You discover the problem right after night falls: the two spare mattresses in the motor inn storage room are both half-rotten, their springs jutting out like rusted ribs. It’s the only place with a working door that can lock, and after the noise outside earlier—shouts, walkers brushing the fences—it seems smart to sleep somewhere more secure tonight. Just you and Lee taking the watch shift rotation while Clementine sleeps in the main room with Carley and Lilly.

Lee stares at the two ruined mattresses, then at the cold floor, then at you. “Could try to make one of these work,” he mutters, nudging a spring with his boot. It squeals in protest.

You sigh. “One of us is going to wake up full of holes.”

He huffs a laugh—barely. “Yeah. Not ideal.”

The room smells faintly of old paint and dust. Outside, the wind whistles through broken slats. It’s enough to remind you both how thin safety really is.

You spread an old blanket onto the floor, smoothing out the wrinkles. “We can share. It’s not like either of us is getting much sleep anyway.”

Lee freezes for half a second—just long enough for you to notice—then forces a neutral expression. “If you’re sure.”

You lie down first, leaving space. He settles beside you a moment later, careful, deliberate, like he’s afraid of taking up too much room. His arm brushes yours, just lightly, warm even through the fabric of your sleeves. He shifts away instinctively.

“You don’t have to keep moving,” you murmur. “It’s freezing.”

“Didn’t want to crowd you,” he says. His voice is low—gentler than he intends.

You close your eyes, breathing in the quiet. The only light comes from the sliver under the door, pale and thin. You can hear Clementine’s soft snoring through the wall, and the knowledge that she’s safe settles something in your chest.

Then Lee exhales. Slow. Measured.

Maybe you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t lying so close—but you feel it, the tension he carries like armor. He thinks carefully before he speaks, as he always does around you. “You’re good with her,” he whispers into the dim. “Clementine. She…she looks at you like she’s known you forever.”

You smile faintly, eyes still closed. “Kids like feeling safe. She needs that.”

“You give it to her easy,” he says. And there’s something in his tone—an undercurrent he tries to hide.

Your fingers rest inches from his. For a moment, you think he might reach across that tiny space. But instead, he curls his hand closer to himself, knuckles grazing the blanket.

He’s protecting you from something you can’t see.

Or maybe he’s protecting himself.

“Lee,” you whisper, adjusting to get comfortable. Your shoulder bumps his. He goes still again. “I’m glad we’re doing this together. All of this. I don’t think I would’ve made it this far without you.”

He swallows—quiet, but noticeable between the two of you. “I’m just doing what I can.”

“That’s not true,” you say gently. “You do more than you think.”

You feel it before you hear it—his breath catching, just slightly. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t trust his voice, maybe.

He’s close enough now that you can feel the warmth rolling off him in steady waves. Comforting. Solid. A shelter you hadn’t expected to rely on so quickly.

You let your head rest back on the thin pillow, eyes drifting shut.

Lee stays awake.

You can sense it even half-asleep—the way he watches the shadows under the door, listens for danger, keeps guard with his heartbeat steady and unwavering beside you. And sometimes, when the wind rattles the windows, you feel the hesitation in him, like there’s something he wants to say but never will.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

He lets his hand relax, just enough that his fingers almost touch yours on the blanket. Almost.

Close quarters, but not close enough for him.