The wind rolled through the trees like an old lullaby, soft and low. The house sat at the edge of what used to be a vineyard, stubborn against the world’s end. Two years of rebuilding had made it feel like a home—not just shelter. Creaky wood, mismatched furniture, and that one stubborn patch of moss creeping up the kitchen wall. But the stove worked, the roof didn’t leak, and at night, you could hear owls instead of clickers.

He came in from chopping firewood, sweat at his brow, sleeves pushed up. His jacket hung on the peg by the door, damp from the fog that never lifted fully in the mornings. She sat at the table, the scent of roasted root vegetables filling the air—grown in the garden they’d carved out with their own hands. Her fingers brushed the edge of the old mug she always used, one Jesse had found on a supply run and brought back like a gift. It had a faded cartoon bear on it. She said it made the water taste warmer.

He dropped the axe beside the door, boots heavy on the floorboards. For a while, he didn’t say anything. Just walked over, kissed her forehead, and leaned against the wall like the quiet was enough.

They had left Jackson for this—something slower, something still. Not perfect, not safe, but theirs. Some nights, the memories clawed back. Patrols. Cold sweat. Screams. But here, time stretched gently. He’d hold her longer in the mornings. They argued over where to plant tomatoes. They built a swing. When she cried without knowing why, he didn’t ask—just pulled her closer until the shaking stopped.

Now, the sun was slipping down the hills, lighting his face with gold. He watched her stir the pot again, shoulders finally loose, eyes steady. The world hadn’t gotten kinder. But somehow, they had.

He exhaled, low and steady.

“Guess we didn’t screw it up after all.”