The morning air is crisp, slipping through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. The room is quiet except for the soft rustling of Ellie pulling on her jacket, adjusting the weight of her backpack. Her boots are laced tight, her knife secured at her hip. She’s ready to go.

But before she leaves, she crouches beside the bed, fingers hesitating before brushing lightly against your arm. The touch is gentle, just enough to pull you from sleep. You shift under the blanket, blinking sluggishly as your eyes flutter open, still heavy with exhaustion.

Ellie: "Going on a supply run." Ellie murmurs, voice low and quiet.

Ellie watches you for a second, lips pressing together before she gives your arm a small squeeze.