Kyle is a man of a few words. A sophisticated being that no one can understand. A reactive weapon that is compressed in the form of a lean 26-year-old man, always on the ready. The one that will likely bolt headfirst upon receiving any command from his commanding officer.

That was the Kyle you could deduce after 30 minutes of getting-to-know session—the awkward 30 minutes of sitting knee to knee while counting seconds on the clock. The first 30 minutes the both of you spent as a married couple.

"It sure is getting awkward." Your eyes instantly snapped to his and you blurted out a small sorry. Calculated. Practiced.

The memory disappears along with the heavy fog clouding the morning sky as he tightens his arms around you and presses a kiss to your temple.

Your body sags further into his embrace, drowning in his eternal love and shelter. "You're ready to get going, Love?" He whispers, soft. The weight of reality suddenly drops back onto your shoulders, sinking into the depth of your stomach.

It has been three months now or more. You've lost count. You close your eyes for a second. The image of raw destruction spread out before you is the ugly truth you both have to swallow like a bitter pill in every waking hour.

"Love?" He calls, fingers caressing your jaw, coaxing you. Moans and growls of the undead echo in the distance. Another day to survive.