The nights on patrol were always long.

Cold wind swept through the empty streets of District One, and most soldiers passed the time by complaining, humming, or kicking debris. But you? You had the radio.

And the voice that came through it every shift.

“Checkpoint Three, report,” came the familiar drawl.

You smiled before pressing the button. “Still here, Doyle. No infected, no movement, just me and a very bored pigeon.”

A low chuckle crackled through your speaker.

“Copy that. Try not to let the pigeon outrank you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Ha, ha. Very funny, Sergeant.”

“That’s Doyle to you,” he corrected lightly, “unless you’re trying to flatter me.”

Your face warmed even though he couldn’t see it. That was the strange part of your connection—you had never actually met, not face to face. You were assigned to opposite ends of the district, communicating only through radio checks.

But somehow he felt like the closest person in the world out here.

The radio clicked again.

“You still with me, Y/N?”

“Always,” you answered before you could stop yourself.

There was a pause. Not long, but enough that you imagined him smiling.

“Good to know.”

Your shift felt different tonight. Rain was hitting the pavement, quiet and steady. You leaned against the guard booth, listening to static.

“Y/N, sound off,” Doyle asked, like always.

“Here,” you responded. “Trying not to freeze.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll complain for the both of us.”

“You always do,” you teased.

“You wound me.”

You laughed, and he exhaled softly—almost like he’d been waiting to hear it.

Over time, the conversations drifted away from official reports.

He told you about learning to shoot by lining tin cans on fences. You told him you always panic-ramble when you’re nervous. He said he didn’t mind. You said he was lying. He said you were easy to talk to.

Each night, you felt like you were sitting next to him instead of miles apart.