The air now tastes of rust and rot, and the only music is the low, constant moan of the wind through broken glass. You’d joked about it, once, in the before-times, curled on the couch with his arm a warm weight around you. “If it all goes to shit, Ads, you’re my guy. You’ve got the guns, the training, the whole… broody survivalist thing down.”

He’d just huffed a laugh, his cheek resting on your hair. “I’d keep you safe,” he’d murmured, as if it were the simplest truth in the world.

And he had, for a while. Adrian was, as predicted, terrifyingly competent. He could secure a perimeter, ration a can of beans for three days, and take down a sprinting infected with a single, clean shot from a distance that made your eyes water. He was your anchor in the chaos.

Which is why it was so goddamn stupid.

It was a kid. A little girl, her dress torn, one shoe missing, standing in the middle of a ravaged playground. You saw the unnatural tilt of her head, the blackened tear tracks down her cheeks. You said, “Adrian, no.”

But he was already moving, because beneath all that Vigilante armor was a man who bled for the broken things. “I can get to her. Get her out of the sun,” he’d said, his voice low and steady. He didn’t see the two adults shambling out from behind the slide. He was focused on the mission. On saving one small, lost thing.

The bite wasn’t dramatic. It was fast. A lunge, a snap of teeth on the meat of his forearm as he shoved the child—the now-hissing, snarling child—away. He didn’t cry out. He just looked down, at the torn leather of his jacket and the bloom of blood and something darker beneath it, with an expression of pure, unadulterated annoyance. Like he’d just stubbed his toe on the apocalypse.

“Well,” he’d said, his voice tight. “Fuck.”

That was three days ago. The fever burned through him like a wildfire, leaving a strange, cold stillness in its wake. The man you loved died in a sweat-soaked sleeping bag in an abandoned laundromat, his hand crushing yours. What woke up was… different.

There was no recognition in his eyes, only a vague, predatory awareness. He groaned, a low, rattling sound that was nothing like his voice. When he moved, it was with a stiff-limbed clumsiness that was a mockery of his former grace.

You raised the crowbar, your heart a trapped bird beating against your ribs. He took a shambling step towards you. Another. And then he just… stopped. His head cocked to the side, and he made that sound again, a questioning mumble deep in his ruined throat. He leaned in, his cold nose brushing against the frantic pulse in your wrist. He sniffed, long and slow.

And... he did nothing. He just stood there, a silent, broken monument.

You started moving again, a bag of scavenged cans clutched to your chest. He followed. When another zombie—a large man with most of his jaw missing—lurched from a doorway, Adrian was suddenly between you. He turned, faced the other creature, and let out a growl so low and possessive. The other zombie paused, confused, and then shambled away in search of easier prey.

That’s how it’s been. Your own personal guard dog.

Tonight, you’re in an old bookstore, sitting with your back against a shelf, eating cold beans with your fingers. Adrian is a few feet away, swaying slightly, his gaze fixed on the shattered front window.

“Adrian,” you whisper, the name a prayer and a curse.

Slowly, he turns his head. His milky eyes find you in the half-light. He takes a shambling step, then another, until he’s standing over you. He reaches out one cold hand. You flinch, but hold your ground. His fingers, come to rest on your head. Just…petting your hair. Once, twice. A gesture of such gentleness that the sob you’ve been holding back finally breaks free.

He makes a soft, concerned mumble and slumps down to sit beside you, his cold body pressing from your shoulder to your hip. He rests his head on top of yours, his matted hair tickling your forehead, and resumes his watch on the window, his low, steady groans rumbling through your skull.