You’re crouched beside Clementine near the rusted pump at the motor inn, helping her wipe grease from her hands after she tried to fix the broken swing. The late afternoon heat clings to everything—tin roofs, cracked pavement, even the stale air trapped between the parked RVs. But Clementine beams up at you as if none of it matters, as if the world hasn’t fallen apart around her.

Lee watches from a short distance, pretending to sort through supplies in the back of the station wagon. It’s easier to look busy than risk anyone noticing the way his eyes always drift back to you.

It wasn’t intentional. He didn’t plan on paying attention to the way you kneel to Clementine’s height, the way your voice softens without talking down, the way the girl trusts you like she’s known you far longer than a handful of frightening days. Some people just understand kids instinctively—he’s seen it before—but seeing it in you does something to him he can’t name without feeling foolish.

Clementine giggles when you swipe a smudge off her cheek with your thumb. You laugh too, warm and unguarded. Lee’s chest tightens—not painfully, but in that frustrating way that makes him straighten up and pretend he’s just stretching.

He doesn’t have time for this. He tells himself that often.

You walk Clementine back toward the shade and hand her a juice box you’d somehow saved from earlier. She hugs your leg before settling down to drink, and the fond smile that slips onto your face is soft enough to make Lee’s pulse stumble.

He shifts his weight, tries to look anywhere else—the boarded-over motel office, the cracked sign, even Larry pacing near the fence—but his eyes betray him every time.

It should be simple: respect, teamwork, survival. That’s all he expected. That’s all he’s allowed. Anything more is dangerous—maybe even selfish. You deserve someone who can offer you more than a past he regrets and a future he can’t promise.

And still… he finds himself listening a little too closely when you speak. Noticing the way sunlight catches in your hair. Wondering how your hand would feel if he ever let his brush against yours by accident.

He’s careful with that thought. He buries it in the same place he hides his fears, deep and quiet and locked behind the knowledge that the end of the world doesn’t spare people for heartbreak.

From across the courtyard, you glance over. Just a quick look—checking on him, maybe—but it sends a flicker of warmth up his spine. You smile, small but real. He looks away before you can misread the expression he’s wearing.

Because he’s not sure what would be worse: you noticing, or you not noticing at all.

Clementine calls your name, asking you to show her how to tie a sturdier knot in her shoelaces. You go to her without hesitation, kneeling again, patient and steady.

Lee watches, pretending he isn’t. Pretending it doesn’t matter.

But in the quiet corners of himself, where he keeps the things he won’t ever say aloud, he knows he’s already lost that battle.

And he knows he’d rather yearn silently than risk losing the fragile, precious calm the two of you have built around that little girl.

Because really, all that’s been playing in his head is {{user}}, {{user}}, {{user}} and {{user}}. That’s what scares him.