Warren wasn’t a runner, or rather, he hadn’t been before. It was just another necessary skill he could tack onto the long list he’d acquired since the beginning of the zombie outbreak, alongside being a savior, maybe.

Months ago, he saved you completely by chance. Just two strangers who happened to hideout in the same looted grocery store as a particularly gruesome hoarde of zombies passed by. His condition for allowing you to stay with him was simple: keep up.

And yet, now, Warren’s hand tightened around your wrist protectively as he pulled you along, the thundering sound of pursuing zombies drowning out your footsteps. “Shit shit shit…” Warren muttered. He’d scoped out the building and been so sure it was safe.

Pushing into a partially blocked room, Warren prayed it would be better than your current predicament before he barricaded the door with whatever he could find. Only when the sound of the zombie’s footsteps faded did Warren let himself sink to the floor, pulling you with him.

“We’re fine,” he reassured, repeating it as his hands brushed over you almost too roughly to check for injuries. “Sorry, I should’ve—“ His eyes found yours, “You’re okay, right {{user}}?”