him.
"I should've stopped this. I should've… I knew Mara was changing for the worse. I should've told you—both of you—"
Joel quickly turned his head toward Nick, his eyes both sending daggers to him "Not right now."
His voice sounded harsh and broken. "We are not having this conversation right now.”
Tommy squeezed Joel’s arm tightly. “Let me carry her.”
Joel froze for a few seconds. He stared down at you on his arms, your blood imprinting on his, your head leaned towards him because your body knew it was him, even in a daze.
But then, he slowly put one arm behind your back, the other under your knees, lifting you gently just as he had promised just weeks ago.
Only when he felt all of your weight near his chest did Joel breathe again, stuttering, not smooth.
He leaned his head closer, his forehead to yours.
“Come on, baby,” he mumbled, barely heard. “Just a bit more.”
Tommy and Jesse wiggled, made room for Joel to walk with you in his arms, but still, he didn’t clearly notice them. His mind was only on the heat and coldness irradiating from your body.
Nick came up, his voice hushed. “Joel—"
Joel then grunted. He didn’t want to hear excuses; not even know why you were dying in his arms. He just wanted to keep you alive.
Joel stepped out the room, not looking up once, hugging his entire world tighter against his body.
Joel didn't remember how he'd ended up here, back in Jackson with you in his arms, and how now you were lying unconscious in a bed, but safe from danger—or so he wanted to believe, for his own sake, for his sanity, for his life.
There were scenarios he always used to imagine, but in those where he lost you, he always lost his composure. There was no way for Joel to survive the pain of not having you, of not seeing you, or of never being able to touch you again. From the moment you came into his life, everything changed. After years in which he didn't know how to find a reason to keep living, you arrived, and from one moment to the next, every second of the day was worth it because he was going to be where you were, in your arms, to your kisses, to your cinnamon scent that healed his heart so much.
And I really had no idea how you had been strong enough to cope with the pain and despair because if you loved him with the same intensity as he loved you, I didn't understand how you didn't break down when he was in this same situation six months ago.
How you were even strong to save him from his own death.
Joel hadn’t moved from the chair at your bedside since they brought you in. His elbows rested on his knees, and his hands intertwined with yours so tightly his knuckles were white.
His eyes never left your face. They were glue to your face, he even tried not to blink for so long.
“Joel”
Tommy broke the silence that had consumed Joel for almost twenty-four hours. His voice was too gentle. “You need rest.”
But Joel didn’t react to the sound, so Tommy tried again by pulling up a chair next to his brother.
“You haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours. You had barely breathed since we left that lodge. Let me stay with her for a bit. You go home, shower, lie down—”
“No.” Joel’s voice cracked at the end, but was firm enough. He shook his head, eyes still glued to your face. “I’m not leaving her alone.”
Tommy exhaled “Joel… c’mon, brother. If you go down like this, you aren’t helping her. Just one hour. One hour to close your eyes.”
Joel lifted his gaze to his brother and the look on his face nearly broke Tommy.
Joel seemed like man hollowed out, drained of everything but love and terror inside him.
“I can’t,” Joel whispered, voice fragile. He swallowed, eyes watering. “I can’t go back to that bed.”
Tommy blinked, not expecting that.
Joel’s breath shook “I can’t go back to sleep in a bed without my wife by my side.”
Your hand rested under his big trembling one. He brought it up to his lips, kissing your knuckles.
“That bed isn’t a bed without her. It’s just an empty space.”
Tommy’s jaw tightened. “Joel… she’s alive. She’s still with us.”
Joel dropped his head next to your arm, forehead pressing against your wrist.
“Not until she opens her eyes,” he whispered. “Not until she looks at me. Not until she says my name. That’s when I’ll believe she’s still here.”
He squeezed your hand again, tender, desperate, begging to the universe for you to open your eyes.
“What are you doing with Nick?” Joel asked, looking at his brother while still holding your hand.
“We don’t know.”
“He and Mara tried to kill her”
“But he didn’t”
“But he was involved in all of this!” Joel snapped, “And if my wife doesn’t wake up, I will kill him with my own hands”
Tommy sighed “All this revenge had taken us to this, Joel. This needs to stop at some point.”
“Leave” Joel asked, even begged “Just leave, please”
At that moment, Tommy knew better than to argue with Joel. He wasn't the same man he used to talk to every day, not the same man he'd become since arriving here. Right now, he was a man burdened by the pain of not being able to protect you as much as he'd once feared.
Tommy sighed and left the room, leaving Joel, who hadn't noticed, had shed a tear into your hand, one of the many he could no longer hold back.
“I’ve seen you go back and forth a thousand times before,” Joel said, clutching your bloody hand in his, his voice breaking, weak. He laid his head on your stomach, holding onto the faint rhythm of your heartbeat as the only sign he had of you still clutching to life.
“And if I can’t make you stay with me in this life…what would of my, baby?” His breath hitched, heavy with the weight of a future he feared “I swear I’m not forcing you to stay, because we both know you deserve better that what I ever gave you. But you—” he paused, his finger tightened around yours, “you’ve always been the strongest one. And that love you got for me…It’s what makes you better. What makes you human.”
He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, eyes shut, voice breaking into a whisper as he poured all his strength on you, “You make me feel human, too. You make me feel like there’s still a piece of me that hasn’t die yet. And I can’t believe how strong you were to stay by my side after what happened to me…because seeing you like this now,” he swallowed hard, a tear slipping down his cheek “burns right through my chest.”
He pressed his forehead against the back of your hand and begged you, “Please, baby…don’t let this be the last time I get to hold you.”
……
Boston QZ, 7 years ago
It was already past the curfew time, later for anyone sane to be outside. You and Joel were in you was back from one of those smuggling runs that went sideways, both of you ducking into the shadowed hallways without soldiers noticing.
Your lungs burned and Joel’s shirt was still dusted by the dirt.
You leaned against the wall, catching your breath. Joel stopped in front of you, face tight with worry.
“You could’ve been shot,” he muttered, his voice raspy as usual
“But I wasn’t” you said, letting out a breathless laugh.
“You know that’s not the point.”
Your eyebrows frowned, looking up at him. Joel wasn’t looking at the injuries in your arms, but at you.
Softly, focused and terrified.
You took a quiet step toward him, chest already brushing his. “Joel… it’s okay.”
His jaw clenched. “No. It isn’t”
You could see the fear trembling under his chest, fear he didn’t let anyone see. Not even Tess.
Only you could see it in the daylight.
Your hand lifted to touch his face, brushing the bruise on his cheek, with delicacy. He stiffed, just for a moment, but then leaned into your palm like he didn’t mean to, like his body betrayed him.
“Why do you care so much about me?” you whispered.
Joel breathed out your name like like a promise he was terrified to make to himself.
“I’m not supposed to,” he murmured.
You froze, even your touch on his face.
Then his gaze dropped to your lips.
He looked like he was standing on the edge of a cliff with no way back.
Either way, he would fall.
Then, in a gravel-soft voice that sounded like it hurt him—
“You terrify me” he whispered, cupping your face gently,
“Joel—”
His lips touched yours reverently, pouring fear and anxiety into a kiss he needed to give.
Not rough.
Not rushed.
Not desperate.
A trembling, careful, aching kiss, as if he was terrified that the moment he tasted you, he’d never be able to stop doing it.
Once he fell, he could never stand up and walk without you.
When he pulled back, his breath was shaky.
“I’m scared,” he admitted, forehead against yours. “I’m scared ‘cause I think if I lose you that’ll be it for me. That’ll be the last damn straw my heart can take.”
You grabbed his shirt and kissed him again, deeper this time, your body bowing into his, melting together.
When you finally broke apart, Joel pressed your hand to his chest, right over the frantic beating of his heart.
“Damn you, baby” he whispered.
………………………
Somewhere in the Highway, 6 years ago
The argument had been so stupid, born out of the exhaustion you both felt after hours of walking under the sun.
You’d insisted on taking the back road, the flatter path along the river, but Joel had insisted on the ridge route, which gave more visibility to your surroundings.
“Joel, it’s two extra hours climbing rocks for no reason,” you’d snapped, breathless.
“It’s safer,” he bit back, stubbornly.
“It’s harder and you’re tired.”
“I’m not.”
“Joel—”
“I said we’re taking the ridge.” His voice cracked, final.
Ellie looked between the two of you quietly, chewing her lip.
You stared him down. “You don’t have to bark orders at me. I’m not one of those stupid men who worked for you.”
“I’m not treating you like one.”
“You are.”
His jaw clenched, tense. He picked the skin of his neck in annoyance.
“Fine,” you muttered. “Do whatever you want.”
“Fine.”
And that was that. You and Ellie followed him.
Hours later, Ellie was walking ahead, humming to herself, badly pretending she couldn’t feel the tension building behind.
One she could cut with her knife.
Joel stayed several paces behind you, silent, but not taking his eyes off of you.
That was how he punished himself and how he punished you.
It was the same silence he used when he was afraid of what he’d say if he opened his mouth.
And God, it burned his lungs right now.
Every time you slowed your pace, he slowed his pace. Every time you sped up, he lingered behind.
“He’s being super dramatic.” Ellie shot you a look at one point, whispering,
You scoffed under your breath. “Tell me about it.”
Joel’s eyes flicked to you at the sound of your voice, involuntary, and then he tore them away again, pretending to scan the treeline when your gaze met his for a flicker second.
But his fingers twitched at his sides.
He hated fighting with you.
Because every argument scraped at an old wound inside him, the fear that loving someone meant losing them.
And losing you? That fear was killing him from the inside.
By late afternoon, you were climbing down a slope when your boot slipped on a cracked ground.
“Hey!” he shouted, grabbing your arm so fast it nearly jerked your shoulder off your body.
His hands were all over you, checking, touching, caressing your cheeks “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Tell me.”
You blinked, startled. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t let go of your touch. He didn’t even pretend to look calm.
“Jesus… don’t do that.” He whispered.
Your heart softened. “You weren’t even talking to me,” you murmured.
Joel swallowed, eyes flicking over your face. “I know,” he rasped, frustrated. “I just… I get scared. And then I get angry. And then I say shit I don’t mean.”
You touched his arm. “Joel—”
He finally met your eyes.
“Don’t walk away from me,” he whispered. A beg that came out of nowhere.
Almost afraid.
“I’m not. Never.” you whispered back.
Joel must have drifted off without realizing it, his head pressed against the edge of the bed, your hand still locked in his.
When he jerked awake, heart slamming against his ribs, the first thing he did was look at you.
But you were still breathing.
Relief and terror tangled so tight in his chest it hurt.
Then he felt that prickle at the back of his neck. Joel’s eyes lifted and his head turned back to the door.
Nick stood there, as if waiting with his hands clasped tight in front of him like he didn’t know what to do with them. He was exhausted and ashamed of facing Joel.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Joel growled, standing abruptly.
Nick stiffened but didn’t move from where he was standing “I just—”
Joel was already crossing the room, finger stabbing toward him.
“You got some nerve showing your face in here,” he hissed. “After what happened.”
Nick swallowed hard. “I came to see if she—”
Joel laughed; the sound broke by the end “You don’t get to check on her. Not after you let her walk into that trap.”
Nick flinched, guilt flashing raw across his face. “I didn’t let her—“
“You did!” Joel cried out, “You almost got her killed and for what?”
“Because mara got me! Okay? I didn't want to lose the only family I had left and I panicked,” Nick finished hoarsely “I met Mara years ago when we were both part of the fireflies.”
Joel’s eyes widened.
Nick dragged a hand down his face, shame written into every line of him. “They always said we were doing the right thing” he murmured bitterly at the memories “That we were doing what had to be done. But it was always about control. About the same power we rejected.” His jaw clenched “Lucas liked to pretend he was better than the rest. Harry… he just followed whoever with power.”
He looked up at Joel again, eyes red, pleading to be understood.
“I was the youngest. I learned early that if I didn’t agree, I didn’t belong. And I was so fucking scared of being alone that I kept telling myself it wasn’t that bad.” His breath hitched. “That we weren’t like FEDRA. That we weren’t monsters.”
Nick shook his head “But we were. Maybe not all the time. But enough.”
He glanced toward you sleeping form on bed, his voice dropping. “And she saw me for what I was. Even when I tried to hide it.”
His eyes drifted to Joel’s once again “That’s why when you took that hospital, you set me free.”
Joel swallowed.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I was there.” His voice was rough, scraped raw. “And I know it was you. And her.”
Nick’s breath stuttered “But she killed my brother Lucas. Mara’s partner and the father of her child.”
“So, it was revenge.”
Nick shook his head slowly, almost violently, like he needed Joel to believe him.
“Not from me,” he said hoarsely. “Never from me.”
Joel’s eyes stayed locked on him, sharp and unblinking, but his hand remained curled around yours, grounding himself in the rise and fall of your chest.
“Lucas was already gone,” Nick went on, voice trembling. “Not dead—gone. He chose that life over and over again. He chose Mara. He chose the kind of world where people like you and her didn’t get to survive.”
He swallowed; it was difficult for him to speak. “She didn’t kill him because she wanted revenge. She killed him because he was going to kill her. There was no other way out.”
Joel’s jaw tensed at all this information.
“And Mara?” Joel asked quietly, carefully.
Nick’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Mara didn’t want justice. She wanted to make her suffer. To make you suffer.” His voice cracked. “She said if she couldn’t have a future she didn’t deserve.”
Joel exhaled “That doesn’t make this fair.”
“I know,” Nick whispered. “Nothing about it is.”
Joel looked back at you then, at the way your brow was faintly furrowed even in sleep, like you were fighting.
“She’s always been the kind to carry the weight,” Joel murmured. “So, others don’t have to.”
Nick nodded. “And she pays the price.”
Joel also nodded, agreeing with Nick “What about your other brother?”
Nick sighed “He is part of that group, those in Seattle. from the same group that attacked you back then, the ones she eliminated. Harry had been looking for her ever since Lucas died.” Nick exhaled, defeated. “Ever since my brother died.” His hands curled into fists. “He thinks she took everything from him. He doesn’t see what Lucas was becoming. He doesn’t see what Mara turned into. All he sees is blood and blame.”
Joel looked back at you again, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles, as if reminding himself you were still here.
“If he comes anywhere near her,” Joel said, voice flat. He was exhausted “he won’t get a second chance.”
Nick nodded immediately. “I won’t let him.”
That made Joel’s gaze snap back to him. “You won’t warn him.”
“My brother didn’t care about me, so I’m not going to give him the chance to destroy the place I could call home.” Nick said, promising Joel something that perhaps seemed void.
“I’m leaving. I'll burn that lodge and I'll wait for them to arrive and tell them I finished her and mara was on the way too."
“And then?” Joel asked, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion pulling him down.
Nick didn’t look away. “I’ll find a new place to be from.”
Joel studied him, testing intent instead of words.
“I’ll make it look like the end of the road,” Nick continued. “No body. No trail. Just ashes and a story that satisfies their need for closure.” His voice dipped. “People like them don’t keep searching forever if they think the monster already won.”
Joel’s grip tightened slightly around your hand. “And if they don’t buy it?”
Nick’s mouth twitched, humorless. “Then they’ll come for me instead.”
Silence took over them
“That isn’t a life,” Joel said finally.
Nick shook his head. “Neither is watching her die because of other people choices.” He said, with a second intention behind those words.
Joel knew.
Joel exhaled through his nose, eyes drifting back to you, your chest rising and falling steadily.
“You don’t get redemption easy,” Joel said, meeting Nick’s eyes all over again.
“I know,” Nick replied. “And I’m not asking for it.”
Joel nodded “You do this quiet. You don’t lead trouble back here. And if I hear one whisper that you put her name in anyone’s mouth—”
“You won’t,” Nick said immediately. “I swear it.”
Joel held his gaze a moment longer, then looked away, leaning down to press his lips gently to your knuckles.
“Go,” Joel said. “And don’t come back unless it’s safe for you and this place.”
Nick hesitated, then turned toward the door. Before leaving, he stopped.
“She fought to stay good,” he said softly. “Even when it would’ve been easier not to.”
Joel didn’t look up. “That’s why she’s still alive.”
“And the reason why you are still here.” He added, then he closed the door behind him, without saying goodbye.
Joel stayed where he was, hand warm around yours with some weight lifted off his shoulders.
Another day went by and you were still sleeping. That’s how Joel wanted to call it, in the way he eased the pain of not waking up to your face on his neck or your smile first thing in the morning.
You were still warm to his touch, you still irradiated that.
There were days when he thought of you as a fragment of his imagination.
The first time he saw you he thought you were an angel but because the look in your face still reminded him of those old good days where people used to meet gaze across the street and smiling warmly. When he got a home to come back to, to a daughter, when he had taken all that for granted.
The favorite memory of you was the first rime you slept together. That night you didn't have sex, but the way you hold his hand that time when the cold found its way right inside his bones meant he was feeling something warm inside his chest.
He didn't want to admit it back then, but something in him had shifted. He let his guard down and opened a new space inside his heart to welcome you in.
And right now, he felt all the emotions tangled together.
Regret.
Despair.
Rage.
Nostalgia.
But deep-down sadness had invaded his bones, creping step by set settled inside like a warp of a poisonous blanket
What would be of him without you?
Joel hadn’t moved from this chair by your bed. His hand still wrapped around yours like a second heart keeping you steady. He had even memories how many times your chest rose.
But then the door creaked.
Ellie stood in the doorway. She didn’t step in right away, she didn’t dare to, but Joel noticed the way her eyes flicked to you, then to him. Her jaw was clenched.
“You look like shit,” she blurted out-
Joel didn’t follow those words, “You shouldn’t be here if you’re gonna start.”
Ellie scoffed and stepped inside anyway; sneakers soft over the ground. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not here for you.”
She stopped at the foot of the bed. Stared at you for a long moment not believing you were in this state.
Unconscious, face full of bruises, ribs broken. She remembered her own aftermath.
“You scared the hell out of everyone,” Ellie muttered. “You know that?”
Joel swallowed. “Yeah.”
Silence pressed in again, thick and awkward and heavy with the story them both held
Then Ellie turned on him, eyes flashing with tender and anger. “You don’t get to look at me like that,” she snapped. “Like this is somehow my fault.”
“I haven’t said a word,” Joel replied, but his voice was tight.
“You don’t have to,” Ellie shot back. “You never do.”
She paced once; hands clenched. “You always think you’re the only one allowed to make hard choices.”
Joel’s head snapped up. “Ellie—”
“No,” she cut in. “I get to say this.”
She pointed toward you, finger shaking. “She almost died. Because people like us don’t get clean endings. And you—” her voice cracked despite her anger raising, “—you looked like you were gonna fall apart when you brought her in.”
Joel exhaled, eyes dropping to your face “I almost did.”
Her shoulders sagged just a fraction of time. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I saw.”
Another beat of thick silence passed.
“But I get it,” she said, voice rough. “I get why you did it. Back then. At the hospital.”
Joel’s head lifted; eyes widened.
Ellie didn’t meet his eyes. She kept staring at you instead. “I hated you for a long time. Still do sometimes.” A humorless huff followed by a heavy breath of air. “But if it was her on that table… if it was someone, I loved that much…”
Her throat bobbed. She swallowed with difficulty.
“I wouldn’t have let them take her either.”
Joel’s chest tightened at those words.
Ellie finally looked at him then, softly this time “So yeah. You’re still a selfish asshole.” A beat. “But you’re not wrong for loving her. That’s what you do the best.”
Joel’s voice came out hoarse. “She saved me,” he said simply. “
Ellie nodded once, like she didn’t trust herself to linger there.
“I understand that feeling now.” She confessed
“Dina?” Joel asked, waiting for the confirmation
Ellie nodded without saying another word about it. There weren’t at that part yet.
Ellie lingered a second longer, then turned for the door.
“Joel?” she said without looking back.
“Yeah?”
“If she wakes up…” Ellie paused. “Tell her I was too scared to come in sooner.”
Joel nodded. “I will.”
The door closed behind Ellie and Joel leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently against your knuckles, voice breaking and followed by a tiny laugh
“See, baby? You’re still bringing’ us back together.”
An entire week passed by.
Seven mornings where Joel woke in the chair beside your bed, spine screaming from pain, eyes burning, heart pounding with the same question every single time.
Were you going to wake up today?
Seven nights where he talked to you like you were listening. Like you might answer if he said the right thing.
At first it was gentle, he had hope flickering. With him telling you about Ellie and how she hovered nearby pretending not to care about him, how she brought soup and left it untouched on the table for him to eat something.
He brushed your hair back every morning. Wiped your lips with a damp cloth, then holding your hand all over again.
“C’mon, baby,” he whispered, begging.
But promises started to rot when days kept passing. Even the bruises in your face had started to fade, leaving only some scars and color was coming back to your face.
By the end of the week, his voice wasn’t so soft anymore.
That morning, the sun crept through the window, landing right on your face. You didn’t even stir as if you couldn’t feel anything.
Joel sat there staring at you, jaw tight, hands clenched so hard his knuckles went white.
“Are you serious right now?” he whispered, anger creeping in.
And he was met with silence all over again.
His chest rose in anger “You fought your way out worse than this,”
Still nothing.
He stood abruptly, chair scraping back. Ran a hand through his hair, pacing all over the room.
“You dragged me out of my own death,” he snapped, voice breaking through anger. “You carried you through snow. You don’t just—” He cut himself off, breath shuddering. “You don’t do that just for leaving me.”
He stopped at your bedside again, looming now, eyes red and furious, not at you, but at the fear splitting his ribs open.
“Fuck! Say something,” he demanded. “Yell at me. Curse me out. Tell me I’m an asshole. You’re really good at that.”
His throat closed, tears slipping down his cheeks.
“You survived me. Don’t tell me this is what takes you.”
His hands shook as he reached for you again, but this time he stopped before touching your skin.
Something in him cracked at that “I can’t do this,” he said suddenly, backing away. “I can’t sit here anymore.”
He turned toward the door, then stopped, shoulders trembling.
“I need you to fight,” he said over his shoulder, voice raw. “And if you won’t—”
He swallowed hard. “I can’t be the only one trying’ to keep us alive.”
Joel left and the door closed softly behind him, like the room itself was holding its breath.
And for the first time in a week, you were alone in the room.
Your fingers twitched, as a sign to mean something had heard.
“Figured I’d find you here,” Tommy said quietly, closing the door behind him.
Joel didn’t look up. “Is the meeting over?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, even breathing was difficult.
Tommy pulled out a chair and sat across from him. “You shouldn’t have left her like that.”
Joel’s jaw clenched, his hands flexing once like he was fighting the urge to hit something. “Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t start.”
Tommy leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not judging you. I’m worried about you.”
Joel let out a breath that sounded like a laugh. “I sat there for a week, Tommy. Talking to her like a damn fool. Begging her. Promising things I don’t even know I can keep.” He finally looked up; eyes bloodshot. “And she didn’t move. No once.”
“And I’m angry, yes. I’m actually furious with her right now.” He added.
“You cannot be for real right now” Tommy said, not believing his brother words
“Why she doesn’t wake up then? Uh? Tell me right now why?”
“Joel…”
“No, because why did I wake up to her voice but she cannot do the same with me?”
Joel was a strong man, but you are his biggest weakness, after all, you were the one who carried his own heart in your hands, the same one he gave you with fear, but which over time felt like the right decision, the only right decision he could have made.
“I hate this tommy. I hate that I need her more than she could ever need me.”
“You know that’s not true. It seems to me that she is somehow resting, her body must be exhausted and…she will wake up soon, I know.”
“You don’t know a fuck. Because you have your wife, you have your child, you have a family and I don’t!” his voice broke “She lost our baby I didn’t even know about, I pushed her away so many times I can’t even stand she is punishing me now for it.”
“So instead of doing better you’re going to stay here, while she is laying in bed?”
But Joel didn’t reply.
“Be fucking man, Joel.” Tommy said, leaving his brother alone.
You opened your eyes slowly, sleep still enveloping your foggy state of mind. Today was one of those moments where the exhaustion had taken over your body. Life felt like a fragile threat pulling you toward a dark night wich you probably wouldn’t return if you let go. Something strong and warm embraced you, like a mother’s arm showering you with love in such a simple act. But the warmth of her love also radiated from the other side, a warmth you didn’t want to let go of, a warmth you longed to return to.
Peace against pain.
Warm and rest.
Two strong arms and the scent of wood mixed with a pain you needed to face to return back home.
Perhaps this was your signal, the call back. Perhaps this was him begging you to wake up from darkness.
And that’s how it was. A sharp electric stab ran through your ribs, tearing a gasp from your throat, gasping for air as your eyes opened with force, vision blurring at the beginning and the world tilting around you before the glow of a dim lamp next to you before you felt at home for a second.
“Hey her, easy, please slow down.”
Ellie’s voice broke the silence that had accompanied you for the past few days.
She was sitting right beside you, hunched forward in a chair pulled so closer her knees nearly touching the mattress of the bed you were laying on.
Her eyes were rimmed red, expressing exhaustion inside them from lack of sleep or crying, perhaps, you couldn’t tell. Maybe it was both, you didn’t know.
A whimper escaped you as another wave of pain crashed through your side, and your hand weakly clutched at the blanket trying to calm yourself down.
“It hurts…” you breathed with difficulty.
“I know,” Ellie whispered, gently pressing your shoulder to keep you from squirming so much. “You have your ribs broken. Don’t try to sit up.”
You blinked your tears away, both from physical pain and internal pain, your mind raced. But something was wrong. Something was missing inside the room, in your view.
A voice.
“Joel,” you rasped, breath shaky. “Where is Joel?”
Ellie froze at the mention of his name.
Her entire face stilled; eyes widened. Her lips parted and all her breath caught in the space between her chest and her throat.
“Joel?” she asked, like she wasn’t sure she’s heard right.
You managed the smallest nod, confusion drawn on your brow. “Where…is he? He was…” you swallowed; throat closed “He was here.”
Ellie’s mouth opened, then closed. She looked away, then back at you. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. Her throat bobbled.
She looked like that teen you saw for the first time back at Boston, too scared, too young to be bearer of pain.
“You don’t…remember?” she asked carefully.
Your heaty dropped into your stomach at thar question, fear wrapped its arms around your body.
“Remember what?” you whispered.
Ellie’s eyes glossed with tears she tried too hard to blink away. You noticed. She shook her head, as if willing the truth to stay buried. But she’d promised you once she’d never lie to you again.
And she didn’t. She couldn’t hide the truth from you.
“Joel…” Her voice cracked, breaking a bit in the middle. “Joel died. Months ago.”
The world stopped.
Your breath hitched violently, your pulse roaring in your ears. You stared at her, uncomprehending, your head shaking the tiniest bit as if refusing to let the word sink in.
“N-no,” you managed, voice trembling. “No, Ellie—I saved him. I… I saved him. I remember—at the lodge—I saved him. I—” Your breath stuttered. “He came back to me.”
“You couldn’t save him,” Ellie whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks. You tried. But he didn’t make it.
Her words slice throughout your heart, cracking it open in slow, excruciating pulses.
The pain in your body felt nothing. Nothing compared to this.
…
The scream ripped out of you before you even knew you were awake. Even before your mind made sense of yourself.
Your lungs burnt, nails clawing at the sheets
“No! No, please—Joel!” your voice breaking on a desperate, guttural scream.
A nurse rushed to your side; hands gentle but firm as she tried to keep you from hurting yourself.
“Hey—hey, you’re safe, you’re safe, just breathe—”
But you couldn’t. You didn’t feel your lungs.
You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t see straight right now. The room spun, your heartbeat exploding like gunfire in your ears as your tears slid down your cheeks. Every inch of your body burned, ribs splitting open.
Because Joel was gone.
He was gone and he wasn’t next to you.
Your sobs tore apart your throat, raw and broken, your body shaking uncontrollably. The nurse tried to soothe you, to hold you down gently, calling for help, but your mind was still trapped in the world without Joel in it.
“Joel!” you cried again, voice shattering as you called out for him “Please, don’t leave me.” You begged, your throat burning.
You closed your eyes, only feeling the fingers of the nurses wrapped around your wrists, trying to soothe you, to calm you down.
You didn’t hear the door slam open, nor the boots coming across the room.
Not the pair of hands cupping your face.
“Hey, hey, baby!”
Your heart lurched so violently it hurt. Your breath hitched for a second. You blinked through the blur of tears, and saw him.
You stared at him, sobbing, shaking your head in disbelief.
“No…” you whispered; voice tiny. “No, you’re not—this isn’t real—”
“Hey,” he breathed, forehead nearly touching yours, “I’m right here. I’m real. I swear it.”
But you were still trembling and crying, still flinched as if afraid he’d turn to dust in your hands.
“She is disoriented.” The nurse said softly, glancing between you two.
Joel swallowed, his thumb brushing your cheeks, wiping tears that wouldn’t stop.
“Look at me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Look at me, honey.”
You met his gaze, and he leaned forward, pressed his forehead to yours, breathing you in like he’d been drowning for weeks.
“You’re okay,” he whispered. “You’re right here with me.”
You sobbed again, your hands gripping weakly at his shirt like you were terrified he’d disappear.
The nurse held up a syringe, gaze meeting Joel’s. He nodded immediately, one arm wrapping around you, pulling you gently against his chest.
“Do it,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “I got her. I’m here.”
You felt the sting of the injection on your arm.
You also felt Joel’s arms tighten around you as your breathing began to slow, his hand stroking the back of your head, his lips pressed to your temple.
“It’s okay,” he whispered on your skin “You’re safe now. I’m sorry, baby. I’m her. I’m not going anywhere.”
Your sobs softened as your eyelids grew heavy. You clung to him until your grip loosened, your body sinking into the bed.
And the last thing you felt before sleep pulled you under was Joel’s heartbeat under your ear.
To his scent and his warmth.
A/N: Sorry it took me so long to post this. When I chose to write this story th ending was always clear. The reader was going to die, but the process kept being this. I chose not to. She is okay now, and I won't make her suffer like this anymore.
tags: If you want to be removed, please let me know.
Why is no one writing Daryl fanfics set in Europe? Like, Daryl cheating on his girl with Isabelle, or stuff like that? Please, if you know any, please tell me!
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