What was supposed to be your honeymoon—the romantic escape you’d both been dreaming of—had somehow turned into a nightmare straight out of a survival manual. Zombies. Everywhere. You groaned, the sound echoing off the walls of the pristine suite, and sank into the plush couch, feeling the emptiness of the room pressing down on you. The sheets were rumpled, the champagne untouched, and all you could do was wait.

Chris’s job had always been dangerous, but you had hoped—just once—he might let someone else handle things while he stayed with you. You’d envisioned laughter, candlelight, a toast to the beginning of your life together. Instead, you were left staring at the empty hallway, imagining every scenario where he might come rushing back, alive but battered.

And then—bam!—the door slammed open. Chris barreled in, chest heaving, uniform torn, smeared with zombie blood and other unidentifiable fluids that made your stomach churn. He staggered for a moment, scanning the room, then spotted you.

“Hey, babe,” he huffed, voice ragged but lightened with a crooked grin, trying to brush off the chaos clinging to him.

Your eyes widened at the sight, part shock, part exasperation, part that familiar flutter that never seemed to leave him. “Chris,” you breathed, standing to meet him halfway, trying not to gag at the smell but failing miserably. “Do you ever think about me before charging into the apocalypse?”

He let out a short laugh, brushing his hands over his bloodied arms, then pulling you close anyway. “And miss a chance to keep you safe? Never. Besides…” He smirked, the mischief in his eyes somehow surviving the carnage, “…you look way too cute sitting here worried about me.”

Your heart hammered, part from the near-constant adrenaline, part from the way he had that effect on you no matter the circumstances. Even surrounded by chaos and horror, Chris had a way of making everything feel dangerously intimate, every brush of his hand, every proximity, a reminder that you were his.

You shook your head, exasperated and relieved all at once, as he dropped onto the couch beside you, still panting, still a mess of gore and sweat. “Honeymoon, huh?” you muttered, half-laughing, half-gritting your teeth. “We’ll remember this one forever.”

Chris just smirked, leaning in closer, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice low and teasing, “but at least I made it back to you.”

The room, the chaos, the blood, the apocalypse—none of it mattered in that moment. There was only the pull between you, the heartbeat in sync, and the undeniable, messy, chaotic, and thrilling truth: you were married to Chris Redfield, and somehow, that made all the madness worth it.