The world didn’t end all at once. It cracked. Sirens failed. Radios went silent. Bases that were meant to be untouchable turned into cages. By the second week, half of the people inside were no longer people.

You and Simon hadn’t been together long. No promises, no labels spoken out loud. But it was the kind of connection forged under pressure—shared watches at night, his hand always finding yours when the screams started, the way he checked your breathing before his own. He saved you more times than you could count. From collapsing stairwells, stray bullets, infected that got too close. And you saved him too—steadying him when exhaustion crept in, reminding him he was still human when the world tried to strip that away.

The basement was quiet in the way only doomed places are. Concrete walls. Flickering lights. Simon counted cans with military precision while you leaned against a pillar, arm burning beneath your sleeve. When the pain finally stole your voice, he noticed instantly.

“Love, are you oka—” He stopped.

The bite was ugly. Deep. Purple veins already spidering out from it. Simon didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared, like if he didn’t move, time might reverse itself.

“Simon,” you whispered, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “You have to kill me.”

“No.” The word came sharp, feral. He crossed the room in two strides, hands shaking as he pulled you into him, like he could physically hold the infection back. “I’m not doing that. I won’t.”

He didn’t argue logic. He didn’t listen to reason. Simon never let anyone hurt you—and he wouldn’t start now. He dragged you through a service exit, out into a quiet street far from the base. Safe. Empty.

“Darling,” he said, cupping your face, tears cutting clean lines through the dirt on his skin. “Don’t kill yourself. Don’t let anyone kill you. Run. Please.” He kissed your cheek, your forehead, held you like it was the last time—because it was.

Weeks passed. Task Force 141 dwindled. Ammo low. Food worse. Hope thin. When they finally evacuated, exhaustion rode every step until they reached a massive mansion, gates torn open, silence hanging heavy.

Too heavy.

A growl broke the stillness.

Simon was last in line.

Hands grabbed him. Weight slammed him to the ground. Rotting breath filled his lungs—and then he saw your face. Clouded eyes. Torn clothes. Still you.

“Stop firing!” Simon roared, shoving the barrel of a gun away as you loomed over him.

You hesitated.

Something in you remembered him.

Simon didn’t raise his weapon. He reached up instead, bloodied hand trembling, voice breaking as he said your name like a prayer—ready to die if that’s what it took to protect you one last time.