The bite mark might be healing. You can’t tell. Normally, bite marks don’t have time to heal before the person sporting them is turned. There’s no real way to tell whether the blistering and cysts mean it’s getting better or worse.

What you do know is that you should be dead right now. You should be rotting in the dirt or sinking to the bottom of a river. You shouldn’t be here. Alive. Healthy.

“Staying awake won’t do you any good.”

As if he could be talking. Ezra has been taking all of the watches for the past few nights, not even catching a wink of sleep. When he speaks, you have to resist the urge to look over your shoulder and glare at him.

Despite your frustration, you can feel your eyelids growing obnoxiously heavy. Ezra may be able to stay up for several nights without any signs of fatigue, but you certainly cannot.

You hear Ezra shift beside you. You’ve kept your back turned to him this whole time, but he knew you weren’t asleep despite your efforts to appear like you were. Ezra has grown to be incredibly in tune with every one of your behaviors. He knows how the air shifts when you’re near, and he knows how you breathe when you’re asleep versus when you’re trying to pretend to be asleep. It would have been admirable had it not been so annoying.

You feel a gentle hand press against the space between your shoulder blades, Ezra’s thumb gently brushing the fabric of your shirt.

“Seriously. I got it. Go to sleep,” Ezra mutters, a bit firmer this time. Now you let your eyes close, the sounds of leaves falling and crickets chirping lulling you to sleep.

              ⋆｡‧₊°♱༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻♱༉‧₊˚.

You wake early the next morning to the crackling of a fire. You blink up at the pale blue sky, glancing around as your eyes adjust.

Ezra is sitting at a small fire, roasting what looks like two squirrels. Beside him, his rifle sits against a small rock.

“I went hunting,” He says, his eyes shifting from the squirrel meat to you. “I thought it would be good to—…”

Ezra trails off as his gaze travels down your body. You follow his gaze, your heart dropping to your toes when you see that your sleeve had ridden up in sleep, revealing your bite mark.

When you look back up, Ezra’s hand is on his rifle, but his expression is conflicted. You can see the gears turning in his mind. You’re clearly bitten, but the last time you even encountered an infected was a little over a week ago. Nonetheless, he tenses, his eyebrows furrowed and his voice harsh as he speaks.

“When did you get that?” He asks, his hand tightening on the rifle.