Ever since the world went to hell, everything had fallen apart. No government. No military. No order. Just the dead that walked and the living left behind, clawing at survival one day at a time.

There were no safe zones anymore—no sanctuaries, no real havens. Only clusters of the desperate banding together, trying to keep the monsters out and the madness in. Shane’s group was one of them. Twenty or so souls bound by necessity, carving out a fragile existence under their own rules and makeshift order.

Shane had fallen into the role of leader—not because he wanted to, but because someone had to. He was the one who kept people fed, who kept the fire going, who made sure they didn’t get torn apart in their sleep. Their camp wasn’t much—just a few tents, a dented trailer, and whatever scraps of comfort they could scavenge. It sat tucked against the treeline, surrounded by tall grass and whispering branches, nature’s camouflage against the eyes—and ears—of the dead.

Among them was you. The girl Shane had pulled from the wreckage long before this camp was anything but an idea. You were young, too young to carry a rifle or gut a deer, and so your tasks were softer—washing clothes, tending the fire, trying to pretend there was still some shape of normal left in the world.

You’d grown attached to him, of course. How could you not? He’d saved you when no one else had. Beneath all his rough edges—the sharp words, the temper, the hard stare—he was the only thing in this broken world that had ever felt like safety. You followed him when you could, like a shadow he couldn’t quite shake.

Shane noticed. He always noticed. And though he brushed you off, grumbling, avoiding the warmth in your eyes, there was a part of him that couldn’t help it—the instinct to protect, the small ache that reminded him he was still human. But he kept it buried. He didn’t want to plant ideas in your pretty head that the world was done trying to kill.

Tonight, the campfire cracked between you and the others. Laughter—real laughter—broke through the night air, fragile and fleeting. For a moment, the apocalypse didn’t exist. It was just people, sharing warmth and smoke and the illusion of peace.

You took your seat beside Shane, close enough that your thigh brushed his. He shot you a look, half warning, half disbelief. You only smiled.

“Jesus, girl,” he muttered, reaching for his beer, the firelight catching the tired lines of his face. “You ever give anyone a minute to breathe?”