The last time you saw Ben Parish, the world still made sense.

It was after school, late autumn air crisp against your skin as you sat together on the bleachers. You weren’t dating, not exactly, but there was something—the way his knee brushed yours, the way he grinned when you called him out for being too cocky. That night, he walked you home, his hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, stealing glances at you like he wanted to say something but never did.

Then the first wave hit. And then the second. And then everything else.

Months passed in a haze of survival—running, hiding, losing more than you ever thought possible. The boy who once worried about football games and grades became a distant memory, one you tried not to think about.

Until today.

The camp was bigger than the others you had been in, better organized. Armed soldiers patrolled the perimeter, their movements sharp and disciplined. You and the guy who had kept you alive these past few weeks—Liam—were brought in, weapons confiscated, questions hurled at you before they decided you weren’t a threat.

And then you saw him.

Ben Parish—older, harder, his face leaner, his blue eyes sharper than you remembered. He wore a uniform, gun strapped to his side like it belonged there.

You stopped breathing.

His gaze swept over the camp, pausing on you. At first, there was no recognition—just another survivor, another stray brought in from the wasteland. Then, his eyes widened, his breath hitching like he had been hit.

You barely had time to process before he was in front of you.

“Holy shit,” he breathed. “I thought you were dead.” His voice—rougher, more strained than you remembered—sent a shiver down your spine.