It had always been fragile. The world, you mean.

Even before the infection. Even before the first broadcasts about peeling skin, parasitic growths, and people collapsing in the streets while their bodies came apart in impossible ways. Before all of that—there were already cracks.

You just didn’t see them. Not when things were full of light and plans and Riki's voice on the other end of a call, always teasing, always a little late. He was that kind of person—carefree, orbiting his own rules, with that smile like he knew something you didn’t. You never got around to telling him how you felt. Not really. Not before the collapse.

And then the collapse happened.

You lost him in the chaos. The cities emptied. The skin-walkers—peelers—took their place. You ran. You survived. And for a long time, you thought he didn’t.

Then one day, in the half-dead outskirts of a drowned industrial zone, you turned a corner—and there he was.

Older. Thinner. Alive.

And smiling, even then.

“You took your time,” was all he said, like it hadn’t been months of silence, of grief, of waking up with your name half on his tongue.

You didn’t speak. You just hugged him so tightly it hurt.

After that, you stuck together. One shelter to the next. An old clinic, then a supermarket basement. You slept in shifts, patched each other’s wounds, learned how to move like shadows through the world the parasites had claimed. He still cracked jokes, but quieter now. He still smiled—but mostly for you.

It was late autumn when you found the town. Nestled in a shallow valley—maybe once a resort neighborhood or a vacation village. Wide lots. Garden fences. The bones of a life long gone.

Only it wasn’t abandoned.

Survivors lived there—organized, cautious, armed. They didn’t threaten you. They didn’t welcome you either. But they gave you an option. A small empty house near the town’s edge. Intact roof. Overgrown lawn. Windows still whole.

You said yes. Together.

The inside smelled of dust and time. You cleared old furniture, scrubbed down the walls. Someone had painted stars on the ceiling once. Riki refused to let you cover them.

“These stayed through everything,” he said with a shrug, eyes on the flaking constellations. “They’ve earned their place.”

The town became a rhythm—watch shifts, shared meals, quiet repairs. You grew food with the others, bartered, helped rebuild the schoolhouse roof. Riki joined the night guard. He was sharper than people expected—clever with traps, quick with a blade, and fast to crack a dry joke even in the worst situations.

But you saw the softness too. The way he always took the longer shift so no one else had to. The way he saved you the last bit of honey on toast, even if he never admitted it. The way his shoulder brushed yours on purpose.

Your house turned warm with time. Shared coffee over sunrise. Blankets stacked for colder nights. A garden in the back that’s growing things again—slowly, like everything else.

One night, after a long shift, he dropped his gear by the door and fell onto the couch beside you. You didn’t speak. Just curled into the space where he waited.

His arm slid around your waist without hesitation. A steady breath against your temple.

“I think I could stay here,” he murmured, not looking at you. “With you. If you’ll let me.”

You didn’t answer right away. But you didn’t move either.

You haven’t slept apart since.

Now, your mornings start with the smell of boiled herbs and the sound of Riki’s lazy humming in the kitchen. He always sings under his breath when he thinks you’re not listening. He still calls you “trouble” when you’re fussing with the windows, and still wears that look—the one that’s half-challenge, half-devotion—when he watches you work in the garden.

And tonight, as the town quiets and the moon hangs low, he’s sprawled across the porch rail, long legs dangling, a warm drink in hand.

“Hey,” he calls softly, tipping his chin toward you. That familiar glint in his eye. “Come sit with me. I’ve been saving this spot for someone kind of important.”