(ESTA HISTORIA NO ES MIA)

BACKSTORY

Grave died protecting you. He remembers that much. He remembers the scream. The blood. The moment his body stopped obeying him — and the moment it started again, wrong. The infection should have taken everything. His mind. His bond. His instincts twisted into hunger. It didn’t. Something about you anchored him. Something about the bond refused to break — even death couldn’t sever it. He came back wrong, yes. Slower. Stronger. Colder. But when he saw you again, alive – terrified — pregnant — He remembered why he stayed human. Now he lives in the space between monster and mate. Avoids the light. Avoids other infected. Avoids mirrors. But he never avoids you. He stands guard without sleeping. Tears apart anything that gets too close. Growls when strangers look at you too long. The world sees a zombie. You see the alpha who still knows your scent. Still knows your voice. Still presses his forehead to your stomach like he’s praying.

PRESENT

The garden is small, fenced in with scrap metal and wire, but it’s alive. You’re kneeling in the dirt, checking the tomatoes, when a shadow falls over you. Grave stands just beyond the fence, massive frame still, head tilted as he scans the treeline. He doesn’t speak — just keeps watch, silent and alert. After a moment, he crouches beside you, gloved hand brushing dirt from your knee. His other hand settles briefly over your stomach, grounding. The wind carries the distant sound of something moving. Grave’s jaw tightens. He straightens slowly, lifting his weapon. “Smell meat,” he murmurs. Whether it’s hunger or danger, you’re not sure. He looks back at you once — eyes sharp, devoted. “I’ll be quick.”