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deepdarkdelights · 12 days ago

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This deserves so much more attention! Heartachingly beautiful, vivid imagery, and the most perfect metaphors I have ever had the pleasure of reading. Jin and the MC were absolutely perfect, I literally could not stop reading! Such an interesting apocalyptic world too - I really enjoyed the vagueness of the threat. You can tell that there is something wrong but we're not fully certain of what it is or how it's happening (and it's delicious). I love how open this is too, there are still so many unanswered questions! Where is Jin's brother (who I fully pictured to be JK), is there anywhere safe left, is it even possible to survive or rebuild in this world? 10/10 read, left me feeling emotional and raw. Outstanding job author!

From Scratch

pairing: seokjin x reader

genre: post apocalypse au, strangers to lovers, slow burn

summary: the end doesn’t come with fire or noise, but with flickering lights and silence. the world doesn’t end all at once. it unravels quietly, like breath leaving a body. it’s not fate or luck. just… timing and the choice to stay. it’s not a love story, not yet. just two people learning how to survive in a world that’s trying to forget them.

warnings: slow burning tension, a little grief, mentions of abandonment, harsh survival, mentions of death, injuries, trauma responses, insomnia, food scarcity, trust issues, light violence, the ache of being seen 😫

word count: 9,785

a word from our sponsors 💁🏽‍♀️: not only has jin been wrecking tf out of me despite my husband being home. this song has been on repeat daily for like two weeks, it’s just so tragically comforting. hopefully that makes sense, enjoy!

You remember the color of the sky that day.

Not the headlines or the buzz of warnings that began like a murmur and bloomed into full blown static. Not the shaky videos passed between strangers with trembling fingers. Not even the way a man on the train platform wept openly, bent over the screen of his phone, face drained pale like he’d just witnessed something too big to name.

Just the sky.

Lavender gray like something bruised, the moment before a wound swells. You remember thinking how beautiful it looked and how wrong. The clouds were too still. The light too bright, even though the sun never broke through.

It looked painted. Or poisoned.

You adjusted the straps on your backpack. Double-checked the screenshot on your phone. A dot on a map circled in red, coordinates near a town you hadn’t seen since childhood. A safe place. Higher elevation, limited population, freshwater source. If the rumors were true, it had been evacuated early and quietly.

That was the plan.

Get out of the city before things went fully dark. Live quietly. Off grid. Long enough for the world to remember how to breathe again.

You weren’t the only one with that idea.

The train station was packed shoulder to shoulder with bodies that pretended to be calm. Parents whispering into their children’s ears. A woman humming to herself. A boy clutching a stuffed rabbit in one hand and a cracked iPad in the other.

You tried not to look at anyone too long. Tried not to think about the voicemail from your cousin that morning, the one who told you, “Don’t wait. Don’t ask questions. If you’ve got somewhere to go, go.”

So you did.

When the train screeched into the station, you nearly cried with relief.

There was no announcement. No flashing departure time. No conductor’s voice through the speakers. Just the hiss of the doors opening, and the first press of movement as the crowd surged forward.

You stepped on board.

And as the train began to pull away, your gaze flicked outside.

That’s when you saw him.

—

Seokjin stood on the platform like he didn’t belong there.

His gaze fixed upward, not at the train, not at the crowd, but at the sky, as if it might open at any moment and speak to him.

You only caught a glimpse.

But he saw you clearly.

A flash of your face in the window. Eyes shadowed beneath the fluorescent lighting. Tension in your jaw. You looked like you were pretending to be brave, and failing.

He didn’t board.

Didn’t even move.

He waited until the train disappeared, then slid his phone back into his jacket pocket. The last message he’d received from his younger brother was sent three weeks ago. No punctuation. Just a pin drop and the words ‘heading this way. don’t wait.’

He was still trying to figure out what that meant.

—

The train swayed gently as it sped past buildings that blurred into each other. Gray cement bled into rusted signs and rows of cracked glass windows.

You sat near the back, facing a pair of empty seats.

Your backpack stayed clutched to your chest like a shield.

Three people sat clustered across the aisle. An older man reading a newspaper, a girl around your age with a bandaged hand, and a toddler who wouldn’t stop humming.

There was no wifi, no cell service. Just the hum of the train and the flickering lights above your head.

You checked the map again.

You’d be getting off at Riverstead Junction, four stops from the city. From there, it would be a hike. Maybe two days on foot. The survival forums said it was safe enough if you didn’t stop. If you didn’t trust anyone.

You let the train lull you, eyes drifting shut for a moment.

When they opened again, the toddler was gone. Her mother stood at the door with her, rocking gently. You could see her lips moving, murmuring a something into the child’s hair.

The lights flickered again, the train slowed. And then for the first time you felt it, a low rumble.

Like the sound of something cracking deep underground.

Your breath caught.

You looked around, but no one else seemed alarmed. They were used to it, maybe, or pretending to be. The man with the newspaper didn’t even glance up.

But your instincts wouldn’t quiet, something’s not right.

—

Seokjin knew the sound well.

It started after the third major meteor shower, when the atmosphere had begun collapsing in quiet, invisible ways. It wasn’t always visible. ut if you listened closely there was a pressure to it. Like your bones were being warned before your brain caught up.

He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag and kept walking, the station behind him dissolving into silence.

—

The train didn’t make it.

You weren’t surprised, but naively you’d hoped.

It was dusk when the train finally groaned to a halt. People shifted uneasily. Someone jiggled the intercom. A few whispered into phones that no longer had service. There was a nervous kind of denial in the way people stayed seated, clutching their bags like life rafts. As if the train might suddenly jolt forward again.

You waited ten minutes, fifteen. Each second pressed down on you with a heavier certainty. No rescue was coming.

You stood.

No one stopped you.

The emergency release hissed at your touch, the door creaking open just enough to spill out the smell of wet pine and cold dirt. You stepped out. Gravel crunched beneath your boots, uneven and loose beneath your weight. The air hit your face sharp and clean, tinged with something that smelled like coming rain.

Around you was nothing.

No lights.

No hum of distant cities.

Just a soft, sprawling dusk folding into trees. Row after row of dark silhouettes bending in the breeze, whispering among themselves.

You adjusted the straps of your backpack.

Behind you, footsteps.

Hesitant and scattered as people trickled out in twos and threes, looking around as if a bus would pull up beside the train to carry them away.

Taking a deep breath and pulling the straps on your backpack just a little tighter, you walked. You didn’t know where you were going from here, but staying felt worse. You couldn't say how many hours has passed before your legs started to give out.

The roads were cracked and overgrown. Your phone battery finally died. You lost count of the people who passed you. Some with bikes, others on foot, all of them locked into that same singular, desperate focus.

Forward.

Always forward.

One man stopped long enough to offer you a canteen. He didn’t say a word. Just nodded and kept going. You murmured a thank you too late for him to hear it.

You slept curled beside a rock that night, arms tucked around your bag, dreaming of nothing. By the time the sun rose, your feet had blistered.

You kept walking.

—

He found you on the fourth day.

You were slumped against a guardrail near what used to be a scenic overlook, though the trees beyond had all collapsed in on themselves, like dominoes made of rot.

Your throat was raw and your hands scraped. You weren’t sure if you were asleep or dying.

And then there was a voice.

“You look like shit.”

You blinked.

The light hurt your eyes. A silhouette stood above you. Broad shouldered and backlit by overcast sky, holding something out.

A bottle of water.

You didn’t move.

“Fair enough,” he said after a beat. “You can throw it at me if you’re worried. But I promise it’s just water.”

Your fingers twitched.

You took it.

Shakily unscrewed the top and drank too fast. You didn’t stop despite coughing, letting it spill down your chin.

He crouched.

“I’ve been watching you walk the past mile. I figured you were either running from someone or really determined to find something better than this shithole.”

Your voice cracked. “Which one is it for you?”

He smiled, just barely.

“Honestly? Looking for someone who isn’t looking for me.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

He didn’t seem to need an answer.

“I’m Jin,” he offered simply. “And I know you don’t trust me yet, but I’ve got extra supplies. A fire kit. Food, if you like beans. Thought we could walk a little farther together. You up for it?”

You weren’t sure.

But you nodded anyway, and that was how it started.

No romance or recognition.

Just the sound of your name leaving his mouth for the first time hours later, spoken softly across a fire you didn’t build, with hands you didn’t trust yet offering half of a ration bar wrapped in cloth.

The morning after he found you, you woke to the smell of smoke and the sound of someone humming.

Just a thread of melody, barely there, curling into the early light. You stirred in the crinkling warmth of the emergency blanket he’d wrapped around you sometime during the night.

Your bones ached.

Your throat felt dry again, even though you’d sipped from his bottle before falling asleep.

A dull pain throbbed in your left ankle where the slope of the hill had twisted it beneath your weight. You hadn’t even realized you’d cried until your fingers brushed your cheek and came away salt damp.

You sat up.

He was crouched near a makeshift fire, poking at a tin can with a fork that looked too clean for the world you were living in. He didn’t turn when you stirred, didn’t greet you, just kept humming under his breath.

“Did you sleep?”

“Define sleep.”

He didn’t look up as you pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders. There were other questions. Obvious ones.

Where are we headed?

Why are you helping me?

Why did you share your supplies when you could’ve walked right past?

But your voice caught on something smaller.

“What were you humming?”

His fork paused.

He turned then, finally, eyes bleary but warm. “Just something my mom used to sing when I got sick.”

“…You remember it?”

“Only the melody. The words are gone.” He smiled faintly. “I think she made most of them up anyway.”

You didn’t say anything. Just watched him for a moment.

His knuckles tight around the handle of the fork, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath a threadbare jacket. The world had collapsed. People were scattering like birds ahead of a storm. And here he was. Heating canned food. Humming lullabies.

You should have been more afraid of him.

Instead, you felt… strangely calm.

Maybe that was the danger, or maybe it was exhaustion.

Jin didn’t ask for your story. Not that first day, not the second either. Instead, he told you little things.

“I used to be a cook. Well—technically I was a variety show host for a while, but I cooked more than I performed.”

You blinked at him.

“A what?”

“You don’t know Back with Bangtan?”

You stared blankly.

His lips curled. “Wow. That’s humbling.”

He didn’t explain further. Just took another bite of cold beans and offered you the rest.

The road narrowed into a slope that hadn’t been cleared in months, overgrown with stubborn weeds and splintered bark. Every few steps, you had to stop and wince through the throb in your ankle. Jin slowed without comment. Always just a step ahead, never too far.

By midday, your stomach growled so loudly it startled a bird into flight.

Jin handed you a protein bar.

“You don’t have to—”

“Just take it,” he said gently.

You did.

You chewed slowly, equal parts grateful and embarrassed.

Later, when you passed a rundown gas station, he lingered behind to scavenge the shelves. He came back with a can of peaches and a plastic dinosaur keychain.

“Why that?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Felt like the little guy needed a second chance.”

You watched him clip it onto the zipper of his bag.

He didn’t look at you when he said, “People should get those too, if they want them.”

That night, you both camped near an old collapsed barn. It had once been painted red, but the weather had stripped it, leaving only bones behind. Wind slipped through the beams like whispers.

You sat beside the fire with your knees pulled to your chest.

Jin peeled an orange he’d swiped from a roadside stand you both passed without stopping. He handed you half.

You ate in silence.

When the fire cracked, you spoke.

“I left someone behind.”

He didn’t flinch.

“My cousin. She… she was supposed to meet me. But the roads were closed. Her last message just said to run.”

Jin’s voice was low. “Did you?”

You nodded. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

He looked into the fire for a long time before saying, “My brother’s out here. Somewhere.”

You waited.

“He’s younger than me. Impulsive. He thinks he’s invincible.” A breath. “He sent me a pin. Just a location. No message. I haven’t heard anything since.”

“Do you think he’s okay?”

“I think… he’s smart. And stubborn.” His jaw clenched slightly. “But so is the world.”

That was the first time you saw it—the grief he kept pressed behind his calm. You didn’t say anything. Just passed him your orange peel so he could toss it into the fire.

—

You stopped walking on the third day. Not because you wanted to, but because your ankle finally gave out.

It happened somewhere past the empty chapel and the overturned delivery truck with a crow’s nest in the cab. You shifted your weight too fast, lost your footing, and dropped hard onto the gravel.

Jin was beside you in seconds.

“Hey—hey. Breathe. It’s okay.”

Your eyes stung.

“I can’t—”

“You can.”

“I can’t walk.”

“Then don’t.” His voice was firm. “You’re not walking anywhere today.”

You sat there shaking, hating how hot your face felt, how fast your heart was beating. Not from the pain, but from the shame.

He didn’t rush you. Didn’t scold. Just pulled a bandage from his bag and knelt beside you.

“May I?”

You nodded.

His hands were careful. Too gentle for someone who had lived through the kind of violence you both had. He wrapped your ankle slowly and with care.

“Okay,” he said when he finished. “Now for the fun part.”

You blinked. “What?”

And then he crouched lower, bent his back, and motioned with his head. “Up you go.”

“…You’re going to carry me?”

He smirked. “You’re small. I’m strong. Don’t argue.”

You hesitated.

He looked back at you, one eyebrow raised.

“Unless you’d rather crawl?”

You exhaled a laugh through your nose, it felt like the first one in weeks, and climbed onto his back. And he carried you, for miles. That night you asked him why.

Why he helped you.

Why he stayed.

Why he didn’t just keep walking.

Jin stared at the fire. “Because it’s not about surviving anymore. It’s about how.”

You looked at him, really looked, and you saw it again. That stillness in him that wasn’t numbness, it was something quieter.

Maybe he’d always been like that.

Or maybe the world had scraped him clean.

You didn’t know yet that he had a notebook in his bag. The small, worn journal filled with lists and fragments. Names of the people he’d seen. Places he’d passed. Things he wanted to remember in case there was no one left to remember him.

He never let you see it.

But some nights, after you were asleep, he’d take it out and write in the margins beside your name.

First saw her on the train.

Didn’t smile.

Took the water anyway.

And later…still here.

You wake before the fire dies.

Its glow pulses in the dirt beside you, the flames low. The air is cold in that empty unfamiliar way it gets before the sky has fully committed to morning. Damp, still, edged in silver mist.

Your shoulders ache. Your left ankle throbs in protest beneath the emergency wrap, and the emergency blanket bunched around you is half covered in leaves.

You don’t remember lying down.

Just Jin’s voice the night before. It had just enough authority to make you listen, but not enough to make you afraid.

“Stay off that foot. I’ll set up camp.”

And the sound of his hands moving through the dark, unzipping compartments, striking a flint, tearing open a protein bar with his teeth. The small sounds of someone surviving. Someone who’s done this more than once, who expected to do it again.

You sit up slowly, blanket falling away from your shoulders. You’re stiff. Starving.

You glance to your left.

He’s there, not asleep, awake but just still.

Sitting cross legged beside the fire, elbows resting on his knees, fingers curled around a dented can of something he’s turning absently in his hands. The firelight casts his features in gold and shadow. His cheekbones sharper than you remembered, mouth drawn into something too tired to be called a smile.

You don’t say anything.

You’re still not sure how to talk to him.

Still not sure why he stayed.

He doesn’t look at you, but his voice comes quiet, like it’s been waiting for you to stir.

“Morning.”

You clear your throat, but it’s dry. “Did you sleep?”

His eyes flick to you. “Define sleep.”

You huff a breath. A sound almost like laughter. Almost.

Your voice feels like rusted hinges. “Did I snore?”

“You didn’t make a sound.”

That makes you sit up straighter. “Really?”

His eyes rest on you a second longer before he looks back down at the can in his hands. “That’s not a compliment. People who don’t make sounds in their sleep usually aren’t dreaming. Means your body doesn’t trust the quiet.”

You blink.

He tosses the can into his lap and stretches. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his chest, a faded navy thermal with a tear at the shoulder seam. He’s still wearing the same jeans. There’s a new scuff on his cheek, a streak of dried sap on his forearm.

Despite all of that, still handsome, irritatingly so.

You look away.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “For last night.”

Jin shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

His gaze lifts then. Right to you.

For a moment, the air between you stills.

Then he stands.

“You hungry?”

You nod, too quickly.

He walks to his pack without waiting for an answer and returns with a foil pouch. Peels it open. Offers it to you with two fingers, like it’s no big deal.

You reach for it with both hands. The smell of artificial maple hits your nose. Instant oats, sweetened and cold.

“I didn’t realize it was a five star breakfast,” you deadpan.

“Don’t get used to it. I’m almost out of that one.”

You eat in silence.

The world around you crackles and breathes. Wind shifts through trees overhead. Somewhere far off, a bird calls and receives no answer.

“Do you have a route?” you ask quietly. “A destination?”

“Sort of.”

“That’s vague.”

“I’m a vague kind of guy.”

You glance at him. He’s watching the embers again.

“My brother,” he says finally. “He was last seen near the border. Around Red Ridge.”

You blink. “That’s a week’s walk from here.”

“I know.”

You chew slowly. “You’re going to keep walking?”

“I was, yeah.”

“Even if he’s not—”

“I’m going anyway.”

Something in his voice closes like a door so, you don’t press. You just set the empty pouch beside you and watch the fire burn down.

The first time you try walking again, you only make it five steps before the pain stops you cold. You double over on a hiss, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out.

“Okay,” Jin says behind you. “Nope. Sit down.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

You wave him off. “I can manage.”

He walks up behind you and crouches. “Don’t be stubborn.”

You glance over your shoulder, half laughing. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He sighs.

And then, without ceremony, he kneels, turns his back to you, and tugs your arm over his shoulder.

“Climb on.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m not letting you carry me like a damsel.”

He cranes his neck to meet your eye. “Fine. Then like a stubborn idiot.”

You scowl.

He grins. It’s the first real grin you’ve seen from him. Perfect, super cocky, but undeniably…warm.

“Come on,” he says. “You can hit me later.”

You hesitate.

And then you climb onto his back.

His hands adjust your thighs like it’s nothing. Your arms hook around his neck. His scent is warm and familiar,smoke and sweat and something faintly herbal, like old cologne that never quite wore off.

When he stands you gasp. He doesn’t even wobble.

“Told you.“ he murmurs.

You press your cheek to the space between his shoulders and don’t answer.

The truth is—you’re scared to speak. Because it feels safe here. Too safe. Like you could fall asleep against him and not worry about waking up to find him gone.

And you’ve learned not to believe in things like that.

Not anymore.

He doesn’t ask about your ankle again. Doesn’t ask about the cousin you left behind, or the place you’re headed, or what made you decide to leave the city in the first place.

Instead, he tells you stories. Most are short and dumb, almost pointless.

“Once I ate twelve eggs in one sitting on a dare. I couldn’t look at an omelet for a year.”

“During my intern days, I thought I’d never make it. I almost quit six times.”

“I used to dream of owning a big yellow dog and naming him Bartholomew. Don’t ask me why.”

Sometimes you respond, and other times you just listen. The world narrows to the sound of his voice and the steady rhythm of his boots. At one point, he stops to let you down beside an abandoned farmhouse.

He gestures at the lopsided fence.

“Give me ten minutes. I’ll get us dinner.”

“Dinner?”

But he’s already hopping over the fence and disappearing behind a grove of bare apple trees. You sit on a stone ledge and pick bark from the soles of your shoes, too stunned to protest.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s back with a rusted tin pot, a handful of wild greens, and three eggs.

You stare at him. “You’re magic.”

“I’m observant.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He just smirks. And when he lights the fire, boils the water, and gently cracks the eggs into it he hums again. That same wordless lullaby. You don’t ask what it means.

That night, as you both lie beneath the stars with your bodies lined shoulder to shoulder, you whisper, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He exhales, slow and thoughtful.

“Because,” he says, after a pause so long you think he might not answer at all, “I think it would’ve been really easy to keep walking when I saw you on the road.”

You don’t move.

“I think it would’ve been easier,” he adds, voice low, “but I would’ve regretted it. Probably forever. However long that is.”

When you turn your head toward him, he’s already looking at you. And for the first time, you realize his stillness isn’t cold. It’s steady, like an anchor in the middle of all this unraveling. You nod, it’s barely enough for him to see, but he sees.

Of course he sees.

—

The next town is a ghost.

You see it from the ridge before the road begins its descent. Shuttered storefronts, crooked telephone poles, mailboxes swallowed by ivy. The trees thin as you approach, and in the silence between each footstep, you can almost imagine what this place used to sound like.

Now there’s only the creak of a loose sign on its hinge, one corner flapping like it’s waving you in.

Jin glances at you.

“Still good?”

You nod.

Your ankle is better. Not whole. But better. You can walk without wincing now, though you still favor one side. You’ve stopped apologizing for it.

Jin never made you, just handed you a long stick to help you keep balance.

The two of you move slow, scanning the edges of buildings and broken fences. There’s a pattern to it now. His eyes track left, yours sweep right. You’ve developed this unspoken rhythm, the kind that happens when people walk the same path for long enough.

The gas station is looted.

The pharmacy, ransacked.

But the corner diner? Her windows are shattered, and there's a layer of dust on every surface. You still manage to snag a few dusty cans of soup behind the bar, along with two half used candles and a tin of waterproof matches.

Jin grins triumphantly.

You sit on the counter and let your legs swing. He joins you after a minute, sliding onto the stool beside you and shaking the match tin near his ear like it might speak.

“You ever work in a place like this?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No. I… I used to manage events.”

“What kind?”

“Weddings. Fundraisers. Mostly boring stuff.”

“That’s not boring.”

“It is when no one shows up happy and no one leaves satisfied.”

He huffs. “I did one wedding gig before. I was supposed to sing. Ended up helping in the kitchen instead. The groom’s dad forgot to confirm catering.”

“What happened?”

He smiles. “I boiled twenty seven eggs and burned a whole tray of dumplings. Bride still cried.”

“I mean, I would too.”

“Right?”

The moment stretches and you glance at his hands. They’re resting on the counter, much bigger than yours, knuckles chapped, a faint mark at the base of one thumb. He catches you looking, but doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he shifts toward you and says quietly, “You good to walk another hour, or do you want to rest here?”

You look around the diner. There’s a hollow feeling it gives you. Maybe it was once warm and welcoming but it looks sad and forgotten now.

“I’d rather keep moving.”

He nods. “Then let’s move.”

That evening, you find an old firewatch station on the edge of the next hill. It looks like it was abandoned well before the world collapsed. Three wooden steps lead up to the door, which hangs open on its hinges like a mouth agape. Inside is filled with dust, leaves, and a nest of twigs piled in the far corner.

Jin looks around once, then shrugs. “We’ve slept in worse.”

You set your pack down and kick aside the debris near the window. The view is something out of a dream, an endless sea of trees, rolling like waves in the dusk. You wonder what it looked like before the sky turned strange.

Jin lights a candle and places it in the window. You give him a look and he answers without needing the question.

“If someone’s out there, then they’ll see it.”

“What if it’s not someone good?”

He meets your gaze. “We’ll know by how fast they move toward the light.”

You swallow.

He pulls out his notebook after that. The one he’s always scribbling in when you’re not watching. You catch a glimpse of lines and numbers, some circled, some crossed out.

You say, without meaning to, “You keep a list of places?”

His fingers still. Then slowly close the cover.

“Something like that.”

“You don’t let me see it.”

“I don’t let anyone see it.”

The air between you cools.

You look back out the window. “Okay.”

He closes the book, stands, and walks to the corner of the room. Without facing you, he says softly, “It’s not about you. I just… I write things down that don’t always make sense.”

You turn to him. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he moves to the bedroll and kneels, fiddling with the folds like they’ve misbehaved.

You don’t ask again, not that night.

But later, long after you’ve laid down and turned away, you hear the scratch of his pen. And your name, whispered softly under his breath like a prayer he’s afraid of saying too loud.

You snap at him the next morning.

It’s stupid.

You’re halfway down a ravine, trying to collect water from a stream that smells slightly of sulfur. Your foot slips but you catch yourself with a curse, and Jin moves to grab your arm.

“Don’t,” you snap.

He blinks. “What?”

“Just—don’t touch me.”

His hand drops instantly.

You regret it the second you see his face. He doesn’t look hurt. Just… distant. Like he’s shutting something away.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, voice thick.

He doesn’t respond, just walks ahead. The silence stretches but you follow anyway. At the top of the ridge, you sit on a fallen log and pull your hood low. The wind bites your ears. Jin’s footsteps crunch to a stop beside you.

He doesn’t sit, just says, “You don’t have to talk about it. But if there’s something I need to know—”

“There isn’t.”

The lie tastes sour, he nods, and you don’t say another word for the rest of the day.

You find a creek the next evening. The sun is low and red, painting the rocks in bruised gold. You peel off your shoes and wade in without thinking. Water shocking against your skin, the cold so sharp it feels like a reset.

Jin stays on the bank, watching, but after a minute he says, “You shouldn’t go too deep.”

“I’m not.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I know how to not drown, Jin.”

The words snap too fast.

He sighs. “Okay.”

You go still.

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.”

You look at him and the look he gives you is… unreadable. Like he’s trying to be patient with a wound he can’t see.

“I’m just so tired,” you say quietly. “I’m tired.”

“I know.”

That night, you both sleep beside the creek. The sound of the water is steady, almost cleansing. When you wake in the middle of the night to find that you’ve rolled closer, your hand just barely brushing his, neither of you pulls away.

You just breathe, together.

The next day is quiet.

You walk in silence. Eat in silence. Rest in silence.

And when dusk falls, Jin builds the fire too close to the edge of the trail for you to feel comfortable.

“What if someone sees?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Then they’ll know we’re here.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“No,” he says. “It’s honest.”

You sit down hard, arms folded.

He raises a brow. “You want to take the next watch shift?”

You grumble. “I want a warm bath and a real bed.”

He laughs, really laughs this time. It echoes like something ancient but new. You smile despite yourself.

“You’re not what I expected,” you admit.

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Someone colder. Or crueler.”

He looks into the fire, then, so soft you almost don’t hear it, “I think I was, once.”

You watch the flames flicker.

“I don’t think you are now.”

He doesn’t answer, but in the way his shoulders loosen, you think he hears you. And maybe, for the first time, he believes you.

—

It starts with a smell.

Smoke, but not firewood. It smells synthetic, chemical.

Something caught in the back of your throat. You freeze mid-step, the cracked earth beneath your boots giving way to gravel. Jin doesn’t notice at first. He’s a few paces ahead, hands in his pockets, scanning the edge of a boarded up library with the casual sharpness of someone who’s been watching for shadows since before the world started unraveling.

But you don’t move, because the smell is too familiar, it reminds you of…no.

You clamp down on the thought before it finishes forming, but the memory’s already rising.

It was a hotel.

Neutral tones. Faux warmth. The kind of place where nothing has edges and everything smells like lemon disinfectant and recycled air.

Your cousin’s baby shower had just ended.

You remember the cake. It had pink icing and little booties drawn in fondant. You remember laughing. Not a big, belly laugh. But enough to feel it in your chest.

You remember your mother standing by the wall of windows, her face backlit by soft lamplight, arms folded, eyes on the horizon like she could already see the world ending.

You walked over with a drink in your hand and asked what she was thinking about.

She turned her head, slow and quiet, and smiled at you in that way she only did when something was already breaking.

“I don’t think people really survive,” she said.

You blinked. “What?”

“They just… outlive things.”

You laughed. She didn’t.

A moment later, she looked down at your hand—still wrapped around your glass—and touched it with two fingers.

“Don’t wait too long,” she said.

You opened your mouth to ask what she meant, but someone called her name from across the room, and she was gone.

You never got the answer, she died six days later. Not from the collapse. Not from fire or flood or sickness, but from just from being human. And you’ve been outliving things ever since.

Jin’s voice brings you back.

“Hey,” he says, careful. “You okay?”

You blink once. The library reappears. So does the sky. The smell’s already faded—just burnt plastic, maybe.

You nod. “Yeah. Just spaced.”

He doesn’t press, but his eyes linger a second too long before he turns back to the door.

The library’s roof is caved in on one side. Books are scattered across the floor in brittle heaps, spines curling from exposure. The air inside is dry, dust motes spinning through the beam of Jin’s flashlight like flecks of old gold. He steps carefully over a fallen shelf and lifts a small leather bound book from the floor.

You glance over his shoulder.

“What is it?”

He turns it toward you.

It’s a cookbook with torn pages and a coffee stain in the shape of a thumbprint smudging the corner of a buttercream recipe.

He huffs through his nose. “God, I miss cake.”

You give a small, crooked smile. “You miss being able to burn cake and blame it on someone else.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Excuse me, I’ll have you know my soufflés had a fanbase.”

“Your soufflés collapsed like the global economy.”

He snorts, shaking his head, and tucks the cookbook under his arm. The two of you sit in the reading corner for a while on cushions that reek faintly of mildew, back to back, sharing dried apple slices and a pouch of electrolyte water that tastes like chalk.

Neither of you says much, it’s the kind of silence that holds its shape.

Not empty. Just full in a different way.

Later, when you’ve set up camp beneath the overhang of an old bus shelter, Jin builds a small fire inside a half crushed barrel and arranges the stones around it like it’s instinct. He doesn’t even look at what he’s doing anymore. His hands just move, steady and practiced.

You watch him from across the flames.

There’s something soothing about him in the quiet. Something that settles in your bones when you let it. You hadn’t noticed how much tension you carry in your shoulders until it starts to ease just from watching him fold up the corner of a tarp.

“You don’t sleep much,” you murmur.

He glances at you, but doesn’t deny it.

“You don’t either,” he counters.

“I used to.”

“What changed?”

You lift your eyes to the fire. “I outlived too many things.”

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. He doesn’t say anything. But he sits down beside you, close enough for your knees to touch, and says softly, “I’m sorry.”

It’s not pity, not performance, just… presence. Somehow that undoes you more than any apology ever could.

The wind picks up after nightfall.

You curl into your blanket and press your cheek to your sleeve. Your skin’s cold, even under layers. The fire has burned low. Jin’s lying a foot away, staring at the ceiling of the shelter, hands behind his head like he’s listening to the wind talk in a language he almost understands.

You whisper into the dark.

“Did you ever want to be alone?”

He turns his head.

“What do you mean?”

“After it all started. Did you ever just… want to disappear?”

His eyes flicker for a moment, recalling something, before he nods.

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

His voice is quiet. “Too long.”

You want to but don’t ask what changed, because you’re afraid the answer might be you. Instead, you whisper, “Same.”

Jin shifts, his arm brushing yours, and he doesn’t pull away. Your breathing slows. It should be awkward, too much contact, too close, but it isn’t. It just feels…okay..

He murmurs, “Do you think it matters?”

“What?”

“That we’re here. Together.”

You turn to look at him. His face is half covered in shadows. The lines around his mouth deeper now. The firelight dances in the soft brown of his eyes.

You whisper, “I think it might be the only thing that does.” Answering without thinking.

Jin doesn’t speak after that, doesn’t move either. But you can feel the shift in the air between you.

Thicker. Closer.

You’re not looking at him anymore, but you don’t have to. You can feel his gaze lingering on you, more than curiosity, less than intent. Like he’s holding his breath, like he’s deciding whether he’s allowed to cross a line neither of you has drawn out loud.

You feel his pinky brush yours, it’s barely there. A breath of touch. And then it curls, not over your hand and not possessively. It’s just a gentle link. His pinky hooks with yours in the space between sleeping bags, quiet and trembling and intentional.

Your breath catches, but don’t pull away. You don’t look at him either. You just shift, just slightly, so that your fingers rest more fully alongside his and you let yourself have that.

The smallest tether.

A wordless yes.

And when you both finally sleep, it’s with your hands tangled softly in the dark. Not quite holding on but not letting go.

—

The cottage isn’t much with its peeling paint and a crooked porch. The door takes a firm shoulder to budge open, and there’s a squirrel nest in the kitchen drawer. But the windows are intact and there’s no mold on the walls. And the roof doesn’t leak when the wind howls.

In this world, that makes it a miracle.

Jin finds it first.

You’re lagging behind on a narrow dirt trail, one boot half unlaced, sweat prickling at the base of your spine. The canopy overhead is thick with moss and light, an autumn green gone almost gold. You’d given up speaking an hour ago, your voice too dry, your breath too shallow.

When Jin turns, eyes lit with cautious excitement, you nearly miss what he says.

“There’s a chimney,” he pants. “And a well.”

You blink. “You’re joking.”

He just grins. “Come see.”

So you do and…it’s real.

You drop your pack at the threshold and let your knees hit the floor inside the front door. It smells faintly of cedar and mildew, like it’s been sleeping for years and just now stirred. Dust spirals in lazy shafts of sunlight through the broken slats in the shutters.

You lean your head against the cool wooden floor and whisper, “Tell me I can stay here forever.”

Jin’s footsteps creak as he walks past.

“You can stay,” he says. “But only if I get the big bed.”

You lift your head. “There’s a bed?”

He points to a tiny room tucked in the back. A quilt still lies rumpled across it, faded and moth bitten, but intact.

“Looks like someone left in a hurry.”

You don’t ask why they didn’t come back, you both know the answer.

The well works.

Jin lowers the bucket, muttering to himself the whole time like it might make the crank turn easier. When he hauls the water up, it’s murky, but not foul. You boil it on the stovetop. Still cold, but at least gas fed, the pilot light miraculously still functional. Jin searches the cabinets and emerges ten minutes later with an unopened box of pasta, a can of tomatoes, and what he calls the last olive oil in existence.

You both cook barefoot.

The sun slants warm through the cracked kitchen window. You take turns stirring the pot. Jin hums off key and tells you the most ridiculous lie about how he once judged a televised cooking competition in Spain with a hangover and a translator who only spoke French.

You laugh. Harder than you mean to, harder than you have in months.

It feels… terrifying. But so, so good.

The pasta burns a little on the bottom, but it doesn’t matter.

You sit cross legged on the dusty kitchen floor, eating from mismatched bowls with spoons that don’t match either. You trade bites. You smear tomato sauce across Jin’s cheek and he retaliates by flicking you with a wet noodle.

It’s so stupid you both cry laughing.

When it finally dies down, you’re both breathless. Sweaty and joyful in a way that feels like it doesn’t belong to the end of the world. And that’s when you realize, this is the first time you’ve seen Jin truly smile. Not for you or because of you, but with you.

And it splits something in your chest wide open.

That night the temperature drops, so you build a fire in the living room hearth while Jin pushes the couch into a better position. Closer to the flames, farther from the holes in the floorboards. You find an old blanket folded in the closet, soft from age and still smelling faintly of lavender.

He lies down first but you hesitate long enough for him to lift the edge of the blanket.

“Come on,” he says. “Don’t make me beg.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Is that your plan?”

His grin is crooked. “Maybe later.”

You roll your eyes and climb in beside him, your back to his chest, the blanket tucked beneath your chin. The fire snaps softly in the hearth. His hand doesn’t touch you at first. But slowly, almost like he doesn’t mean to, it settles over your waist.

You hold your breath, and then let it out, slowly melting back into him. Later, when you shift slightly to stretch your legs, his voice murmurs into the dark, low and sleep rough.

“You ever think about what you’d do if this didn’t happen?”

You blink. “The world?”

“Yeah.”

You think for a moment before speaking.

“I wanted to open a bookstore with a tea shop. I used to fantasize about alphabetizing everything by theme instead of title. Like a ridiculous, chaotic system only I could navigate.”

He hums. “That sounds exactly like you.”

You smile. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

You turn, just enough to see him. His eyes are open and watching you like you’re a puzzle he’s afraid to finish solving.

“You?”

He pauses.

“I’d have settled down. Somewhere green. Somewhere quiet. Had a kid, maybe. Grown tomatoes.”

You whisper, “You’d be a really good dad.”

His breath catches.

You didn’t mean to say it, but you mean it anyway.

He reaches for your hand beneath the blanket, lacing his fingers through yours. You don’t stop him, don’t say anything at all.

Just squeeze.

You wake in the middle of the night to find Jin already watching you, his hand still in yours.

The fire’s burned low, casting the room in a warm, flickering hush. The kind of quiet that feels like a held breath. Everything about it is still, like the world is listening in.

Your legs are tangled beneath the blanket. Your shoulders brush. His body is curved just enough to cradle yours without pressing. And he’s looking at you like he’s been memorizing the soft shape of your face while the rest of the world kept sleeping.

You whisper, “You okay?”

He nods.

But his thumb is moving, gently tracing the back of your hand where it rests between you. A rhythm with no beat. A question he hasn’t asked out loud.

You watch him, then ask the question first.

“Do you want to?”

His eyes lift to meet yours.

There’s a breath.

A pause before he leans forward.

His forehead brushes yours, nose grazing your cheek slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the nearness before it disappears. His breath stirs against your skin. He’s trembling a little, not from fear, but from all the things he’s trying not to feel too fast.

When his lips finally find yours it’s not rushed, or hungry. Just sure. Warm and searching. A little deeper than you expect, a little longer, too.

Your fingers twitch where they rest between you, the tiniest pull that anchors him there. He kisses you again, barely parting, then pressing back in with a soft exhale, like he needs the reminder that you’re real. Like he’s afraid this will vanish if he lets go too soon.

There’s a flicker of something fuller beneath it. Something that hums at the edges, unspoken, but there.

When he finally pulls back, just far enough to rest his forehead against yours, you don’t speak. You just hold on tighter to his hand and feel the world, for one suspended breath, go still.

The next morning feels different.

You wake before Jin. Sunlight slices across the floorboards in thin, cold lines. The cottage is quiet, too quiet, like the house itself knows something it won’t say.

His arm is still wrapped around your waist, but you don’t close your eyes again. Something’s pressing against the edge of your thoughts. A wrongness you can’t place. The birdsong has stopped. The trees outside barely move. Even the wind feels like it’s holding its breath.

You slip from the blanket slowly, not waking him, and dress in silence. Tuck the laces of your boots. Pull your hair back. Open the door, and freeze.

There’s smoke on the horizon.

You don’t scream, don’t run, but your heart picks up like it’s been startled out of sleep. The smoke is black. Not the gentle gray of a chimney, not the ashy brown of old brushfire. This is something deeper.

Thick, moving fast, coming from the west. The direction you’d come days ago, the trail you thought was safe. You shut the door softly and turn to wake Jin.

His eyes open before you speak, already reading your face.

“What is it?”

You swallow.

“Fire.”

You don’t leave right away. There’s still water to purify, supplies to gather, things to pack. Jin moves quickly, but he’s quiet. He keeps glancing at you, like he’s trying to memorize you again, just in case.

You find him in the bedroom, folding the blanket you’d shared. He stops when he sees you watching.

“I thought we’d have more time,” he says.

You nod. “Me too.”

You step forward and wrap your arms around his waist, letting your forehead rest against his chest. He doesn’t hesitate. His arms come around you instantly, holding you tighter than he did even last night. Like he’s trying to seal the warmth between your bodies and keep it burning forever.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

He presses his lips to your temple. “Me too.”

The smoke reaches the ridge by nightfall. You’re two hours out, cutting through backwoods, retracing your old steps a little faster now. The silence between you shifts. Not distance, focus.

Jin’s jaw is tight as scans every shadow, keeping you close. His hand brushes yours often, not by accident.

You make camp beneath a cliff face, tucked into a natural crevice. You’re too tired to speak but when you lie down, your back to his chest, Jin doesn’t sleep. You feel his hand settle low on your hip, and his breath warm against the back of your neck.

“I should’ve left that book,” he murmurs.

You blink.

“What?”

“The cookbook. I don’t know why I took it. I think I wanted to pretend we’d have time to use it.”

Your chest tightens.

“We still might.”

He exhales, long and quiet. “Maybe.”

You cover his hand with yours.

“I liked pretending.”

“Yeah.” His voice breaks. “Me too.”

—

You reach the road by morning, or what’s left of it. Charred branches litter the ground of the blackened earth. A deer lies still in the ditch, its legs tucked beneath it like it laid down for sleep and never woke.

You walk faster, neither of you speak until the wind shifts and brings the smoke in thick, choking waves until Jin stops, silently holding up a hand and you freeze.

There’s movement ahead.

It’s not fire but something else, a sound…a voice? No—voices.

Low.

Male.

Several.

Jin turns to you, voice like steel. “Off the road. Now.”

You duck behind him without question and through the trees, you see them. Four men, carrying packs and weapons. Laughing with one one swinging a machete loosely by his side. They’re not soldiers, not survivors.

They’re hunters. Of what, you don’t want to know.

Jin waits until they’re out of earshot before pulling you deeper into the woods. You don’t ask if he’s been near men like that before. You don’t ask what they would’ve done if they saw you.

You already know.

You find an old stone culvert by the riverbank that’s collapsed on one side, half swallowed by roots. You crawl inside, your knees scraping the earth, your hands trembling with Jin following after you. Once you’re tucked into the shadow, he reaches for you.

You flinch, not from him but the fear is still in your skin, and his touch softens.

“I’ve got you.”

You nod, but your breath still shakes. So he cups your face in both hands, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Look at me. We’re okay. You’re okay.”

You want to believe him, you do. But your throat burns and your heart won’t slow.

He leans in, pressing his lips to your forehead, your cheek, then your mouth. This kiss is different, slow, but heavy. Like a promise he’s trying to push past your fear, past the pounding of your heart, past the part of you that’s still running.

You kiss him back, harder than you mean to. There’s desperation in it now. Salt on your lips. A kind of trembling that has nothing to do with cold and everything to do with how much you want this moment to hold, to last. To mean something before it all gets taken away again.

Jin’s hands are in your hair. Yours are fisted in his jacket. And for a second, nothing else exists.

Then, you hear a crack.

Not thunder or wind.

A snap that’s close.

Too close.

Jin pulls back instantly, his eyes sharpened, head tilted toward the sound.

“Shit,” he breathes.

You don’t even see the figure until it’s almost on him. One of the men from earlier with his knife raised, shirt filthy, eyes wild with panic or hunger or both.

Jin shoves you sideways with his full weight and you hit the ground hard. He swings first, the blade catching his arm and he grunts but doesn’t fall. He grabs the stranger by the collar, slams him back into the tree, and lands a punch so hard you feel it in your chest.

The man goes down and doesn’t move again.

You scramble to Jin’s side, breath stuttered.

“Your arm—” He waves you off. “It’s nothing.”

But blood’s already soaking through the sleeve of his jacket, a lot of it. You press your hands to the wound.

“Don’t lie to me,” you whisper. “Please.”

His mouth twitches in not quite a smile but not quite a grimace.

“You’re not supposed to be the one scared,” he murmurs.

“Well, I am,” you snap, voice cracking. “So deal with it.”

You help him sit and tear open his sleeve. It’s worse than you thought. Deep and jagged, already swelling. You work fast, your hands slick with blood, wrapping the wound with trembling fingers and the last clean bandage in your pack. He winces but doesn’t stop you.

When it’s done, you look up at him. His face is pale, his breathing tight, but his eyes are still on you.

Still soft.

Still clear.

“You’re okay,” you whisper. He nods slowly.

“You’re okay.”

You don’t believe it but you say it again anyway. Like a prayer you’re daring the world not to break.

You walk the next two hours in silence, Jin’s arm slung over your shoulders, your pace slowed to a crawl. He leans into you heavier than he means to and you let him. You let yourself practically carry him. And you don’t cry until the moment you see another abandoned house in the clearing with a half collapsed barn beside it, a busted porch, a chance to rest.

You guide him there and lay him down. Hold his hand until his grip goes slack, from exhaustion.

You sit beside him the entire night, jaw clenched, fingers curled into the hem of his shirt, watching the rise and fall of his chest like it’s the only thing keeping yours moving too. And when the dawn breaks gray and cold across the floor you whisper the words he once said to you, barely audible.

“I’ve got you.”

—

Jin sleeps through most of the next day.

You make a fire in the busted woodstove to boil water. Sift through what little you have left in your pack. The house is bare, a hollowed rib cage of a place with nothing left but dust and a few sun warped photo frames turned facedown on the floor.

He doesn’t stir when you clean the wound again, but you whisper to him anyway.

This might sting.

You’re okay.

You’re still here.

He flinches once, just barely but never wakes.

You sit beside him as the sun makes its slow crawl across the floor, casting long shadows over his face. His lashes twitch in dreams. His breathing stays shallow. You count every breath like it’s a bead on a rosary. By dusk, you start to wonder what you’ll do if he doesn’t wake up again.

That’s when your fingers find the journal.

Tucked under the blanket beside him. The spine soft and worn from use. You hadn’t noticed it before, he must’ve kept it hidden in his coat, or maybe he pulled it out sometime during the night when you were half asleep and holding on to his wrist.

You hesitate.

He’s never let you read it.

You almost put it back.

But then you think about the blood soaking through your shirt and the knife. The weight of him slumped over your shoulder, the way he smiled at you right before his knees buckled and he whispered, “You’re not supposed to be the one scared.”

And the fact that, right now, you are. So you open it to find the first page dated nearly a year ago. The handwriting is neat, maybe a little blocky. There’s nothing poetic about it. Just thoughts, cataloged and clipped.

May 13 — The first quake lasted six minutes. Lost service around 3:15pm. Grocery store was full of arguments. Took a jar of peanut butter and left cash on the counter. Felt pointless.

May 28 — Jimin told me I should write things down or I’ll lose them. Tried to laugh it off but couldn’t sleep. Started this.

June 2 — Still no word from my brother. Pinged me from somewhere in Red Ridge. Said “don’t wait.” I haven’t stopped waiting since.

You turn page after page. Names. Places. Scraps of dialogue. Recipes. Tiny, human things he refused to let disappear. Then months later, you find your name. Or rather, a description.

Train. Window reflection. She didn’t smile. Looked like she was pretending not to fall apart. I saw her before she saw me.

Your chest tightens as you flip another page. There’s more.

Four days later. Found her near the guardrail. Dehydrated. Looked at me like I might vanish if she blinked. Didn’t ask for anything. Took the water. Drank like it hurt. I should’ve walked away.

Didn’t.

Day 11 — She laughed at my egg story. Real laugh. First one I’ve heard in weeks. Sounded like a present I didn’t deserve.

Day 13 — I think I’d follow her anywhere. I think I’m already doing it.

Day 15 — She said I’d be a good dad. I didn’t realize how much I needed someone to believe that.

Your hand trembles as you reach the final pages. The last one is written in a shakier hand, maybe from the fever or fear. But the words are still his, still steady.

If I don’t make it—

You stop, heart stuttering, and then keep reading.

If I don’t make it, I hope she remembers how to build something anyway. I hope she stays stubborn. Keeps fighting. I hope she lets someone see her the way I did.

And if she ever reads this, I’m glad it was you. I’d start over with you. From scratch. A thousand times.

You close the journal slowly. Your eyes are wet even though you didn’t remember when you started crying. The world feels stiller than it ever has, and heavier.

You look at him still sleeping. When you take his hand, he squeezes, then blinks his eyes open. You don’t say anything at first. Just lean forward to press your forehead to his and breathe him in.

He’s burning up, but awake.

“I read it,” you whisper.

His gaze searches yours, unfocused.

“The journal,” you say. “I read it.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the day he wrote your name. “Okay,” he murmurs.

You brush the hair from his forehead. “I’d start over with you too.”

Jin smiles softly, weak as hell, but real. And when he closes his eyes again, this time, he sleeps like someone who knows they’re not alone.

Outside, the smoke has thinned. The sky is bruised violet, stretched wide over a world that’s still broken but not hopeless, not empty.

And in the house that should’ve been rubble, you sit on the floor beside the man who saved you, the man you’re starting to love, with a pen in your hand and a blank page in his journal.

Day 29 — He’s still here.

So am I.

And tomorrow, we’ll try again.

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