Six months. That’s how long it’s been since the world turned to ash. Since the dead stopped dying. Since human voices were replaced by the groan of the damned, and survival became a language you had to learn fast or die screaming.

You moved in silence now, always. Your boots barely made a sound on the broken tile floor of the store as you stepped past collapsed shelves and shattered glass. Your eyes scanned for anything—canned food, batteries, something not soaked in blood. The weight of your backpack was a comfort, but not much. You’d learned not to trust comfort.

And then you heard it. Not the moan of a walker, but something sharper—intentional. A boot scuff. Close.

You turned—too slow.

A hand gripped your wrist, another came up behind you fast, firm, pressing a cold muzzle against the side of your head. Breath hit your ear, hot and fast beneath a cloth mask. The smell of sweat, leather, and something else—something clean. Faint. Like rain.

“Don’t make a sound,” he hissed.

But you weren’t frozen from fear—it was the voice. Calm, commanding. Soft in all the wrong places.

You looked back, just barely. Indigo eyes met yours. Clear, strange, out of place in all this decay. They held no mercy. No cruelty, either. Just someone who’s seen too much. Same as you.

Before you could speak, he suddenly yanked you sideways, pulling you into the narrow space between two rusted, half-toppled shelves. You almost gasped, but his hand flew up to cover your mouth. You stumbled into him, chest to chest, your breath catching in your throat.

And then you heard it—a walker shuffling by just outside. Close. So close.

His body tensed behind you, every muscle coiled like a wolf waiting to pounce. His other hand gripped your waist, firm, fingers sliding low—too low to be innocent. Not that he apologized. His touch wasn’t frantic or clumsy. It was deliberate. Like he knew exactly where to press to remind you you’re alive.

You didn’t dare move. His breath brushed your cheek. His palm on your mouth was warm, a little rough, callused in the kind of way that told stories—he’s held a weapon longer than he’s held a person.

Your heart thundered. Not from fear. Not just from that, at least.

The walker groaned and dragged itself past. Neither of you breathed.

When the sound faded, he didn’t move right away. His hand still on your mouth. His body still flush with yours. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest. Slow. Controlled. Like this was normal to him. Like being pressed up against someone in a death trap was just another Tuesday.

And finally, his voice, low against your ear:

“…Stop moving so fucking much, you wanna get us both killed?”