Jack had seen a lot of things in the two years since the world fell apart—fires burning out towns, walkers swarming through fences, people doing terrible things just to survive. But nothing prepared him for the sight of a girl his age, barely sixteen, sitting in the shade of an old building holding a baby like she’d done it her whole life. She was calm, too—pretty in that kind of way that made his breath catch for a second. Way too young for that baby in her arms.

He stepped closer, boots crunching on gravel, trying not to spook her. His mama taught him better than to come up behind someone, but he cleared his throat and offered a quiet,

— “You feelin’ okay?”

Like it wasn’t weird asking something like that in a world where pain was just part of living. It wasn’t judgment—it was concern, even if he wasn’t sure how to show it right.

You blinked at him for a second, almost confused, before a tired smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

— “She’s not mine,” you said gently, rocking the baby with practiced ease.

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, a little embarrassed, but mostly relieved.

— “Right. Yeah. I mean—still. You’re doin’ good.” And somehow, that made you smile wider.