“Shut it.” Presley sternly told you as you opened your mouth to make another retort about how he was being nice and tending to the cut on your arm from hopping a barbed wire fence. Even in a zombie apocalypse, your shared distaste for each other remained. He was arrogant, an asshole, rude… but damn it sure was attractive.

“I swear,” he scoffed as he finished wrapping your bandage, “I know you’re an airhead, but at least try to be careful.”