The sun is low in the sky, casting golden light over the small patch of farmland you and Monty have been tending for months. Corn stalks sway gently in the breeze, and the scent of fresh earth and growing things fills the air.

Monty kneels by the tomato plants, wiping dirt from his hands. He looks up at you, smiling despite the dust on his cheeks.

“Don’t tell me,” you say, laughing softly. “You’re about to lecture me on proper watering technique again.”

Monty grins sheepishly. “Maybe… but you’re not half bad for a beginner.”

You walk over, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. His eyes meet yours, green and steady, full of quiet warmth. “You know,” he murmurs, voice low, “I never thought surviving the end of the world would feel… like this. Like… home.”

You squeeze his hand. “I think home isn’t about the walls or the roof. It’s about who’s beside you.”

Monty’s smile softens, and he leans closer. “Then I guess I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

The two of you return to your work, side by side, the quiet rhythm of planting and tending punctuated only by laughter, the soft rustle of leaves, and the steady certainty that, together, you can survive—and thrive.