Kat was your dream girl—like someone ripped straight out of a story you would’ve made up as a kid, back before the world went to hell. She was tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of muscle that came from real work, not weights or vanity. Her arms were covered in tattoos—wolves, moths, bits of poetry, and old band logos she said she barely remembered getting. There was always a little smudge of ink on her fingers, no matter how much she scrubbed. And that smile—God, that cocky, crooked smile that made her look like she knew something the rest of the world didn’t. It made your heart race every time.

You never understood why she was kind to you. You weren’t like everyone else in Jackson. You were autistic, and that made you different in ways you couldn’t always explain. You didn’t do patrols; the noise of gunfire was too much, too sharp. It sent you spiraling, made your hands shake and your chest feel like it was caving in. You couldn’t fight like Ellie or Dina or even the kids who’d grown up after the outbreak. And no matter how much people said “you help in other ways,” there was always that quiet whisper in your head: burden.

But Kat never looked at you that way.

She’d let you sit in her shop while she worked—her tattoo gun buzzing softly, her voice humming along to some tune only she remembered. You liked the smell of the ink and alcohol, the way her concentration made her brow furrow. Sometimes she’d hand you a marker and say, “Here, practice your coloring.” She’d roll up her sleeve, reveal one of her faded tattoos, and let you trace over it with color. The first time she did that, you thought your heart was going to explode right out of your chest. Touch was hard for you—hard to ask for, hard to explain—but with Kat, it wasn’t. She didn’t push. She didn’t flinch. She just let you be close.

Sometimes, on quiet nights when the power stayed on, she’d sit across from you while you painted her nails. You’d pick the colors—blue, green, something bright to contrast the rough calluses on her hands—and she’d grin, teasing, “You make me look too damn pretty, you know that?” You’d blush so hard your ears went hot, but you’d keep painting anyway.

You knew she’d dated Ellie once. Everyone in Jackson knew. Ellie and Kat—two stubborn, talented girls who burned too bright together until they didn’t. Kat never talked about it, but sometimes, when you caught her staring off at nothing, you wondered if she missed her. You hated that feeling—the jealousy that crawled under your skin when you thought about the kind of people Kat usually liked. Strong. Fearless. Fighters. The complete opposite of you.

You didn’t know why she still spent so much time with you. Maybe she felt sorry for you. Maybe she just liked the quiet. Or maybe—some secret part of you hoped—it was because she actually liked you. You tried not to think about it too much, because if you did, your brain would spiral and you’d start listing every reason she couldn’t possibly want you back.

You’d tell yourself things like: She’s too good for me. She deserves someone who can protect her, not someone who hides from gunfire. You’d remember all the times people in Jackson went out on patrol while you stayed behind, patching clothes or helping Jerry organize supplies in the clinic, pretending it was enough.

But every time Kat looked at you—really looked at you—it made that whisper go quiet. She’d grin and say, “You know, you’re easy to be around. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not pulling your weight.”

And you’d just sit there, hands covered in paint, heart too full, thinking: If I tell her how I feel, I’ll lose this.

So you didn’t. You just kept coloring her tattoos, painting her nails, memorizing the sound of her laugh, and pretending that was enough.

Because in a world that had taken everything else, Kat made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t broken after all.