Joe glanced down at Sophia, now snoring softly against his chest, one arm curled up under her chin.
Across from him, Carol sat hunched with tired eyes, barely suppressing a yawn.
He looked between the two. "We should call it a night."
Amy and Andrea both nodded in agreement.
Andrea turned toward Carol and offered, "Why don't you and Sophia sleep in our tent tonight?"
Carol blinked. "I… I'm not sure the four of us will fit," she said, glancing between herself, Sophia, Amy, and Andrea.
Amy nodded slowly... until Andrea, without missing a beat, chimed in. "Just three."
Amy furrowed her brow. "Huh?"
Andrea grinned devilishly. "Amy will be with Joe once again! I'm sure he won't mind."
Amy's face went bright red. She instinctively turned toward Joe, who...
Perhaps to everyone's surprise, gave a faint, amused smile.
Carol blinked, stunned, before realization dawned. "Right," she said slowly. "Checking for wounds…"
Andrea burst out laughing, grabbing Carol's hand and leading her toward their tent. "You get it!"
Amy, mortified, muttered under her breath as Joe stood and gently lifted the sleeping Sophia in his arms.
He followed the others quietly, a few campers watching from the shadows, still wary. But there was no change in his stride. Only calm.
When they reached the tent, Joe stepped inside first, gently laying Sophia down onto the sleeping pad.
Her little fingers grasped blindly in her sleep, but Joe softly patted her head until she stilled again.
He stepped out, nodding silently to Carol and Andrea. Carol mouthed a heartfelt thank you. Andrea gave him a wink and silently mouthed, "get some".
Joe gave no visible reaction… but somewhere deep in his stomach, something stirred.
He pushed it down.
Amy waited a few paces away, shyly reaching for his hand. Joe took it.
They walked to his tent in silence, the night cool around them.
Inside, Amy paused, her heart racing. She gave him a nervous glance, biting her lip.
There was an unspoken question in the air... one neither of them voiced.
"I'll be right back," Joe said quietly, before slipping back outside.
Amy exhaled, unsure of what he was doing.
Her hands trembled slightly as she undressed, down to just her underwear.
Then, after a moment of hesitation, she removed her bra and slid beneath the blankets, heart pounding, her skin warm from within.
Outside, Joe stripped down to just black boxers. He cleaned himself off with a damp cloth, wiping away the grime from the long day, then dried off quickly. The air was crisp, but he barely noticed.
When he re-entered the tent, the air inside was warm and still.
Amy lay beneath the covers, her shoulders bare, her cheeks flushed.
Her eyes met his... and for a moment, the silence said everything.
Joe crawled in beside her, sliding under the blanket. Amy tensed slightly, but when his chest met her back, and his arms wrapped around her, she melted into him with a quiet sigh.
She shifted a little, feeling the strength of his body against hers. He was solid, warm, hid presence protective. Then something pressed gently against her from behind.
She blinked, her eyes drifting back to meet his.
Joe leaned in and placed a soft kiss against her temple. Then, his voice barely above a whisper, he murmured:
"Sleep."
And she did.
Joe lay wide awake, the quiet rhythm of Amy's breathing steady against his chest.
The fire outside had long died down, and the hum of the camp was hushed under the blanket of night, but his mind refused to settle.
He watched her, eyes tracing the gentle curves of her face, the way her lips parted slightly in sleep.
Her skin was impossibly soft where it touched his. Warm. Smooth. Vulnerable.
His boxers were taut, only a whisper of fabric separating them.
Her body fit against his too well, and his muscles tensed at every unconscious shift she made.
But it wasn't lust that kept him awake.
It was doubt.
They had just met.
Sure, he had saved her life. Held her close, protected her, maybe even given her a sense of safety in a world that had none.
But what did that really mean? Did she truly feel something for him—or was it gratitude, comfort, illusion?
The face of Claire flickered in his thoughts...
Her eyes full of warmth, then slowly clouding with anger. He didn't want to see that in Amy's eyes.
He didn't want to push her into something she wasn't ready for.
He was a killer. A fighter. A man covered in scars, inside and out.
But here he was… worried about what she really felt for him.
If anyone in camp could hear the storm in his head, they'd probably laugh.
The man who crushed skulls without blinking, who beat Ed to the brink of death and tossed Shane around like a ragdoll.
Fretting like a lovesick boy under the stars.
Joe sighed softly.
His eyes dropped again, down to where her collarbone peeked from beneath the blanket.
He couldn't help himself. Gently, he leaned down and placed a soft kiss there.
Then another, and another.
Amy murmured in her sleep, shifting slightly, her body pressing closer to his. Her lips curled faintly into a sleepy smile.
Her head nestled deeper into his shoulder, as if seeking more of him.
Joe stilled, feeling her heartbeat sync with his.
He didn't move again. Didn't push. Just lay there, his lips near her soft skin, heart pounding in silence.
And for the first time since Claire had died and he had awakened here, Joe felt something close to peace.
Still fragile.
Still uncertain.
But real.
Joe stared at Amy's peaceful form. Warm, relaxed, trusting.
That trust burned like a brand on his conscience.
For a moment, a sharp, possessive flicker crossed his face. He wanted her. He wanted to keep her close, safe...
HIS.
The thought came unbidden, primal and fierce.
But he caught himself.
No.
She wasn't something to possess. She wasn't his to do with as he pleased. He wasn't Ed. He would never be Ed.
Joe's jaw tightened. He looked away, ashamed of that moment of selfishness.
Amy was her own person, she wasn't his to claim just because she leaned into him.
Just because she looked at him like he was more than a weapon wrapped in skin.
Whatever happened between them, if anything, it had to be her choice. Just like anything that could happen with other women.
Like everything else. The way he handled this group. He didn't try to win them over, didn't force himself to fit in.
The only people he gave a damn about, were a few.
Rick, his son. Daryl… Amy. Andrea. And Sophia. Maybe Glenn for comedic relief. The rest? They could think what they wanted.
He wasn't there to be liked.
His thoughts drifted, away from his "feelings" for Amy, away from the softness of her skin.
Remembering Merle's rescue mission.
...
Back to the city. It had happened just hours ago.
But with everything going on, it felt longer. The day had stretched on, feeling more like a week had passed between then and now.
The motorcycle hummed beneath them as they approached the last stretch of highway into Atlanta, papers littering the open road, a sharp contrast to the jam packed side exiting the city.
Just ahead, a lone walker staggered aimlessly, shambling out of the city's shadow like it had wandered too far from the hive.
Joe tapped Daryl's shoulder. "Slow down. Don't stop."
Daryl swerved left, easing off the throttle just enough.
Joe raised his shotgun.
BAM.
The stiff stock cracked hard across the walker's skull. Sending it crumpling to the pavement.
No hesitation.
No emotion.
Just execution.
Daryl glanced back, mildly impressed but silent. No need for words.
They kept moving, weaving through the debris, encountering more walkers as they approached the edge of the city.
Joe dispatched them all with eased efficiency, his shotgun doubling more as a bludgeon than a firearm.
Every move was calculated. Every kill clean. Efficient. Controlled rage.
Daryl, used to going solo, found himself nodding in reluctant respect.
Joe didn't talk much, didn't ask questions. He just moved, like he had done this a hundred times before.
By the time they reached the outer perimeter, blood stained Joe's arms again. Dried brown and flaking.
He never even noticed. If he did, he wouldn't care.
The only thing he noticed… was how different it felt, going back toward danger.
It felt more like home. Even remembering the tranquil camp.
The motorcycle's engine clicked softly as it cooled beneath the overcast sky. Daryl killed the ignition, then carefully pushed the rat rod Harley to the side of the road.
He laid it down gently between a rusted-out van and a sedan, where it would blend in like another forgotten remnant of the world before.
"Doubt anyone's dumb enough to come back here," he muttered.
Joe just nodded, his eyes already scanning the surroundings.
"Point?" Daryl asked, tightening his crossbow strap.
Joe gave a short nod and silently moved ahead, shotgun in hand but held low. His motions were precise, almost mechanical. Every step purposeful, every turn premeditated.
Hand signals came as naturally to him as breathing.
One finger up... stop.
Palm flat... get down.
Two fingers pointed... walker ahead.
They moved like shadows, slipping between burned-out husks and shattered glass. The city moaned faintly in the distance, the wind whispering through broken windows and hollow buildings. Somewhere, a sign creaked.
As they approached the edge of the tank intersection, Joe slowed down.
The air was thick, metallic. The stench of decay faint but still lingering. The tank itself sat like a ghost.
Silence.
Its hatches still open, from their hasty escape.
The ground still scarred from where the grenade exploded. Some limbs and blood still scattered around.
Joe motioned right, and they veered into the alley with a metal fence..
The very same alley where Rick had once nearly shot Glenn.
Joe's lips twitched in a quiet chuckle, remembering the sheer panic on Glenn's face when a cop leveled a gun at him in a dead sprint.
Daryl looked over but didn't ask.
They made it to the fire escape without incident.
Joe examined it quickly...
Still barely intact, but the lower bolts had snapped off. Metal groaning under stress.
He didn't hesitate, grabbing the lower rung and hoisting himself up, his muscles still sore from his long "rest" in the hospital.
But he pulled through. Daryl followed close behind.
Halfway up the second ladder, the structure gave a shriek.
Groooan… SNAP.
They quickened their pace.
Joe had just crested the rooftop ledge when the unmistakable sound of bolts tearing loose echoed off the alley walls.
He spun around immediately and reached out...
"Daryl!"
Daryl's hand shot up, just as the fire escape ripped away and crashed to the ground below with a thunderous metallic clang.
The sound echoing for miles.
Joe grunted, his arms trembling under the strain as he grasped Daryl's forearm and hauled him upward.
Daryl's other hand found the ledge. Joe didn't let go, his other hand gripping the back of Daryl's shirt, pulling steadfastly.
With one final yank, Daryl scrambled over the edge and collapsed on the roof, panting hard, his entire body shaking from the surge of adrenaline.
They reated there for a moment.
Joe on one knee, Daryl sprawled flat, before Daryl exhaled.
"...Thanks," he muttered, breath still ragged.
Joe nodded once. "Next time, climb faster."
Daryl smirked, pushing himself up. "Next time, get stronger."
Joe rolled his eyes, commenting, "Maybe you should lay off the squirel a bit".
Daryl groaning, but not continuing.
Joe stood and made his way toward the rooftop door, Daryl falling in behind him.
Then—crack!
A gunshot rang out. Then another.
Panicked. Erratic.
Daryl tensed briefly, before sarcastically commenting. "What's become of this damn city?"
Joe gave him a look, then turned back to the door.
They descended a narrow ladder, slipping into a familiar dusty office. The space was unchanged.
Joe remembered it from his first escape with Glenn. Now it was just dust, shadows, and cracked linoleum.
They moved through the offices efficiently.
Scavenging wasn't glamorous, but it was necessary.
They found a drawer full of unopened office supplies. Tape, scissors, pens, a half-used bottle of aspirin, and... oddly... crayons.
Daryl stuffed them into a satchel with a grunt. Joe teasing, "Found a snack?"
Daryl groaned, flipping him off.
In the break room, Joe grabbed a half-sealed bag of coffee grounds from the cabinet and handed it to Daryl, who sniffed it with something bordering reverence.
"Score," Daryl muttered.
The vending machines had already been raided, but a few stale bags of chips and some candy bars had stubbornly clung to the steel winding of the machine.
Joe smashed the glass without hesiration. The butt of his shotgun feeling a little mistreated at this point.
Quickly grabbing a couple bars for the kids at camp. Stuffing the chips and candy into his backpack.
Joe tossing a few chocolates to Daryl before opening a snickers. Joe devoured it, looking over at Daryl.
The man sucking his finger 4 wrappers at his feet. Joe was slightly shocked, mostly amused.
With their makeshift haul secured, they slipped out the window and onto a corroded metal catwalk. The clang of their boots echoed in the alley below as they climbed down.
A few walker corpses still littered the area, knife wounds through the skulls. Old kills.
The alley was otherwise empty.
Silent.
For now.
Joe stepped off the last rung, scanning the street, shotgun ready.
"Let's move," he said.
Daryl grunted, slinging the satchel over his back. "Before it gets loud again."
They disappeared into the deapartment store... Hunting for ghosts.