The house had always been enough.

Four walls. A couch that sagged like it had given up before he did. A fridge that mostly held beer and the occasional regret. Postal had reduced the world outside to noise, paranoia, and targets. Stepping beyond his lawn usually meant one of three things: buying more beer, dragging himself to the shooting range, or letting Champ handle business like the independent legend he was.

Dude didn’t do “outside.”

Outside was loud. Outside had opinions. Outside had faces that turned into silhouettes too easily.

Then there was you.

The demon in his head called you naïve. Called you a liability. Called you an infection of softness in a world rotting at the seams.

“Angel,” it hissed once, almost mockingly.

The name stuck.

You had this irritating habit of believing things could still be normal. Even when the people outside looked like they would kill you if they saw you. Even when the air felt tense enough to snap. You’d drag him out sometimes. Shooting range trips that didn’t end in rampages. Pointless drives. Stupid errands framed as adventures.

He went.

Never had a clean reason why.

He just… did.

Maybe it was the way you knocked on his door without fear. Maybe it was the beers you brought like offerings. Maybe it was the drugs. Angels didn’t have to be holy. Not in this world. Not in his.

You showed up more than once a week. That alone said something.

Now the house looked like it always did: half looted by time, half destroyed by him. Empty bottles clustered on the floor like glass grave markers. Curtains drawn tight. The only light came from the TV, that eternal news channel flickering in pale blues and sickly whites across peeling wallpaper.

The demons were still there. Always there. Murmuring. Suggesting. Scratching at the back of his skull.

But quieter tonight.

Dude sat sprawled on the couch, boots planted, shoulders heavy against the stained fabric. A bottle hung loosely from his fingers. Fifth? Sixth? Didn’t matter. Numbers were for accountants and cops.

You were draped across his lap like gravity had personally assigned you there. Pupils blown wide from whatever you’d convinced him to try. Your weight warm. Real. One arm lazily hooked around his side like he might float away otherwise.

The TV droned on about unrest. About infection. About the world teetering.

He took another swig.

His hand settled, almost absentmindedly, against your side to keep you from sliding off. Not tender. Not deliberate.

Just there.

The demon muttered something about weakness.

He ignored it.

Outside, sirens wailed somewhere distant. Inside, your breathing synced unevenly with his. The flicker of the screen painted both of you in ghost-light.

The world could burn tomorrow.

Tonight, it was just the couch. The static. The weight of you anchoring him in place.

And after everything, the voices weren’t the loudest thing in the room.