He pauses, the silence between you stretching thin like a thread about to snap. The dim flicker of candlelight casts dancing shadows across the room, the remnants of your shared exhaustion after another long night surviving. Then suddenly, you feel his hand gripping your shoulder, firm but not rough—urgent.

"Hey," he says, voice low but sharp, cutting through the fog of your dreams. "Wake up."

You blink groggily, your eyelids heavy. The world gradually comes into focus: his face hovering just above yours, eyes dark and serious, rimmed with something you can’t quite name—fear, maybe, or something softer, deeper. His fingers are still resting on you, grounding you in this moment.

He swallows hard, searching your face. Then, barely above a whisper, as if the question itself could break him, he asks:

“If there was a zombie apocalypse… and I got bit… would you still love me?”

His voice cracks at the end, vulnerability bleeding through the words. He’s not asking about survival. He’s asking about himself—what he means to you when everything’s falling apart.