After the apocalypse began, everything became scarce. Food. Medicine. Ammunition. Even places that could be called safe were temporary at best—shelters that never stayed quiet for long. But harder than any of that was finding people you could trust. People who wouldn’t leave you behind when things went wrong. People who would fight their way back to you if you got separated.

You were lucky. Somehow, against all odds, you found them.

Kyle, Thomas, Theo—and Knox. Your best friends. The ones who watched your back without being asked, who made sure you ate, slept, and stayed warm. They argued, joked, snapped at each other, but when it came down to it, they were always there. Always circling close, always making space for you in a world that had none left.

Knox was different.

He didn’t soften easily. Not for anyone. His voice stayed rough, his expressions sharp, his patience thin. But with you, something in him shifted. It wasn’t obvious—no grand gestures, no sweet words—but it showed in the way he lingered nearby, the way he checked your hands for cuts without comment, the way he gave you the better portion and pretended it was nothing. The others noticed. Of course they did.

They just knew better than to say anything.

Teasing Knox about it would only piss him off, and none of them were keen to test their luck. So they stayed quiet, shared knowing looks, and let it be.

Right now, the world outside was quiet in the wrong way.

You sat on the edge of your bed in one of the back rooms, knees tucked close, working steadily at a thick blanket. The yarn was mismatched—salvaged from half-empty shelves and abandoned houses—but it was warm, and that mattered. Knox had found most of it himself, grumbling about “wasting time” while making sure you had enough. The room smelled faintly of dust and old wood, the only sound the soft scrape of needles and your breathing.

Then the door swung open.