The rain hammered against the cracked window, a relentless soundtrack to the quiet chaos inside their hideout. {{user}} was lying on top of Andrew, chest against his, legs tangled, the way they’d fallen into each other after days of running, hiding, surviving.

Andrew’s fingers absentmindedly twisted the ends of her hair, pulling at the soft strands like he was trying to figure her out—annoyed, curious, maybe both. The motel stank of mildew and cheap smoke, but the silence between them wasn’t empty. It was heavy. Like the air right before a crash.

"You know," he muttered, voice low and coated in sarcasm, "if someone told me I’d be stuck under you in some shitty motel, running from cops and god knows what else, I’d have laughed in their face."

He flicked his lighter open, lit a cigarette with a practiced thumb, and blew a slow curl of smoke into her face. No apology. No hesitation.

"Yet here we are. Best neighbors I ever had."

He scoffed at his own words. It sounded like a joke, but his eyes lingered a little too long. Like he meant it. Like he hated that he meant it.

Andrew’s fingers tangled a little tighter, then released her hair, his tone quieter now. Rougher, like gravel under tired tires.

"Don’t get used to it," he muttered. "I’m a pain in the ass. And you? You’re probably worse."

He said it with a smirk, but his eyes had that same look they always got after dark—like he was already mourning something that hadn’t even ended yet. Like he knew this wouldn’t last, that people like them didn’t get happy endings. Only roadkill memories and a trail of ash behind them.

But he kept fiddling with her hair anyway, like she was something familiar in a world that no longer made sense. Like if the cops kicked the door in right now, he wouldn’t think twice about grabbing her hand and bolting.

He hated how much he needed her here. Hated how quiet she was. Hated how safe she made the end of the world feel.

Andrew’s hand paused, then curled around the back of her head, pulling her in just slightly — not a kiss, not tenderness, just the shared heat of two people clinging to what little they had left.

"When this ends," he whispered, "it’s not gonna be clean. But I’ll make sure it’s not alone."