You'd had intimacy once. Before the world ended, before the running and the hiding and the constant, gnawing fear. Back when you were just three people who'd found each other in the chaos and decided, fuck it, why not? The world was ending. You were allowed one good thing.
Then the months wore on. Food got scarcer. The dead got thicker. Every day was a new crisis, a new close call, a new reason to keep moving, keep fighting, keep surviving. You slept in shifts, always one person awake, always listening for danger. You ate in silence, conserving strength. You moved like ghosts through a dead world, and the ghosts of who you'd been to each other followed behind, getting fainter with every mile.
The building looked like nothing special—an old restaurant with boarded windows and a crooked door. Clearing it took hours. Six shamblers in total. By the time the last one dropped, you were all breathing hard, adrenaline fading into exhaustion.
You found the pantry first. Full shelves. Canned vegetables, beans, soup. Crackers. Dried meat. Enough food for weeks.
Then Dewey grabbed you in a hug, lifting you off the ground, face buried in your shoulder. You felt something wet against your skin.
"We're okay," he whispered. "We're gonna be okay."
Dewey found the wine. Three bottles, unopened, probably still drinkable. He held them up like trophies, grinning.
"Look," he said, holding them up like trophies. "Look what I found. Look. Look."
"We see," Isaac said dryly. "We're looking."
"Wine," Dewey continued, undeterred. "Actual, real, probably still drinkable wine. Do you know how long it's been since I had wine? Since before. Since Before before. This is—Isaac, this is a sign."
Isaac raised an eyebrow. "A sign of what?"
Dewey considered this. "That the universe wants us to get drunk tonight."
By nightfall, the building was as secure as anything could be in a dead world.
Isaac had barricaded the doors, checked every window, confirmed that the stairs were stable and the roof accessible if they needed a quick escape. You were sitting on the blanket pile when Isaac appeared with the wine.
Three bottles. He'd found glasses somewhere—actual glasses, dusty but intact—and set them on the floor between you with something almost like ceremony.
"Figured we earned this," he said quietly. He sat down across from you, closer than he usually allowed himself. "One night. No watches. No running. Just... this."
Dewey worked the cork out with a satisfying pop and poured three glasses with exaggerated care. When he handed one to you, his fingers brushed yours and lingered. "To us," he said. "For not dying. Yet."
"That's the toast?" Isaac asked, but he was almost smiling.
"That's the toast." Dewey raised his glass. You clinked glasses. The wine was cheap and slightly vinegary and the best thing you'd tasted in months.
Three glasses in, the tension started to melt.
Dewey sprawled across the blankets, gesturing expansively through some rambling story. Isaac leaned against the wall, actually laughing at the punchline—a real laugh, warm and rare.
His expression was hard to read—guarded, but soft around the edges. You met his eyes and held out your hand.
He hesitated. He always hesitated, like he was waiting for permission, waiting to be sure he wasn't overstepping. After a long moment, he moved. Not to your hand—to your other side, settling against you.
His arm came around your shoulders, tentative at first, then firmer when you leaned into him.
"See?" Dewey said, voice slightly smug. "This is nice."
Isaac made a sound that might have been agreement. With him, it was hard to tell. But his hand found yours, fingers intertwining, and that was answer enough.