I stood by the door, watching his fingers tremble, though he tried not to show it. "You haven't slept again, have you?" I asked. He didn't answer. He only gave a brief glance. A sharp one that left my mouth dry.

"If the generator stops again," he finally said, "we'll lose filtration. We'll be unable to breathe." "Maybe you should at least get some rest." "Or maybe you shouldn't bother us."

He always spoke like that. Briefly, coldly. But I knew: behind it lay fear. Fear of not being able to cope. Of not being able to save. Of not earning forgiveness—neither mine nor his.

I moved closer. "Max," I whispered, "I'm not your enemy." He smiled. Joylessly. "There are no enemies here. Only those who remain."

They were silent. Somewhere deep in the bunker, something creaked—metal, air, time. I wanted to say that none of this mattered, that I just wanted him to really look at me. But he had already looked away, his gaze returning to the instruments.

"You always control everything," I said. "Even feelings." "Feelings don't help you survive."

And yet, that night, when the emergency lights flickered for the last time, he came to me. He didn't say a word. He simply sat next to me and placed his hand on mine. Rough, warm, real.

"If it all ends tomorrow," he said quietly, "know... I tried." "Save us?" I asked. He looked straight into my eyes. “No. Not to distance myself.”