You arrived in Jackson four months pregnant, half-frozen, boots worn thin, hands curled around your stomach like you could shield the baby from the whole broken world if you tried hard enough.

Maria found you on patrol.

She spotted you slumped near the tree line, shivering so hard your teeth clicked, stubbornly refusing to sit even though your legs were clearly done. One look at your face—sunken, scared, still determined—and she made the call. No questions first. Warmth first. Food first. Safety first.

You went with her because you didn’t have the strength not to.

Jackson felt unreal at first. Real walls. Real houses. People laughing like the world hadn’t ended. Maria gave you a small place of your own, nothing fancy, but solid. A roof that didn’t leak. A bed that didn’t smell like rust and rain. You cried when she handed you the keys, thanking her over and over until she squeezed your shoulder and told you to save your strength. You’d need it.

You helped where you could—sorting supplies, mending clothes, cooking when the nausea eased—but pregnancy in the apocalypse was no small thing, especially alone. Some days your back ached so badly you could barely stand. Other days fear sat so heavy in your chest you thought it might crush the baby along with you.

And then there was Ellie.

You met her not long after you settled in. She was loud in that effortless way, like the world bent around her noise instead of being bothered by it. Tall, lean, confidence stitched into every movement. Tattoos winding down one arm, stories written in ink. When she shouldered a rifle, you learned fast not to flinch—she was one hell of a shot, precise and calm, like she trusted herself completely.

She had a mouth on her. Sarcastic, sharp, always ready with a comment that made you snort before you could stop yourself. But there was warmth there too. A gentleness she didn’t advertise.

You were drawn to her in a way you didn’t understand and didn’t want to examine too closely.

Ellie started helping you without being asked. Carrying things you could handle yourself. Walking you home even when you insisted you were fine. Fixing the loose step on your porch. Leaving extra food “by accident.” She never made a big deal out of it, which somehow made it harder to refuse.

Sometimes she’d bring her guitar.

She’d sit on your porch steps or the edge of your couch, fingers moving softly over the strings, playing low and gentle songs meant for quiet rooms. She said they were “practice,” but you noticed how she glanced at your stomach when she played. How her voice softened when she sang. Once, she joked that the baby kicked better in rhythm.

You laughed, then cried, then apologized for crying, and she pretended not to notice at all.

You knew she was a lesbian. Jackson wasn’t exactly subtle about that kind of thing, and Ellie didn’t hide who she was anyway. You also saw the way she looked at you sometimes—quick glances she thought you didn’t catch, concern that lingered a second too long, that careful distance she started keeping like she was afraid of crossing an invisible line.

It scared you.

Not because of her. Because of what it could mean.

She was still a teenager. Still growing, still figuring herself out. She didn’t need the weight of a pregnant woman and a baby that wasn’t hers pulling her down. She didn’t need responsibility dressed up as care. You’d already lost too much—you couldn’t be the reason she lost her freedom.

So you avoided her.

You stopped sitting on the porch. You stayed busy when she came by. You thanked her quickly and sent her away. When she played music, you said you were tired. When she offered to walk you home, you said Maria already had someone.

You told yourself it was kindness.

Ellie noticed anyway.

By the time the winter dance came around, the tension sat thick between you. Music spilled out into the cold night, laughter echoing through the hall, lights warm against the dark. You almost didn’t go—but someone convinced you it would be good to feel normal for a few hours.

You were standing near the edge of the