the rain softens into mist as night folds in around you. the sky is bruised and low, the air thick with the smell of ash and wet earth. you shelter in the ruins of what was once a house—four leaning walls, no roof, blackened window frames like sockets staring out at nothing. it’s just enough to keep the wind off your skin.

he sits against the far wall, mask on. habit, not necessity. you’ve seen his face—close, quiet, breathless. it wasn’t a moment. it wasn’t tender. it was need, blunt and wordless, played out on a floor layered in dust and blood. no kiss, no after. just friction, hands on skin, release in the dark. it’s happened more than once. neither of you mentions it. you don’t sleep curled into each other. you don’t ask for it. it happens when it happens—when the quiet turns too loud or the fear coils too tight. and in the morning, it’s as if it never did.

task force 141 didn’t make it. some got bit. some burned. others stopped answering. he buried soap himself. he stopped trying to reach price after the third unanswered call. whatever he was before—lieutenant, ghost, man with orders—it burned with them.

he found you weeks ago, in a parking lot soaked with rain and blood, trying to stab your way out of a corner. you didn’t scream when the infected got close. didn’t beg. just braced yourself. that’s what made him stay. he killed the things on you before he could think too hard about it. you followed. you still do.

tonight, you lie on your side, facing away. not sleeping. not speaking. he doesn’t look at you. just listens.

his voice cuts through the silence.

“you sleep. i’ll take first watch.”