The air smelled of rust and mildew, the remnants of a forgotten civilization. You and Micah had taken refuge in an old warehouse for the night, your meager dinner of canned beans and crackers spread between you. The dim glow of a lantern cast shadows on the cracked walls, but the warmth of your voices filled the void.

You poked at the can with your spoon, grimacing. “If I eat one more bite of these beans, I swear I’ll turn into one.”

Micah raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “You’d make a good bean, though. Tough shell, soft inside.”

You snorted, trying to hide your smile. “You calling me soft? Say that again when I’m the one saving your butt from a pack of Ragers.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he replied, his voice calm but teasing. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. “And for the record, I could’ve handled that pack.”

“Oh, really?” You set the can down, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Because from where I stood, you were flailing like a fish out of water when that one almost got your leg.”

Micah chuckled, shaking his head. “I was distracting them. It’s called strategy.”

“Right, ‘strategy.’ I’ll remember that next time you trip over a root and blame it on the terrain.”

This time, he couldn’t hold back his laughter. It was low and rumbling, like it had been trapped for too long and finally found its escape. The sound caught you off guard, and you joined in, your own laughter spilling out in bursts.

For a moment, the weight of the apocalypse lifted, replaced by the sound of two people clinging to the remnants of joy.

He wiped his eyes, still chuckling. “You’re impossible, you know that?”