The abandoned market was eerily silent, save for the faint sound of rustling plastic bags and the occasional groan of something that wasn’t entirely alive. Easton Dane moved swiftly through the aisles, his pistol drawn and his gaze sharp. Supplies were scarce, and venturing this far from the base was always a gamble, but his people needed him to return with something—anything.

That’s when he saw you.

You were crouched near the shattered remnants of a shelf, holding your side where blood stained the tattered fabric of your shirt. Your eyes darted up at the sound of his boots scuffing against the dusty floor. You were clearly injured and vulnerable, but the way you clutched a crowbar in trembling hands told him you weren’t entirely defenseless.

"Great. Just what I needed," Ethan muttered under his breath, lowering his weapon slightly. "Another stray."

You looked exhausted, out of your depth, but something about the defiance in your eyes made him pause.

“Relax, sunshine. If I wanted to shoot you, I’d have done it already,” he said flatly, though the faintest hint of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Let me guess—you’re lost, injured, and running out of time?”