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"You smell like burnt shit."
Your words leave your lips in haste, too late to hold them back. Joel looks at you, taken aback.
"Sorry," he murmurs as he closes the door behind him. "Been takin' care of the horses today."
He doesn't expect to hear that from you, because it isn't you. He sizes you up as he hangs up his coat and gear.
You are in the kitchen, by the counter, cutting vegetables for dinner. The knife in your hand hovers over a half-chopped carrot. You didn't mean to snap. The words just vomited out of you before you could filter them. The scent of manure, sweat, and hay—usually a comforting, familiar, earthy smell on him—hit your nose like a chemical weapon. It made your stomach perform a violent, sickening somersault.
"I didn't mean..." you start, your voice tight, eyes fixed on the cutting board. "It’s just... really strong today. Did you step in something?"
Joel doesn't answer immediately. You hear the heavy thud of his boots being kicked off. But the floorboards don't creak away from you toward the living room; they creak toward the kitchen.
"Cleaned the stalls," he says, his voice closer now. "Same as every Tuesday. Same boots. Same shovel."
He stops at the end of the counter. He’s not angry about the insult; he’s studying you, like a scout. He’s looking at the way your knuckles are white around the knife handle, the way you’re breathing shallowly through your mouth to avoid inhaling, the slight sheen of cold sweat on your forehead.
"You okay, baby?" he asks. It’s the same tone he uses when checking for bites or injuries. Clinical, but laced with worry.
"I'm fine," you lie, chopping the carrot with unnecessary force. "Just the flu. And that smell is just... piercing right now."
Joel hums, a low vibration in his throat that indicates he isn't buying a word of it. He takes a step closer, deliberately invading your space. He smells like leather, cold winter air, and yes, the distinct musk of the stables.
Your stomach lurches: immediate and violent.
You drop the knife with a clatter and turn away from him, hand flying to your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut to fight the warm wave of nausea rising in your throat. You gag, a small, wet sound that you can't suppress.
"Whoa."
His hand is on your shoulder instantly, steadying you. "Easy."
He spins you around, but he doesn't back off. He keeps a hand on your arm, grounding you, while his eyes search your face—the pale skin, the dilated pupils, the sheer exhaustion etched around your mouth.
"You ain't got the flu," he states flatly.
He looks past you at the cutting board. Just carrots and potatoes. Bland. No onions. No garlic. No spices. Then he looks back at you, and you see the gears turning behind his dark eyes.
He thinks about the coffee you poured down the sink yesterday. He thinks about how you fell asleep during the movie night with Ellie three days ago. And now, there is the sudden, aggressive aversion to a smell you’ve lived with for years.
His expression shifts. The confusion behind his pupils evaporates, replaced by a sudden, terrifying clarity. His grip on your arm tightens, just a fraction.
"It ain't the horses, is it?" he whispers, his voice dropping to that gravelly rumble that vibrates in your chest. "Your nose... it's dialed up to eleven."
He steps closer, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are wide, searching yours for confirmation.
"And you're pale as a ghost," he adds, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you just ate some bad jerky."
He places the back of his hand against your forehead, then slides it to your neck. His skin is rough, calloused, but cool against your flush. "You ain't burnin' up. So it ain't the flu."
"I told you, I'm fine," you try to deflect, reaching for the towel to wipe your hands, trying to hide their trembling.
"Stop," he says, grabbing your wrist. Not hard, but firm enough to stop you from fidgeting. "Look at me."
He waits until your eyes meet his.
"You threw up yesterday, too. Behind the woodshed. I saw the tracks in the snow," he says. He’s been tracking you. Of course he has. "And you didn't touch your venison last night. You pushed it around the plate."
"I wasn't hungry."
"You're always hungry after a shift," he counters immediately, his eyes narrowing. "You eat like a wolf. Unless..."
He trails off, his gaze dropping to scan your body with a tactical, analytical sweep. He’s looking for swelling, for changes in how you stand, for where your hands are resting.
"Your belt," he notes, pointing to your jeans. "You moved it down a notch. I saw you adjustin' it on the ride back."
"It was digging in."
"Why?" he presses, stepping closer. "You didn't gain weight. You look thinner in the face, if anything."
He leans in, the smell of the stables faint now, but he ignores your slight flinch. He needs the truth, and he needs it now.
"The coffee," he lists, ticking it off on his fingers, his voice dropping to a low growl. "The sleepin'. The mood swings. Snappin' at me for smellin' like the job I've done every day for five years?"
He stops, staring you down.
"When's the last time you had your period?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy and clinical.
"I don't know, Joel, it's hard to keep track with the winter and—"
"Don't give me that," he interrupts, his voice sharp. "You track everything. Supplies. Ammo. Days. When?"
The wolf was closing in on its prey, and there was no point in hiding it anymore.
You look down at your boots, defeated. "Six weeks. Maybe seven."
He goes silent. You can practically hear him doing the math in his head. Counting back the weeks. Scanning the mental calendar of patrols and shifts.
"Seven weeks," he murmurs, looking past you, staring at the wall as his mind replays the last two months. His eyes widen slightly.
"The blizzard," he says. It’s not a question. "The three-day storm. When the power went out."
He looks back at you, the realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow. The memory of that night—the whiskey, the fire, the flames of desire between your naked bodies—floods his face.
"We... we slipped up," he whispers, the shock bleeding into his voice.
But as the words leave his mouth, the memory hits him.
He remembers the desperation in your moans. He remembers the way you clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, your voice breaking near his ear—half-prayer, half-command. He remembers you begging him, almost crying, the words wet and frantic against the fluttering pulse beneath his skin: In—inside... please, stay inside... I want to be yours.
You kissed the words into him, pressing the plea into his flesh: I want to be your vessel.
He shuts his eyes tight as the realization hits him. He had listened. He had given you exactly what you asked for.
He remembers the feeling of your legs locking around his waist—a steel trap refusing to let him go, keeping him deep, forcing him to pour everything he was into you. There was no pulling away, no hesitation; only the raw, primal need to be filled, to keep a part of him safe within you.
He had planted a future inside you, sealing a part of himself there where it could never be lost.
He ducks his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a split second to chase away the sudden, suffocating heat of the memory. He exhales sharply, grounding himself back in the cold air, as he looks up to face the heavy, permanent, and terrifyingly blissful consequence of that surrender.
"We weren't careful," you finish for him, your voice trembling.
He stares at you for a long, agonizing moment. He looks terrified. He looks like he’s trying to figure out how to build a fortress around you instantly.
"You're sure?" he asks, needing one last confirmation.
"I took a test from the clinic this morning," you confess. "It was positive."
Joel looks at your slim body, trembling not from the cold but from the sheer weight of the secret you’ve been carrying. The tactical light in his eyes—the one scanning for threats—flickers and dies out, replaced by a depth of warmth that he usually keeps locked away.
He sighs, a long, ragged sound, and his shoulders drop. The stiffness leaves his frame. He isn't the smuggler or the survivor anymore. He’s just Joel.
"I know," he whispers, the sound rough like gravel but soft as velvet.
He steps closer, ignoring the distance you tried to put between you. He reaches out, not to grab you, but to gently cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the hair sticking to your damp forehead.
"I reckon I knew before you did," he murmurs, his eyes searching yours, filled with a strange, sad wonder. "I heard the footsteps comin'."
You stare at him, confused through your tear-filled eyes. "Footsteps? It’s... it’s barely a heartbeat, Joel."
"Not like that," he shakes his head slightly, a half-smile ghosting his lips. "I mean... I felt the change. The way you walk. The way you glow in the mornings. The way you breathe when you're sleepin'. The air around you... it got heavier. Louder."
He rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.
"I've spent twenty years listenin' for things that wanna kill us," he confesses, his voice vibrating against your skin. "You get good at hearin' things approach. But this..." He moves his hand down to cover your stomach, his palm encompassing the space completely. "This sounded different. Sounded like... a promise."
That’s what breaks you.
The fear, the nausea, the guilt of the desire, the terror of bringing a baby into a world of monsters—it all shatters under his absolute certainty.
A sob rips out of your throat, raw and sudden. Your knees give out.
You don't fall, because he’s there. You break into him.
You collapse forward, burying your face in the rough wool of his sweater, gripping the fabric with white-knuckled fists. You cry into his chest, letting out the weeks of hidden anxiety.
Joel catches you instantly. His arms wrap around you like steel bands, locking you against him. He takes your full weight without flinching, backing up a step to lean against the counter so he can anchor you better.
"I got you," he rumbles into your hair, his chin resting on the top of your head. "I got you, darlin'. "
He rocks you slightly, side to side, a rhythmic, soothing motion. One of his hands moves up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you closer to his heartbeat, while the other stays firmly planted on your lower back, holding you together when you feel like you're falling apart.
"I'm scared," you sob into his shirt, your voice muffled and wet. "Joel, I'm so scared."
"I know," he soothes, his lips pressing a kiss to your hair. "I am too. It’s okay to be scared. But you ain't doin' this alone. You hear me?"
He pulls back just an inch, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are wet, rimmed with red, but they are steady. They are filled with a love so deep, so overwhelming, that you think your fluttering heart might burst.
"I heard them footsteps," he says again, his voice fierce with conviction. "And I ain't lettin' anything stop 'em. We’re gonna be okay. More than okay."
He kisses your forehead, then your tear-stained cheeks, tasting the salt, sealing the promise.
"I love you, baby bird," he whispers, pulling you back into his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet scent of you, grounding himself in it, ignoring the sharp smell of the stables that still clings to him.
"Oh Joel," you whisper against his collar, burrowing into that familiar warmth. You know, with terrifying certainty, that he would do anything—absolutely anything—for you and the life now rooting in your womb.
Then, he pulls back abruptly. The softness vanishes from his eyes, replaced by a clear, tactical focus.
"You done cuttin' those carrots?"
"What?" You blink, startled by the sudden shift. "I... I guess. I dropped the knife."
"Good. Leave 'em." He reaches past you, shoving the cutting board further onto the counter, away from the edge. Then, he moves to grab your coat from the hook.
"Put this on," he orders, holding it out for you.
"Joel, where are we going? It's snowing."
"We're goin' to the clinic," he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I don't care what that test says. I want to see that little blip with my own eyes. Now."
He wraps the coat around you, his hands lingering on your shoulders, pulling the collar up to protect your delicate neck. He looks you in the eye, and the fear is gone, replaced by a steely, terrifying resolve.
"And you ain't walkin'. I'll saddle a fresh horse."