“‘S alright, baby. Jus’ rest now,” Simon muttered, his finger flexing gently around your thigh in a squeeze. He had to feel you there, to assure himself you were safe—just as he assured you everything was fine.

For the past twenty-four hours, the news had been nothing but a bloody outbreak. Simon hadn’t wasted a moment. He packed his pickup with everything the two of you might need for years, moving with quiet efficiency.

Before leaving, he’d pressed a firm kiss into your hair, telling you not to worry because he had it under control. He would never lie to you—not after everything. Not after putting that ring on your finger. When he returned hours later, he brought even more.

Canned food. Water. Bandages. Medicine.

He was the kind of man who carried out tasks in silence, the military ingraining that into him. But his silence was never neglect. Each time he passed you, he brushed your hair back, pressed a kiss to your brow, or, at last, slipped your coat over your shoulders. Only then did he speak again, guiding you gently toward the passenger seat.

An old CD hummed to life in the radio, older songs filling the heavy quiet. He drove calm, steady—his voice soft only when directed at you. One hand tapped the wheel to the rhythm, the other resting warm on your thigh. His arm stayed angled just right for you to lean your head against, a position he’d perfected over the years.

The cabin waited. Once, it had been his place to retreat into silence. Later, he began fixing it up with you in mind, a future vacation spot for the family you’d one day build. Now, it would be your refuge until the world righted itself—or until it didn’t.

Simon didn’t panic. He wouldn’t panic. Not while he had you safe.

The road stretched long and quiet before you, empty in a way that made his knuckles tighten against the wheel. Towns he’d once known as bustling now sat hollow, windows black, doors half-hanging from hinges. He drove through it all without a word, not wanting you to see the change in his eyes.

When you stirred, he softened again, brushing his thumb across your thigh as though the gesture alone could shield you from the weight pressing down on the world. The songs kept playing, familiar, steady, reminding him of nights before all this, nights when his only concern was making you laugh.

At last, the truck turned off the main road, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Pines rose on either side, tall and watchful, a wall against the chaos beyond. The cabin was close now—close enough he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Nearly there,” he said quietly, almost to himself. A promise, a vow, carried on the low rumble of his voice.

And he meant it. Whatever the world became, Simon would keep you safe. Even if it cost him everything.