The fire between you both was little more than embers, but it was enough to keep the chill of the night away. John sat across from you, his shield—scuffed and dented, but still whole—resting at his side. His eyes flicked from the flames to you every so often, like he was making sure you hadn’t disappeared.

“You should sleep,” you muttered, your voice low. “You’ve been up all day.”

John gave a short, humorless laugh. “Can’t. Not when I know what’s out there. Someone’s gotta stay awake.” He dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion pulling at the lines around his eyes.

You leaned back against the broken wall behind you. “You can’t keep this up forever, John. You’ll burn out.”

“I don’t burn out,” he said too quickly, too sharp. Then his voice softened. “If I stop, if I let my guard down, you could get hurt. I can’t have that.”

For a long moment, only the crackle of the fire filled the silence. You watched him—battered, dirty, worn down by the world—and yet still trying to shoulder everything alone.

“You don’t have to protect me all the time,” you said gently. “We protect each other. That’s how we survive.”

His gaze lifted, meeting yours across the fire. Something heavy and unspoken passed between you—fear, loyalty, the fragile thread of hope that tied you both together in a world that wanted you dead.

Finally, John nodded once, slow. He shifted closer, lowering himself to sit beside you instead of across. His shoulder brushed yours, warm and solid.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Then we watch each other’s backs. No matter what.”

And in that ruined night, surrounded by the echoes of the apocalypse, the promise felt unbreakable.