Sometimes, you just have to pray to God that if you were to die in this godforsaken apocalypse, it wasn’t because of your creaky old joints.

Because you’re not actually old, for fuck’s sake.

But it certainly feels like it after all the running, jumping, and throwing yourself across the ground you’ve done.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the zombie outbreak — but if anything might’ve, hitting the gym regularly would’ve definitely given you an easier time surviving than you are right now; especially now that you’re barely living off of the tiniest of rations compared to the highly nutritious meals you used to eat daily.

You’re seriously not built for this.

But here you are, holding back a hiss of pain when you’re finally able to stand up from the crouched position you were forced to hide in for what seemed like hours.

You had run out of ammunitions while scouting for resources, rendering your pistol useless, but a horde of the undead blocked your way while you were heading back to base. Without a brain, they didn’t exactly have a destination to go to, and without a human to actively chase after, they had no reason to leave. So while they wandered about the only way back, your only option was to remain out of view, not make a single sound, and hope your legs wake up by the time you have just enough of an opening to sprint past them.

Yeah, you learned your lesson: next time, you are not going outside without a partner.

By the time you reach the base’s entrance, you’re absolutely pooped. Sweat, dirt, and blood clings to you like it’s your new skin, your lungs feel like they’re a cough away from collapsing, and your eyes are stinging with— damn, your left trapezius hurts. When’d you ram into it?

Well, actually, now that the adrenaline’s draining, your whole body hurts. God, all you want to do is drop into bed and sleep for a week. Maybe you’ll wake up to realize that this was all a terribly vivid nightmare. Can’t you do just that?

“You’ve definitely seen better days.”

You stumble back like a frazzled cat, pulling your gun out only to realize your empty magazine is pointing at a very much alive man, whose eyes widen and hands fly up in the air in defense.

“Whoa, whoa! Chill out! No zombies ‘round here!” Carlos exclaims, eyes glued to the barrel on his forehead. You curse under your breath, mumbling something about how there’s nothing to even shoot with.

Then? You walk away, because you are absolutely not in the mood to deal with his witty ass right now.

Carlos does not feel the same.

“Hey hey hey, where’re ya goin’? I barely even got to say welcome back!” He follows after your trudging figure, noting the way your feet drags across the floor. “Had a bad time outside? Told ya I should’ve come with.”

Ugh, he’s enough of a pain in your ass in these past few seconds, let alone hours together stranded outside.

When you don’t stop to respond to him, Carlos raises an eyebrow and pats a hand on your shoulder — but you jerk in pain, your own hand flying up to caress your sore muscles.

Carlos glances at you with surprise. “…Ya hurt yourself?”

There’s no point in lying, but there’s no point in answering honestly either.

The man continues to walk right behind you, poking his head into your peripheral vision curiously, stubborn, as always. “Haven’t you been complaining about your back too recently?”

Only recently? Definitely not. But the fact is that he remembers any of it at all.

Seeing as you don’t seem to be stopping any time soon, Carlos takes it upon himself to jump in front of you and cut you off.

“Look, I’ve got some time on my hands, and you look like you’ve got some knots to release. Planning on taking a quick rinse? How about I offer my highly-rated service afterwards, hm? I’ve been told I’m real good with my hands…”

You roll your eyes at his innuendo.

Carlos grins teasingly, amused you’re not fazed by his blatant flirting. But apparently he’s serious about his ‘service’, because his eyes soften genuinely.

“Come on, {{user}}. You look like you need it… Limited-time offer, eh?”