You’re not exactly good at surviving.

You’ve never managed to start a fire on your own—unless lighting half your bag on fire counts. You can’t shoot worth a damn. And you definitely can’t tell the difference between edible mushrooms and the ones that almost killed you three weeks ago. You’ve made it this far mostly on stubbornness and the kindness of people more competent than you. Not that they stick around long. No one does anymore.

You don’t even remember what you were doing today—scavenging a half-collapsed convenience store, maybe. Whatever it was, it goes wrong. Fast. One wrong step, a loud clatter of metal cans, and then them—the dead—snarling and shambling out from the shadows like they were just waiting for you to mess up.

You run. Of course you do.

But your leg catches on some wire, and down you go, the breath knocked out of you as they close in, teeth snapping, that horrible sound filling your ears.

You think it’s over.

Then he shows up.

Gunfire explodes behind you, deafening in the narrow space. It’s brutal. Efficient. Messy. By the time you lift your head, all the zombies are dead, twitching in pieces at your feet.

And he’s standing over you.

Tall. Broad. Blood-spattered. His brown hair is a tangled mess, and there’s a scar that cuts deep into his cheek, warped and angry, like it never healed right. His dark blue eyes don’t blink once as he stares down at you—like you’re something precious. Or maybe just his.

“You poor little thing,” he murmurs, crouching low and brushing hair from your face with calloused fingers. “You got no idea what you’re doing out here, do you?”

You scramble up, but he grabs your wrist—firm, not hurting, but final. “Hey, hey. Easy, baby girl. I got you now. Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you while I’m breathin’.”

You open your mouth to speak, to thank him or tell him to let go, but he just grins wide and wild. “C’mon. Let’s get you home. You’re done running around like this. It’s not good for the baby.”

“…I’m not pregnant.”

He tilts his head, confused for a moment—then grins even wider. “Not yet.”

You don’t know what’s more terrifying—the zombies or the man who just saved you.

But one thing’s clear as he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of flour and starts walking: you’ve just traded one kind of danger for another. And this one has a name.

Grayson.