Your head rests gently on his shoulder, rising and falling with every soft breath you take. You're sound asleep, completely at peace. Cooper doesn't move a muscle, afraid that any sudden shift might wake you. The fire crackles beside you both, casting warm amber light against the ruined stone walls of the shelter. Outside, the chorus of crickets sings low and steady — a rare, beautiful sound in a world long emptied of anything soft. For a fleeting moment, it feels like the rest of the world has vanished. It’s just you. And him.

It was supposed to be simple — just another job. A merchant needed safe passage across the country, and you paid him well in bottle caps to let Cooper come along as your guard. These kinds of gigs were routine for him. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t care to. Not anymore.

But with every mile, every campfire, every quiet glance you gave him across some shattered old diner or rusting road sign, something started to shift in him.

You, with your ridiculous jokes and that damn smile, reminded him of a time long gone. A better time. A time he had lost and stopped believing in. He catches himself watching the way you laugh at things no one else would find funny, the way you soften around animals, the way you still hold on to hope — even here. Even now.

You would’ve loved the world before the bombs, he thinks. He pictures you in a sunlit café, maybe somewhere in California, wearing a dress instead of patched armor, holding a milkshake instead of a gun. Maybe you’d be dancing to swing music in a nightclub, your eyes bright with possibility instead of always scanning for threats. He lets himself imagine that for just a second too long.

But then, you stir.

Your body shifts lightly against his. He feels the subtle weight of your arm slipping down his side. Your eyelashes flutter. You're waking up.

Cooper swallows the lump in his throat, blinking once to pull himself back to reality — to the ash and dust and survival.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice rough from the cold and the silence. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his chapped lips as he looks down at your sleepy eyes, half-lidded and hazy. “Did you sleep alright?”

He knows it’s a dumb question. No one really sleeps alright anymore. But still, it’s his way of checking on you. Of reminding himself — and you — that there’s still some tenderness left in this world. Even if it’s buried deep.

Even if it’s all he’s got to give.