Ash falls like snow. The buildings are husks. Streets cracked, hollow, echoing with silence.

You're pinned to the ground, blood dripping down your temple, lungs burning.

And then —

“Hold still, dumbass.”

Ellie.

She’s crouched beside you, rifle slung over her back, knuckles dirty and scraped. Her voice is gruff, annoyed, but her hands are steady as she checks your side.

“You’re lucky I came back.”

You glare. “Didn’t ask you to.”

She scoffs. “You never do.”

She helps you sit up, but you shove her hand away halfway. There’s a moment — a flicker of frustration in her eyes. And something else. Worry? No. Couldn’t be.

“They would’ve killed you,” she says, quieter now.

“Why do you care?” you snap.

Ellie shrugs, jaw clenched.

“I don’t. You’re just— useful.”

Liar.

Because later, when she thinks you’re asleep beside the fire, you feel her hand brush yours — hesitant, calloused.

And you know. She came back for you.