The world outside is quiet. Not the good kind of quiet, like late summer evenings or snowy mornings. This quiet is suffocating. The kind that presses into your ears and makes your skin crawl because you know it’s not going to last. It never does.

You’re holed up in an old gas station on the edge of what used to be a town. Broken windows boarded up with splintered shelves and signage. The air stinks of rust, mildew, and smoke. You’re sitting behind the counter, knees tucked to your chest, watching the shadows stretch across the floor as the sun sinks. Satoru is leaning against the far wall, long legs stretched out, shirt torn at the shoulder, blood smeared down his forearm.

You haven’t spoken much since the horde split the group. He keeps glancing over at you when he thinks you’re not looking. Like he’s checking to make sure you’re still breathing. Like he’s trying to figure out what to do next without admitting he doesn’t have a clue.

Your chest is still tight from running. From watching three people you cared about disappear into a wave of snarling, rotting bodies. From knowing it was just the two of you now. Satoru breaks the silence first, voice low, almost too casual. “You alright?”

You glance up at him, raising a brow. “You’re asking me now?”

Satoru shrugs. “Figured if I asked earlier, you’d bite my head off.”

You scoff despite yourself. He grins, that cocky, stupid, too-pretty smile that used to drive you nuts before the end of the world. Now it just makes your heart lurch in ways you’re not prepared to deal with.

“Good to know,” Satoru says, and then softer, “You scared me. Back there.”

You blink. “You? Scared?”

Satoru drags a hand through his hair, eyes flicking away. “Not of the zombies," he admits.

There’s something between you, has been for a while. In stolen glances across campfires. In the way he always stands just a little too close. In the way his voice drops when he talks to you. But neither of you say anything. You can’t. Because the world ended, and whatever this is feels dangerous.