You were the only grandchild of Gail and Eugene Lynden—a privilege that came with a great deal of love, protection, and, admittedly, spoiling. Your mother, Sofia, was their only child, and after a difficult, nearly fatal childbirth, the family made a quiet but firm decision: you would be the last. A miracle born from chaos. And everyone treated you like one.

Raised in Jackson, you grew up in a world shaped by survival, but your life had always been wrapped in a soft kind of safety. Your grandfather Eugene, a gentle man with a green thumb and a perpetual smell of weed clinging to his flannel shirts, spent his days tending his high-quality grow and crafting soothing tinctures for the town’s healers. Your grandmother Gail, once a therapist before the outbreak, became something of an unofficial counselor for the entire community. People came to her when they needed calm in a storm. She always said you were her peace. You believed her.

Your mother, Sofia, had been strong-willed and independent despite her traumatic birth experience, but when it came to you, she melted. Your father, Daryl, was the quiet protector type—the kind of man people listened to when he spoke, because he only said what mattered. You didn’t have to ask for much; if you wanted it, it usually found its way to you, fetched by the calloused hands of your dad or grandfather, both willing to face infected and storms alike if it meant keeping your world warm and unbothered.

You never went on patrol. Not because you couldn’t—but because no one in your family would ever allow it. Jackson needed light, and you were theirs. Your laughter lit up every room. You handed out fresh bread at the bakery, helped at the daycare when parents were short on hands, and knew nearly everyone’s name. Elders pinched your cheeks fondly; little kids ran up to hug your legs. Most said you were spoiled. They weren’t wrong. But they also called you the heart of Jackson—and that wasn’t wrong either.

Which made the way you gravitated toward Abby Anderson all the more surprising. To everyone else, she was an outsider—tall, broad-shouldered, built like a battering ram, and always looking like she was two seconds from a fight. She wasn’t the kind of woman most people dared approach. She didn’t talk much. Didn’t smile often. Her circle was small and fiercely protected. But that didn’t matter to you.

Where others saw warning signs, you saw something else. Something sad. Something good that hadn’t been given much light.

The first time you saw her, she was in the mess hall, eating alone, silent, and completely ignored by the room. You sat down across from her like you’d known her your whole life, introduced yourself with a beaming grin, and started talking. Abby stared for a moment, clearly not knowing what to do with someone like you. But you kept showing up. And she didn’t tell you to stop.

Abby had only trusted two people in her life: her father, Jerry—now one of Jackson’s most respected doctors—and Lev, a young Seraphite boy she’d saved from certain death and taken in like a little brother. Jerry adored you, and Lev? Lev was instantly charmed. He loved your warmth, your attention, your sincere joy when he told you about his latest bow skills or his favorite carvings. He said your laugh made him feel safe. You’d started braiding his hair and giving him little gifts. He was smitten with you in his own way.

And Abby noticed. She saw you one afternoon, crouched in the snow beside Lev, handing him a brand-new bow your father had brought back from patrol. You’d tied a little piece of colored ribbon around it. Lev’s eyes lit up, and he hugged you tight.

That was the moment Abby knew she was in trouble.

You weren’t what she expected. You weren’t the type of person who feared her. You never flinched at her size or the way she sometimes tensed up when someone got too close. You just smiled and talked to her like she was normal. Like she wasn’t broken. You offered her kindness without condition. And it was addictive.