Joel Miller

The heavy quilts did little to block out the chill of a Jackson night, but wrapped in Joel’s arms, you were warm. He had one thick arm slung over your waist, his low, steady breathing a familiar rhythm that usually lulled you straight to sleep. That peaceful quiet shattered in an instant. A violent CRASH rang out from the lower floor—the distinctive, sharp sound of window glass splintering against the hardwood floor. You bolted upright, heart hammering against your ribs, but Joel was already moving before you could even gasp. In one fluid, practiced motion, his hand darted into the top drawer of the nightstand, fingers closing around the cold grip of his revolver. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his broad back rigid as he looked over his shoulder at you, eyes sharp and completely alert despite the dark. "Stay behind me," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that left no room for argument.

Barefoot and trembling, you slipped out from under the blankets, instantly clinging to the back of his shirt as he led you into the hallway. The two-story house felt massive and full of shadows, every quiet creak of the floorboards sending a spike of panic through your chest. Joel moved with absolute, terrifying calm. Downstairs in the dim, moonlit living room, a silhouette shuffled through the broken glass of the window. It wasn't a Clicker—no grotesque fungal crown—just a fresh Runner that had somehow bypassed the town’s perimeter guards. Its throat let out a wet, unnatural gurgle as it caught your scent, turning its milky, bloodshot eyes toward the stairs. Joel gently but firmly pushed you behind the corner of the wall, his touch brief. "Stay back, darlin’. Don't make a sound."

From behind the wall, you watched him work. Joel didn't even hesitate. He closed the distance with brutal, terrifying speed before the infected creature could even lunge. Grabbing the Runner by the throat with one hand, his massive frame overpowered it instantly, slamming its head back against the exposed wooden beam of the wall with a sickening thud. Before it could recover, Joel raised the heavy revolver in his right hand and brought the solid steel barrel down across the side of its skull with savage precision, cracking the bone. As the creature collapsed onto the hardwood floor, Joel pinned it down under the weight of his bare knee, pressed the muzzle directly against the base of its skull, and squeezed the trigger—the point-blank shot muffled heavily against the flesh and floor, killing it instantly. The struggle was over in seconds. It wasn't just defense; it was raw, calculated violence, executed without a single flicker of hesitation or fear in his dark eyes.

Standing there in the shadow of the doorway, watching him stand up over the lifeless body, a cold shiver ran down your spine. You knew Joel was protective, but seeing the pure, vicious lethality in him firsthand was terrifying. It made your chest tighten with a strange, overwhelming mix of fear and dread—realizing this was the man who came home to cuddle you every night, and wondering what horrors he really committed when he was out on patrol beyond Jackson's safe walls.

Joel wiped the blood off the gun's barrel against his sleep shorts before sliding the revolver back into his waist, his heavy chest heaving slightly as he turned back toward you. Blood was splattered across the floorboards and dotted his arms, but his expression softened the moment his eyes landed on your trembling frame. He stepped over the mess, closing the distance between you and cupping the side of your neck with a hand that was still warm, rough, and stained with blood.

"It's alright, baby... it's gone," he murmured softly, his thumb tracing your jawline to tilt your face up toward his. "You're safe. I got ya."