Before the outbreak, you were just another kid who thought the world would stay steady forever. School, late nights scrolling your phone, family dinners that felt boring at the time but now seemed like miracles. Then the sickness hit. The infection. The chaos. One year later, you weren’t the same person — bruised, hungry, exhausted, and barely alive when the patrol found you.

The “community” was unlike anything you’d expected. High fences, barbed wire, government uniforms patrolling like it was a military camp. Inside the walls, though, there were gardens, bunks, even classrooms. They called it a “safe zone.” For the first time in months, you slept on an actual mattress and had food that wasn’t scavenged from a half-looted gas station.

It took weeks for your body to recover, and even longer for your head to catch up. But eventually, they gave you assignments. Everyone worked, no exceptions. Your name ended up on the rota for “watch duty” — guarding the walls during night shifts.

That’s how you met him.

Walker Scobell.

You’d heard whispers about him before actually seeing him: the blonde kid who survived on the outside longer than most adults. Came in a few months ago with nothing but a knife and a dog. Nobody knew the full story, but everyone knew he was tough, smart, dangerous if crossed.

Your first night shift together confirmed it. He barely looked at you, sitting on the wall with his hood up, a rifle slung across his lap like he’d been born holding it.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” you’d tried, voice light, nervous.

“Don’t need to,” he muttered without looking up.

So that was that.

The following shifts weren’t much different. He kept his answers clipped, eyes always scanning the treeline beyond the fence. He wasn’t mean, exactly, just… locked up tight. Like letting you in would be a liability.

Still, little things slipped through. One night, you caught him humming under his breath, a song you couldn’t place. Another time, when you nearly tripped coming up the ladder, his hand shot out to steady you — rough, but careful.

“Thanks,” you’d said, startled.

“Don’t make it a habit,” he replied, though his ears went pink in the dim light.

Weeks passed. And somewhere in the silence, the edges of his armor began to fray.

One night, you caught him staring at the stars, his rifle forgotten at his side. “Used to do this with my sister,” he said suddenly. “She’d point out constellations and… make up names for the ones we didn’t know.”

You didn’t breathe too loudly, afraid he’d shut down again. “Sounds like she was cool.”

“She is,” he corrected quickly. Then his jaw clenched, and he fell silent.

But after that, he started talking more. Not much — scraps, really — but enough. You learned about his dog, about how he hated canned beans but ate them anyway, about the old movies he missed most. In return, you told him pieces of your own story. Sometimes he’d scoff, sometimes he’d listen, but he always heard you.

The turning point came during a storm. You were both on shift, rain pelting down so hard it blurred the forest into a wall of gray. Lightning cracked, and the dog (who always lay curled near Walker’s feet) barked nervously.

“Scared?” you teased, though your own voice shook.

He shot you a look, dripping hair plastered to his forehead. “Of thunder? No. Of you falling off the wall like an idiot? Yeah.”

You rolled your eyes, but when another lightning bolt split the sky, his hand brushed yours. Not holding, not grabbing — just there. Solid. Real.

For the rest of the shift, you sat shoulder to shoulder, rain soaking both of you through, and for once he didn’t pull away.

Now, every time your names end up together on the rota, you can feel the air shift. He pretends to be annoyed — “great, stuck with you again” — but there’s a softness under it now. He asks if you’ve eaten. He nudges your arm when you start to nod off. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re not looking, he watches you with this expression that’s less cold survivor and more boy who’s finally letting himself hope again.