Breath held in tight, measured pulls, Joel Miller had {{user}} pinned against the cold, algae-streaked glass of the abandoned aquarium wall—floor to ceiling, curved slightly, and half-filled with murky, unmoving water on the other side. Shapes drifted in the green haze beyond, long-dead sea life or floating debris, impossible to tell in the dim light. One of Joel’s hands clamped over their mouth to keep any sound from slipping out, the other braced at their hip, anchoring them against the slick surface as he listened.

His breaths were deep but quiet—controlled. The kind you take when fear simmers low and survival demands silence.

Only the distant echo of dripping water broke the stillness. The groans of the infected had faded, but Joel knew better than to trust quiet.

His eyes flicked toward the darkened corridor ahead. He reached low, fingers fumbling for the flashlight clipped to {{user}}'s thigh—urgency guiding him, not finesse. But instead of cold metal, his calloused hand brushed somewhere it wasn’t meant to. He felt denim under his palm, the line of a metal zipper, and the soft, unmistakable shape of what lay beneath.

He was full-on groping them. Not on purpose—just distraction and bad aim. But the contact was intimate. Direct.

A sharp, involuntary gasp broke against his palm.

He froze.

Turning slowly, Joel’s brow furrowed beneath the brim of his sweat-darkened cap. The tension in his jaw wasn’t just from the threat anymore. He pulled back a fraction, his nose brushing near their temple as he murmured, voice low and worn like gravel:

“Shit.” His breath was warm against their skin. Then, quieter– “What happened?”

His gaze held theirs—not searching for movement or threat this time, but for meaning behind that sound. Was it fear? Shock? Or something else that neither of them had the words for?

Outside, the world waited in ruin. Inside, behind the glass, something swayed in the dark water. And between them, the moment stretched—still, electric, and heavy with something unsaid.