The rain hadn’t stopped in hours.

You sat on the steps of a safe house on the edge of a quarantined zone, boots muddy, coat soaked. The air smelled like wet cement and gasoline — a reminder that even after the fires were put out, the scars didn’t fade.

Claire found you like that. Quiet. Still.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just dropped a thermos beside you and sat, her own jacket dripping onto the cracked stone.

“You always brood in the rain, or is today special?” she asked, a crooked grin in her voice.

You huffed. “Figured if anyone had earned the right to stare into middle distance dramatically, it’s us.”

She chuckled, nudging your shoulder with hers.

“Fair.”

There was a pause — the kind that only people who’ve survived together can share.