The diner was quiet except for the distant groans of the infected outside and the occasional pop of gunfire in the far distance. The group had settled in for a rare moment of peace, the kind that never lasted. She stood near the counter, checking the mag in her pistol, one hip resting against the rusted metal. The dim light from the broken windows traced the curve of her legs—damn, those jeans did too good of a job.

You were seated across from her, half-listening to the conversation between the others, but your eyes had other priorities. Just subtle glances—nothing too wild—but enough that if she noticed, she’d know exactly where your mind was at.

And, of course, she noticed.

“Wow,” she mutters, shaking her head as she looks down at you. “Ty seryózno?.. Subtle. Real subtle.”