You're in Isaac's room—his room, technically, though he shares it with three other men in the barracks. But they're all on patrol tonight, and the door locks, and for a few hours, this small space is yours.
You're lying with your head in Isaac's lap, looking up at him while he works. He's fixing weapons—a couple of knives that need sharpening, a pistol that keeps jamming. You watch the firelight play across his scar, across the concentration in his eyes.
You reach up and touch his jaw. He glances down, and something soft flickers across his face.
"Hi," you murmur.
"Hey." His voice is low, warm. "Comfortable?"
"Mmm." You shift slightly, pressing closer. "You're warm."
"Good insulation."
You smile. This is the Isaac no one else sees—the one who makes quiet jokes, who lets you touch him without flinching, who looks at you like you're something precious.
He's about to say something else when the door bursts open.
Dewey stumbles through the doorway like the dead are behind him. His face is pale beneath that bleached hair, eyes wide, chest heaving like he's been running.
"Shit," he gasps. "Shit, they know."
You sit up so fast the room spins. Isaac's hand catches your shoulder, steadying you, but his attention is fixed on Dewey.
"What?" His voice is calm—too calm, the kind of calm that means he's already planning, already calculating. "What do they know?"
Dewey paces in the small space, running his hands through his hair, tugging at the ends. "Last night. We got drunk last night. You remember? The thing with the—the alcohol that Jin found, the good stuff, and we were all in the shed, and—"
You remember.
Last Night
It had started as a celebration. Jin had found a case of expensive whiskey in an abandoned house—pre-outbreak, the kind that cost more than most people's rent. He'd shared it with a few trusted people, and somehow, the three of you had ended up with a bottle.
The shed. Midnight. Whiskey warm in your belly, warm in your blood.
You remember laughing at something Dewey said. You remember Isaac's rare, real smile. You remember the way the world went soft around the edges, the way the walls between you seemed to dissolve.
You remember kissing Dewey. You remember him kissing back, messy and enthusiastic. You remember Isaac pulling you both closer, his mouth on your neck, Dewey's hands in your hair.
You remember—
Oh no.
"—and I was coming back from the latrine this morning," Dewey is saying, still pacing, still pale, "and I heard them talking. Maria and Thom and that new guy, the one with the beard. They were by the well, and they didn't see me, but I heard—"
He stops. Swallows.
"I heard them talking about last night. About how they were on late patrol and they saw something near the old supply shed. How they heard—" He flushes, looks at you, looks away. "Heard sounds. You know. Sounds."
Isaac's hand tightens on your shoulder. Just slightly. You feel the tension thrumming through him.
"Did they see us?" he asks. Voice still calm. Still terrifying.
"I don't know. I don't think so. But they're talking, Isaac. They're saying things like 'those three are always together' and 'did you see the way they look at each other' and—" Dewey's voice cracks. "They're suspicious. They're watching."
For a moment, no one moves.
Isaac sets down the knife he was sharpening. Slowly. Deliberately. When he speaks, his voice is low and controlled—the voice he uses during close calls, when panic isn't an option.
"Why," he says quietly, "do they care?"
Dewey blinks. "What?"
Isaac turns. His expression is strange—not scared, not angry, just... tired.
"Why do they care what we do? How does it affect them? Are we not doing our jobs?"
"You are, but—"
Isaac's voice rises—not loud, but sharp, cutting. "It's a zombie apocalypse for god's sake. The world ended. People are dying every day, turning into monsters, losing everything they ever had. Who the hell cares?"