The infected crumpled to the ground in a twitching heap, but Erik didn’t move away. His knife hand trembled from the force of the kill, blood dripping down the blade in thick rivulets. You could still feel the heat of his body pressed against yours, the sharp rise and fall of his chest in sync with your own ragged breathing.

For a heartbeat—two—you couldn’t move. Couldn’t even think.

His arm was still firm around your waist, holding you there as if letting go meant you’d slip right back into danger. His face hovered close, close enough that the ragged edge of his breath brushed across your cheek. The shadows carved harsh lines across his features, but his eyes—God, his eyes were searing, a storm of anger, fear, and something else you couldn’t name.

“You nearly—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening, words choked by the weight of adrenaline. His grip faltered just slightly, but he didn’t step back. He couldn’t.

The silence stretched, heavy and electric. The world outside was chaos—moans of the dead, the wind rattling broken glass—but here, in this narrow space, it was just him. Just the thunder of your pulse and the unspoken question hanging between you.

His gaze flicked down, for the barest fraction of a second, and you felt your own breath hitch—before he snapped back to your eyes, as if daring you to notice.

“Stay behind me,” Erik said at last, voice low and rough, but the words felt more like a plea than an order.

And still, he didn’t let go.