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desireangel · 3 months ago

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Dark Cherry [2] | Aemond Targaryen

Part Two

Summary: after months of a marriage that hardly harbours the passion that you'd dreamed about, you stumble across the reason for your husband's indifference and decide enough is enough. Aemond will learn just exactly what he's been missing out on.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader and also some Aemond x some random girly pop ;o

Word Count: (I'm... sorry?) 7.1k

Warnings: smut - mdni 18+!!! UNEDITED!! infidelity, kinda angsty? second-hand smut? power struggle both in bed and out, reader is a cheeky voyeur, oral (f receiving), thigh riding, degradation, Aemond is a fucking asshole but he's sexy, talk of masturbation. as always, let me know if I have missed anything!

Author's note: Entirely unedited because here I am posting this at 2:30AM having just finished writing this bad boy even though I have to be up for work at 7:30. yay :/. Anyways, thank you all so much for the love on this series so far! I'm thinking there could potentially be some more to come. Reader ain't done with her revenge so soon. I will reblog with the taglist tomorrow! or today I guess--after I've had some sleep! I would also love to hear your thoughts!! So pls hmu in my inbox to chat abt things xoxo kisses!!!! <3

Masterlist!

Part One

Distancing yourself from Aemond was not a difficult task. You’d barely see much of him aside from the meals you shared and your occasional stroll through the gardens anyway. It still felt odd, knowing that you were avoiding him when only days ago you had been grasping at whatever crumb of his attention you could reach.

His existence was ghostly. Always talked about but never seen and it made it remarkably easy to ignore him. You spent most days between your chambers and Helaena’s, idly passing time with embroidery and small talk. But you were distracted - your mind foggy and your usual grace and poise replaced by clumsiness and a constant flustered jumpiness.

It was always on your mind. Always.

Your mind was a problem of its own and as soon as you lay down amongst your sheets for a night of sleep, it took you back to the memory of your name lewdly falling from Aemond’s lips. As days had passed, you could have convinced yourself it was a hallucination - an odd dream of some sort.

And while it had become muscle memory for your hand to find your soaked sex at the midnight hour, the scene of your alluring husband in the throes of pleasure bringing you to a quick peak, the first two nights had been marred with silent tears of humiliation, hurt, betrayal–jealousy and anger.

Maybe it was for the best that you had not seen the face of the whore in his private chambers. If you had any idea of who she was, you would have had half a mind to have sought her out and suffocated her yourself.

You had to remind yourself that if she were, in fact, a whore then you could hardly let yourself seriously consider choking a woman out for simply doing her job.

Frustration was an understatement. No matter how hard you tried, there was nothing that you could do which would calm the mix of emotions inside you. You considered declaring Aemond’s infidelity at dinner–or even at the small feast that was held two nights ago. But it wouldn’t be enough and it was too early to show your hand.

If you had come out and made it known to all at Court, nothing would happen. At all.

Most husbands take on whores and mistresses. And despite the pain and hurt of it that the wives suffer, it’s simply accepted as the way things are. Men are innately animals and so they must fuck like it too. So nobody would bat an eyelid at Aemond. Instead, you knew that they’d turn it on you in one way or another.

On the sixth day, you were surprised when Ser Tunsley knocked on your door to announce your husband’s presence. When Aemond took a seat at the small table where you usually shared your breakfast, he barely spared you more than an inquisitive look before telling your handmaid to bring your breakfasts promptly.

Aemond leaned back, letting his legs rest comfortable but still maintained his effortlessly flawless posture. He reached for the book that lay forgotten on the side-table, holding it open with one hand and his other arm stretching over the back of the seat beside him, where you sat all tense and surprised. A barely-there frown crossed your face at the foreign gesture and you willed yourself not to think much of it.

You would have fumbled to snatch the book from his hands, if this had been a week earlier. But it wasn’t, and with a curious and conniving sense of calm, you let him read the first page of a story riddled with obscenity and romance. The first couple chapters were perfectly appropriate.

The prince looked at you with a gentle tilt of his head, unmoving aside from . “You have been withdrawn.”

Silence. You were sitting beside him, unable to meet his eye as you usually would, scoffing so softly at his words that he almost mistook it for a cough.

Aemond, who was far more observant of you than he knew you believed him to be, found that he was bothered by it. Whether it was because of the loss of the devotion that he had always seen in your doe-eyed gaze, or the flippant shift in your attitude, he did not want to know.

“Have I done something that has bothered you, dear wife?” His eye returned to the book and moved from one side of the page to the other as he read.

Aemond clearly did not see you watching them on that night. The fact that you had faced no repercussions for sneaking up on him and eavesdropping on such a moment was enough confirmation of that.

But Aemond’s presence re-ignited the red hot resentment you had for his actions and the hurt that you felt because of him. How any man could seek out the company of his wife for the first time in a week, sit beside her and pretend so shamelessly as if he cared for the repercussions of his own vile actions was beyond you.

Nonetheless, you forced a polite smile onto your lips and turned slightly to face him better. You let his question linger in the air between you as the maid returned, placing a plate of cheeses, fruits and an assortment of breads on the table in front of you.

Thanking her, you reached to pour yourself a cup of the sweet vanilla and rose tea that had become your favourite part of your mornings in the Keep. When you answered his question, it was purposefully less than what Aemond was seeking.

“I have been ill, lord husband,” you murmured. When you rested against the back of the seat, you tensed at the feeling of Aemond’s arm grazing your shoulder. You had forgotten it was there.

Your reaction to his proximity and while you had initially been shy around him–not so much since you had started your little performance–, you never flinched away from his touch.

Aemond placed the book down beside him and hummed in thought. He reached over you, to take a piece of fresh bread for his plate and to put some fruit on your plate, his chest pressing against your shoulder and his hair brushing past your nose.

If you had moved, just an inch, your lips would be against the milky skin of his throat. Despite your disdain for your husband, you could hear the thrum of your heartbeat in your ears and stopped yourself from dragging your fingers through his hair and tracing your lips across his jaw.

There was an unfamiliar sense of purpose behind what he was doing. It dawned on you that he knew what he was doing. The bread was already on his plate but the son of a bitch placed the fruits piece by piece on your plate, his movements lazy.

He smelled like lavender, leather and dragon smoke. Like an intoxicating drug that overwhelmed your mind until piety and sin were indiscernible. It was far too easy for you to see Aemond as more godly than just a mere man, to feel the need to worship him in the most sinful ways you could imagine.

No man in any realms was as strong, as beautiful, as terrifying, as educated as the prince who breathed fire onto your skin. And he was your prince.

A drop in your stomach was the least of your problems when the image of Aemond enjoying another woman’s passion invaded your thoughts. You wondered if his scent drove her just as mad as it made you and you had the urge to drive a knife through Aemond’s hand for you knew he’d have let her indulge in him.

But when he looked at you, his violet eye a mask of indifference yet still failing to hide something that you couldn’t for the life of you put into words, you hated that your desire for him burned just as strong as your rage.

Aemond’s eye met yours, humming in thought as he brought a cherry to his lips and glancing down at your own. He took a bite out of it first and then brought it to your mouth, dragging the open side across your bottom lip. The soft fruit dripped delicately onto your chin and left a stain on your perfect lips. The sight of you with reddened lips, gazing up at him with blown out pupils, shining with an uncorrupted devotion and a pure desire sent his blood rushing.

The cherry was sweet and chilled, a stark contrast to the darkened, heated want that Aemond watched you with. And again, you had an urge to ignore everything and take what it was that you had been hoping Aemond would give you. You obediently took the cherry into your mouth, holding his gaze, chewing the flesh of the fruit and rolling the pip on your tongue.

When you looked hard enough into Aemond’s eye, you could see the reflection of yourself morph into a reflection of the unnamed woman and you turned from him, turning away to drop the pip of the cherry onto a napkin.

Aemond’s hand fell softly to rest on your knee and he only moved back a nudge. You refused to meet his eye but you could feel his warm breath on your cheek as he spoke, his voice slightly strained yet still calm and smooth. “I’ll send for a maester.”

“Thank you,” you pushed the words out of your mouth and nodded towards the food. “You should eat your breakfast, my prince.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow as you rolled your eyes at him and slid back into his previous posture, sitting against the backrest of his own seat. An infuriating grin played on his lips. “Don’t worry about my breakfast. Why did you roll your eyes at me?”

You rolled your eyes again. “As if I cannot call for a maester myself.”

It crossed your mind that you could have told him right now of what you had seen. And the urge to scream at him became so strong you almost did.

But what would come of it? Not enough. Aemond would only offer you an apology if you were lucky and carry on as if nothing was amiss. Because that is just how it is for husbands–they could cheat and lie all they please to no consequence. And you wanted him to regret the moment he chose to disrespect you.

You wanted him to suffer for it. To feel as insulted, as embarrassed and as inferior as you have.

So he would suffer. But you had to be patient if you were to make it hurt.

A thought crossed your mind as Aemond said something you didn’t quite hear, with that unbothered expression he had mastered years ago.

He didn’t linger long after that. You ate your breakfast in silence, while Aemond, much to your distaste, finished the first chapter of your book. And when he finally left, he took it with him, giving you a knowing smirk as he tucked it under his arm.

One punch. Surely, you would be entitled to that.

Initially, the idea of seducing Jason Lannister was a gruesome one. But upon hearing of his prolonged and unbusy presence at King’s Landing, you recognised an opportunity as it presented itself to you. Simply because of pride and ego, there were few men who enjoyed the idea of his wife turning to another man for what they could not provide.

Alas, if there was any part of Aemond that made him weak, it was his pride and his arrogance.

And so here you were, enjoying your afternoon tea with the Lannister twin, listening to stories of his life at Casterly Rock. You made sure the house staff had known of Lannister’s presence and that the Kingsguard were well aware of the pot of tea you shared in the Courtyard. Easily within sight of where you knew Aemond was training with Ser Cole and some other men you had no interest in knowing.

For the past thirty minutes, you could feel him watching you. But when you lifted your head to look, pretending to the man across from you that you were interested in watching your husband train, Aemond would turn away. Yet he finally seemed to have finally had enough and you could see him walking over from behind Jason, his shoulders stiffer than usual with a sour expression.

“This tea,” you covered your mouth gently, letting out the remnants of a laugh that had been pulled from you. If you were being honest, Jason Lannister was turning out to be surprisingly fun company and the smile you had expected to fake ended up being real. Not bothering to look at Aemond, who was much closer now, you held your teacup towards the Lord Lannister with a pretty, sultry smile. “It is incredible–I’ve loved it so much, t’is the only tea I will drink. Have a taste of mine, I insist.”

With a look of blatant excitement, Jason leaned into where you held the cup, fingers grazing yours as he held the cup but never took it out of your hold and took a sip. It was slightly awkward, the way his eyes held onto yours, but you brightened your smile nonetheless.

Aemond visibly inhaled a sharp breath and cleared his throat, covering the both of you in a dark shade. The prince was looming over Lannister, who never looked away from you even as you peeled your eyes away from him with exaggerated difficulty to meet Aemond’s eye. You dropped your smile so slightly that only Aemond could notice.

There was a tense, awkward silence that lingered. Lannister’s head tilted ever so slightly and a wave of annoyance ran through you at the cocky tilt of his head regardless of the fact that it was exactly what you needed him to do. The two men stared at each other, Aemond’s typical dark repose and Lannister’s challenging chagrin at the disruption.

“How nice of you to join us, my prince,” you beamed. “Lord Lannister has been sharing this pot of tea with me. It’s lovely to enjoy some company for once.”

You took pleasure in the way he squared his shoulders at your remark. Lannister snickered but was quick to cover it up with a cough at Aemond’s narrowed eye.

“Yes, I’m sure it is,” Aemond’s voice was sharp. “I happen to have some time on my hands before I take Vhagar to flight, lady wife. Perhaps you would care to join me for a stroll through the gardens?”

Aemond was behind you in a blink, tugging your chair back gently into himself and holding a hand out to help you stand. The air around you became soft lavender and leather and something very Aemond. And despite the slight flutter of your eyelids, you straightened and held strong.

Weakness would get you nowhere. You were out here for a reason and no matter how strong the pull was, your lust to hurt him back was much stronger.

You shook your head gently, looking at Jason who seemed to stiffen under the prince’s eye. “What kind of host would I be if I were to abandon Lord Lannister? Considering it was I who invited him to tea. We can enjoy the gardens another time, my prince.”

The fire in Aemond’s eye rivalled Vhagar’s. It gave you a sense of satisfaction that was much unlike yourself and you wondered how he’d burn with rage if you decided to take Jason to your bed. You’d lose everything you had to your name but you knew it would not be difficult to convince yourself that it’d be worth it.

Jason Lannister was no fool. He understood the wrath of the Targaryen prince but he knew that you would never be subjected to the extent of it. As much as Prince Aemond pretended he did not care, the Lords and counsellors of the Red Keep knew that he had his weaknesses. At the end of the day, Aemond would not dishonour himself by tarnishing the image of his pious, kind wife who was loved by all.

Lannister also had his doubts about you. Again, he was no fool to fall for whatever game you were playing. An honourable, devoted Lady such as yourself would never actually be so easy to adulterate. Whatever it was, Jason was not against indulging himself in some fun here and there.

But he did prefer to keep his limbs and so he shook his head gently and stood from his seat.

“You have my thanks,” he took your hand in his and placed a kiss on your knuckles. A bold move from a man who could so strongly feel the Prince’s pointed glare. Jason turned and bowed his head gently towards Aemond. “But I fear I have some business to attend to, so do not stay back on my regard. It was lovely to sit with you, my Lady.”

Aemond scoffed loudly as the Lord took his leave. He waited for you to take his hand to help you out of your seat before dropping it to your waist.

“My prince-”

“If you are so starved of company, dear wife,” he drawled, looking straight ahead with a tightened jaw as he led you in the direction of the gardens. It was a habit now, whenever Aemond had you on his arm, to walk that route. Not surprising seeing how it was the only place where you two would see each other apart from your chambers. “I would expect you to call upon me rather than some toady Lord who would certainly misjudge your intentions. I am your husband, am I not?”

The thought of keeping a list of the times he spoke as if he were faithful crossed your mind for barely a second. Aemond was infuriating.

You offered him half of a smile and pulled him back slightly as you came to a stop. “You are. But your mind is never with me and I am well aware your time is far more precious to you than I am.”

If Aemond’s composure was not so ingrained into his existence, he may have spluttered and gawked at you. Instead, he barely frowned.

There was little he could do about the unemotional, unkind man that he had become perceived as. Aemond understood that it was his own actions that meant people viewed him as little less than a monster. And truly, it was how he tried to be perceived.

So why did it disturb Aemond that his own wife thought him so uncaring? He knew he had only himself to blame for it.

“I am afraid a stroll in the gardens will have to wait,” you continued in his silence. Being alone with Aemond was not how you intended to spend the afternoon. The risk that you’d lose your composure and tell him all that you had seen of him was still high. “I am still feeling fairly unwell. It may be better for me to rest in my chambers with a book.”

Aemond knew that you were retracting into yourself, pulling away from him where you would have been at his beck and call only a week ago. He hummed. “Tomorrow then.”

And with that, Aemond escorted you to your chambers in silence. It was hardly two hours that you had spent in the Courtyard with Lord Lannister but it had been tiring nonetheless. The peace and quiet that came with your reprieve from the man that had set your nerves into a frenzy just at the knowledge of his presence while you pressed at his patience was welcome.

A few hours passed slowly in your own company. Dinner was brought to your room at your request. The mere thought of sitting beside your husband and putting on a display for his family exhausted you.

The sounds of footsteps and conversation outside your door pulled your attention from the embroidery you had forced yourself to practise. Your chambers were fairly secluded compared to the rest and so it wasn’t often that anyone wandered this area. Expecting the Queen or your husband to be the source of the noise, you were hastily at the door, a sudden flush of anxiety shooting straight to your gut.

You waited barely five seconds for Ser Tunsley to knock on your door but your impatience pushed you to step out first. There was nobody there. You could see Ser Tunsley stalking away from the direction of the private chambers. You didn’t question it, assuming he was probably stepping away for a brief break, given that his position hadn’t been replaced.

Footsteps. Again.

Curiously turning your head in the direction of the sound, you saw a flash of brunette hair and a dark grey dress. Fuck.

It was impossible not to recognise her. Even as she walked away from you and clearly in the direction of Prince Aemond’s chambers, you knew who she was.

So with one final glance back into your room you followed her, thankful that you were barefoot so that your own footsteps couldn’t be heard. Even though your body was running hot with a mixture of heartache and rage, there was an icy stiffness that had spread from the back of your neck to your shoulders as you rounded a single corner after her and helplessly watched her enter Aemond’s chambers.

You held back tears. She had left the door open. Again. It did little to ease the knot in your throat when you realised that while she may be good enough for Aemond with her mouth, she was not the smartest.

Unable to move, you stood planted in that one spot a few feet away for what must have been ten minutes before you heard the same shuffling and muffled voices. You could hear her more clearly this time and it took you another two minutes to build the courage to see, once again, how Aemond dishonoured you.

If the circumstances were different, it may have been one of the sexiest sights you had ever laid your eyes upon. But it struck you in a way you couldn’t have expected and it took all of your willpower to stay standing.

But what else had you expected?

This time, the woman was sprawled out, her head hanging off of the bed and if her eyes weren’t screwed shut in bliss then she would have been looking directly at you. Her left hand gripped the sheets and the other was tangled amongst Aemond’s silver hair, her thighs on either side of his head.

Gods, you had never known anything like it.

Aemond was devouring her like he had been starved of her for weeks (you knew he hadn’t), the obscene sounds of his mouth against her sex striking you with distress. He held her down as she writhed against him, a strong, clothed arm keeping her in place at her waist.

You had hardly been watching them for thirty seconds and you didn’t even have time to consider turning around and walking away to save yourself the misery.

Because Aemond’s eye opened and he gazed straight through his lashes, lifting his head so he was looking directly at you. A piercing violet eye accompanied by a glimmering sapphire that watched you dangerously, as if he had seen you standing there the entire time and this was all entertaining to him.

For what may well have been the tenth time that night, you couldn’t move. You stood at the door, chest heaving and jaw slack as you felt a tightness in your throat. How could you feel so powerless in a game you managed to believe you had the upperhand in?

Aemond still held your eyes with his own, pulling away from the whore he was toying with, and fucking smirked.

Like things were going exactly how he had planned.

Red. And a loud gasp and then panic and a flash of arousal and all of a sudden you were running back to your chambers, falling to your knees over your empty bathtub and dry heaving. It was all too much.

The shock, the fear, the jealousy, the fear.

And it dawned on you as you tried desperately to catch your breath. Ignoring your arousal–you cursed your body for reacting faster than your mind once again–panic continued to flood your veins like an ice-cold burn.

Aemond had definitely seen you watching. But had he known all along?

It made no sense. Did he see you that night when he moaned your name instead of that damned woman’s?

You couldn’t even be sure how long Aemond had stared at you from his spot, his attention diverted entirely from the nameless woman, who whined and stirred incessantly at his distraction, to you. Caught like a thief in the act, wide-eyed and dazed.

Aemond knew. And he must have known the entire time. With the way he looked directly to you, as if he were waiting for you. As if Aemond knew exactly where you stood the first night. As if he had finally caught you in his trap.

He wanted you to see.

Aemond had already bested you at your own game with even more cleverness than you. Before you had even started to play.

Sleep did not come easy that night.

You were dressed and ready far earlier than usual the next morning. Even though you dreaded the worst - that Aemond had convened to have you punished for watching as you had, you let your scheme motivate you to take back the control you had lost. If you had ever had it in the first place.

The dress you wore was hardly decent and it left you bare from your chest up, a wide slit running through the skirts. It was a deep green that had a shine to it and clung to your skin, making it clear that you had foregone your smallclothes for the day.

For the sake of decency within the hallway, and because you detested the idea of either of the Cloaks at your doors seeing your attire, you donned a heavy cloak over top. It was Aemond’s; he had left it behind after breakfast once.

Aemond was still asleep when you had talked your way past the guard at his door and pushed through the doors to his chambers. You stood at the foot of his bed, tracing the place where that woman lay with your eyes. Quietly, you dropped the cloak to the floor.

It was your first time in Aemond’s private chambers. And would things have been different, you would have taken the time to observe all the things that made this space his. Instead, your eyes scanned every centimetre of every part of his chambers for any trace of that wretched woman.

There was none. Not a single strand of hair.

You sat at the edge of his plush bed, taking a moment to get your head straight before you stood and walked around to the side of the bed where he lay. The scent of him was overwhelming as you stood above him.

“Well,” Aemond barely moved aside from his lips as he spoke. His eye remained shut. “Look who finally figured it out. Why are you here?”

You let out a drawn out sigh, shivering gently. “I would like to talk.”

Aemond sat up lazily and you noticed he was naked save for the sheet that covered his lap. From the way he was sitting, you stood in between his legs and his head was slightly tilted as he looked at you over the swell of your breasts. His hands found a resting place on your hips and you were hyper-aware of his touch, which felt heavier than boulders and hotter than lava.

He looked at you as if he were ready to devour you. As if Aemond were a man starved of air and you were his only chance at breathing.

The prince let out a hum. “Dressed like this?”

“Since you seem to prefer a whore over your own wife, I figured I would dress akin to one,” you kept your voice stern and stepped further into him so that his chin almost had to rest in the valley of your breasts if he wished to keep his gaze on yours. “If this is what it will take to have your attention.”

Not once did Aemond’s heated stare falter. “I think you are well aware of where my attention lies. What with your childish attempts at seduction.”

“I did not think you cared to take note.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Aemond said, dragging a finger up and down the side of your waist. He enjoyed the soft feel of the fabric and the way your nipples perked through the dress at his touch had him resisting a primal urge to bite. His patience had been astounding thus far but it was wearing thin. “I would have expected that kind of behaviour from a common whore, not a lady such as yourself. You are a princess, after all.”

Trying your best not to squirm under his touch, you held firm in your hardened gaze. “You seem to enjoy whores.”

“I do not.”

You scoffed. “So you have been fucking her just to spite me? Or have you fallen in love?”

“Such filthy language from such a well behaved girl,” he mused. Aemond’s cursed smirk had you holding back from both cutting him and kissing him. “I never would have guessed that my wife is so full of surprises. It seems I do not know you as well as I believed.”

“Answer my question, Aemond.”

“I never fucked her properly, since you insist–”

“As if it makes a difference whether you fucked her cunt or her mouth,” you spat. He was maddening. “You are my husband. I should be the only woman you have in your bed.”

The grip on your hips tightened almost painfully before he brought one hand up to caress your jaw. Aemond didn’t hide the longing he felt, pulling you closer and admiring every inch of your skin tenderly. “If only you had been good and asked me nicely for what you need. Instead of acting like a desperate slut every time we were in the same space. Things could have been so much easier for you, my love.”

Aemond had always spoken to you with respect. And yet here he was, speaking to you as if he already knew exactly what sent your cunt wild with need. He harshly held your chin, forcing you to look up at the roof as he straightened, pressing his nose into the crevice of your neck. The tickle of his hot breath on your skin made you gasp and you felt the velvet of his lips smirking against your throat.

“The whole time,” you panted, bringing your hands to his shoulders and digging your nails into his skin. “You knew. It was-”

“Hm. It was for you.” Aemond let his teeth graze against the dip of your jaw.

There was a fire alight on your skin. You could barely make sense of his words but you forced yourself to hold it together. “You are insane.”

“I was only playing the game that you started,” Aemond chuckled. “Only, I have played it far better than you. Perhaps we are lucky that you did not present more of a challenge, considering I was not above taking her on your bed instead.”

Fuck that. You despised him and loved him and lusted for him all at the same time.

The control you had was slight to begin with but whatever little there was, it was slipping through your fingers. You threaded your fingers through Aemond’s hair–which was silkier than you had expected–and pulled him away from your neck.

When you saw the hunger for you in his eye, the slight pink flush of his cheeks, a warm flood of invigorating energy made it’s way through your veins. You fought the urge to run your hands down his shoulders, his chest, his bicep–any part of him you could reach.

You swallowed thickly. “You should have. I need only one more reason to cut her.”

“I shall have her hanged if that is what you wish.”

For a moment, you thought you might scratch the smug expression off of Aemond’s face. You groaned, pursing your lips at his indifference and squeezing your thighs together at the passion in his eye. “Fuck you, Aemond.”

“I’m going to give you another chance. Ask me nicely to fuck you until all those doubts you have are replaced by the empty space I will fill your pretty little head with,” He pulled at your hips, so that there was no empty space between you, your torso flush to his chest. Aemond felt deathly tense yet strangely relaxed at the feel of you gasping against him. “And we can put an end to this contest. I do regret that I have left you, my wife, unsatisfied but I want you begging first.”

You watched him closely, challenged him with your gaze. There was no chance you would beg and let him win. The air between you was charged with energy, hissing and stinging. It became heavy and despite the way both of you were breathing so heavily, chests rising and falling dramatically, you couldn’t get enough oxygen to fill your lungs.

The thickness in the air only became heavier as you gripped his wrists, and moved slowly so that you straddled his right thigh. Aemond fisted the thin fabric of your dress and when you lightly pressed your leg against the hardness at his crotch, you felt his steady breath against your lips which lingered above his own. The skirts of your dress rode up to your hips.

Lavender, leather and him.

“You want me to ask you nicely, my prince?” You purred, relishing in the way Aemond’s jaw clenched when he felt your bare cunt press against his thigh. It sends a wave of pleasure straight through your body. “You want me to beg you to tear this dress off of me? To fuck me until I can no longer think of any word other than your name? To make me yours properly? Beg you to fuck me how you should have every night since our wedding?”

Aemond’s hands were grasping at the flesh all over your body, pulling at the fabric of your pathetic excuse of a gown until it ripped. There was a weight on his chest that only grew at the sight of your perfect skin through the torn fabric, your nipples slipping into his view.

His voice was low and guttural. “The final chance. Be good and beg.”

“If you wish for me to be good,” you whispered into his ear, moving hastily to grip the back of his neck with one hand and the other holding his chin tightly as he had held yours minutes ago. He let out a strained sound through his teeth as you shifted against his cock, pretending to get comfortable. “You should not have indulged in that whore.”

Aemond scowled at you. And he could have thrown you off of him but his hands continued to scorch the skin on your hips.

You realised you had never been so close to Aemond as you pressed a trail of tender kisses to his jaw. You were infinitely closer to him than all the times you had held onto him while walking the gardes or while he had bedded you with feigned disinterest. And you were aching with want and desire just as he was, your wetness seeping onto Aemond’s thigh.

It was nothing in comparison to the rage that you had pent up. With a gasp you ground down on the strong muscle of his thigh, eyes fluttering at the sensation. Holding back a moan, you rested your forehead against Aemond’s and rocked your hips against him.

You tightened your legs, well aware that Aemond could overpower you and have you under him in seconds. He was allowing you to have your moment and you pulled your hand from his jaw only for it to stay tightly locked as his fingers dug into your hips.

There would be bruises left on your skin for weeks but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, almost groaning out loud when Aemond took control of your movements, pushing and pulling your hips so that your clit rubbed against him perfectly. “Prince Aemond Targaryen. You think you can just do as you like and that there would be no consequences. That I would come crawling back to you so easily?”

A moan slipped from your lips when Aemond shifted his leg. You knew you were getting carried away, that the power you had over him was getting to your head but fuck. It didn’t matter.

You dropped your hand to where Aemond’s cock pressed against one of your thighs, touching him gently over the sheet that covered him. It still surprised you just how perfectly big Aemond was, thick and hard in your palm. And then you held him firmly, rocking your weeping cunt against his thigh even harder when he groaned. It sent shock after shock straight through your core.

“Did you think I would be on my knees for you so easily just like she was?” You spat, whining at the pleasure that was incomparable to the way you had been touching yourself. Aemond hissed as you slid your hand up and then back down so slowly. “After those shows you put on for me, there is not a chance.”

Countermoves. Aemond was good at them, even when struggling to even out his breath and regain his composure. “Tell me, which part did you enjoy the most? Was it when I fucked my seed into her throat? Or when was calling your name?”

You gripped the back of his neck so hard, pushing your soaked pussy harder onto his leg. “Do not-”

Aemond hummed, his grip tightening painfully on your hips as he moved his leg in motion against you. He smirked when you shuddered, caressing your cheek with his nose as he spoke lowly into your ear once again. “I think I know. It was last night, when I had her on my tongue and thought only of how perfect your desperate little cunt would taste instead.”

“Aemond,” you couldn’t help but moan as he rolled your hips deliciously on his thigh. He let out a small, deep laugh at the way you trembled in his hands but you could hear that he was losing himself just as much as you were. “Gods.”

“I wish to know, princess. How many times have you touched yourself since that night, wishing you were in her place?”

You sucked in a breath, rutting against Aemond violently and he only pulled you in harder when you refused to answer his questions. Another moan. “Be quiet, Aemond.”

“Hm,” Aemond nipped at your earlobe. “Do you really want me to stop talking? You know that I can feel how wet it makes your perfect cunt. Desperate little slut.”

Whining and cursing him under your breath, you let yourself really look at him. Aemond’s sapphire eye shone under the early morning light that spilled in from the windows, his eye dark with lust and his jaw clenching as he watched you fall apart on his lap.

Hips buckling as he continued to pull you back and forth on his thigh, spreading your wetness on the soft expanse of his skin, your legs failed to hold your weight and you had clearly resigned to letting Aemond take control of your pleasure.

You were right at the edge and just as you started to ride out your orgasm, Aemond spoke.

“If you do not beg me,” he threatened. “I shall stop.”

“Gods, no–do not sto-”

Aemond held you still in response and no matter how you writhed against his grip, you couldn’t move. He was keeping you at the tipping point, smirking at the way you were gasping for air and squirming on his lap. But he was in no calmer state himself and you could tell his resolve was about to shatter.

“Stand up. I want you on the bed,” He demanded. And when you didn’t move, he let go of your hip to lay a stiff smack to your backside. “Now.”

“No.”

It was almost too easy and you snatched his wrist before he could return it to your hip, moving your hips and rubbing yourself against his leg again now that he only had one hand to try and control you.

Aemond’s leg was slick and your clit was sliding deliciously across his skin. Fingernails dug into the flesh of your hips and you could feel Aemond’s frustration as he yanked his hand out of yours. But you blindly grasped at it again, shockwaves of white hot pleasure striking you suddenly as you came undone, your forehead falling forward to rest on Aemond’s as you let out a loud, drawn out moan.

You shook through your orgasm, holding Aemond tightly. His cock throbbed against your thigh and you almost felt bad.

“You should understand, my prince, if you continue to bring that whore to your bed then I am not above bringing another man to mine.” You struggled to catch your breath and your legs were still trembling as you stood, stepping away to pick up the coat you had dropped to the floor.

Aemond glowered at you, his glare strong enough to have made you crumble before him were you not so high on adrenaline.

“You would not dare,” he all but growled.

“Have I not surprised you enough already, Lord Husband?”

Aemond stood, the sheet falling to the floor, entirely naked and stiff against his stomach as he watched you don his coat. The anger in his voice only served to spur you on. “You will not leave. You would not dare to leave.”

“I am a princess, after all,” you looked at him over your shoulder, lip caught between your teeth at the sight of him bare, hard and infuriated. There was disbelief written all over his expression. “You will need to work much harder than that if you want me to give in.”

There was something new in the way Aemond looked at you. As if he was impressed. Admiring you, even through his frustration. And without giving yourself the chance for second thoughts, you walked right out Aemond’s chambers with a triumphant smile.

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shellshocklove · 6 months ago

Text

does anyone know where the love of god goes? | joel miller

pairing/AU: joel miller x female!reader – post breakout & no ellie AU

summary: crossing the country alone as he searches for his brother, joel stumbles on a farm. winter is closing in, and against his better judgement he's convinced to stay. as the frost covers the land like a blanket, a warmth ignites in his heart for the young woman who's home he finds himself in.

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so minors dni!!! canon-typical violence, age gap (reader is mid to late twenties), swearing, dead animals, joel being a sad man, masturbation, no use of y/n

a/n: i soft launched this ao3 last month and it flopped lol so i'm gonna keep my expectations low for this series. anyways this has been a story i've been thinking about since probably october. this is the first part of what i'm hoping will be 3 parts. happy reading i guess

main masterlist / series masterlist / ao3 / playlist

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 this account stands with palestine. the creator of tlou is a zionist, and the second game is largly based on israel/palestine. please, everyone who interacts, educate yourself about the genocide happening right now, and support/donate.

The leaves rustled against Joel’s boots with every step he took. The sun had turned traitor cold, and he couldn’t feel its kiss against his cheek no more. The trees shivered above him in the wind – the only sound for miles except his heavy steps.

Did he still exist, with no one around? Joel had never minded being alone; after the breakout he’d found that he sometimes preferred it. People could be… well, when you’ve seen the worst of humanity, maybe it’s best to leave it behind.

And wasn’t he the worst of humanity? The things he’d done. The people he’d killed, and killed for. The people he’d lost.

But he had to keep going. For Tess. He promised.

Every night as he stared into the flames his thoughts would drift to her – the memories flickering in the fire. They should’ve never gone through that museum – it was supposed to have been empty – they should’ve never left Boston in the first place. Now Tess is gone because of him, him and his stupid plan to find his brother.

And for what? How is he ever gonna find Tommy?

Joel didn’t even know where he was. Nebraska? South-Dakota? Maybe he’d made it to Wyoming and just didn’t know it? Abe had told him ‘Cody Tower’, but Joel hadn’t seen anything other than mother nature for weeks.

Everything had started to look the same. Trees and more trees, a mountain in the distance, a grey and heavy sky above him. He’d been walking for forever. Slowly he moved west– or at least he thought he was. On the days where the sun hung high in the sky and wasn’t shielded behind a cloudy partition, he liked to watch it as it dipped below the earth. As the days turned shorter and shorter, the display of color had started to get more vivid. Joel would watch the light blue turn red and bloody, fiery tongues of flames licking over the horizon while the sharp edges of the mountains, and the triangular shapes of the trees faded into an intense black– like the shape of the mountain and the trees had been cut out with scissors. There wasn’t much to stay alive for anymore– but Joel lived for those few moments where nature painted with fire. Humanity might’ve gone to shit, but the cyclical regularity of mother nature gave Joel a small sense of peace.

But he missed the kiss of the sun against his cheek now. He’d moved into a large forest a few days ago. Tall trees hovered over him like giants and cast shadows down at him. It was colder here than out in the open country, but at least he’d been somewhat shaded from the rain pouring from the grey cover above his head the last few days.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The sound stopped Joel in his tracks. Muscle memory worked on its own, gripping the shotgun slung over his shoulder. He listened for the sound again, to the steady rhythm echoing through the forest.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

With slow calculated steps Joel walked in the direction of the sound with the shotgun held tightly to his chest, his finger hovered over the trigger. The chopping sound got louder as he closed in on a man. He couldn’t tell his age with the man’s back turned – but he was strong – Joel could tell from how hard the man’s axe hit the tree trunk.

Taking another silent step, Joel got in position, “How ‘bout you slowly turn around and place that axe on the ground.”

Joel’s voice was hoarse after no use, but still cold and calculated as he spoke his order. He could see he’d startled the man, probably thinking he was alone, just like Joel had thought mere minutes ago.

The man obeyed, turning around slowly. He was older than Joel, maybe mid-seventies, maybe older if the wrinkles and creases around his eyes and nose were to be believed. His hair was white as snow matching his unkempt beard. Joel caught his eye. Strong and steady, no trace of fear one would think a man would feel while having a gun pointed at them.

Joel’s grip around the gun tightened. He wasn’t afraid to pull the trigger if that’s where this was headed. The man watched him calmly before he bent his knees, throwing the axe haphazardly on the ground.

“Kick it over here,” Joel commanded again, and the man obeyed, kicking the axe clumsily towards Joel.

Slowly Joel crept closer, gun still pointed at the man. He locked the heel of his shoe against the shaft, dragging the axe behind him and out of the way.

“Hands where I can see ‘em.”

“Are you going to kill me, son?”

The man’s question puzzled Joel. He said it so calmly, like how you’d ask someone to pass the salt.

“That depends on you.” Joel’s answer pulled at the old man’s lips, a small huff of a laugh escaping them.

“Well, you’re the one with the gun. I think it depends on you.”

Joel tightened his grip on the shotgun again – he didn’t know why –to frighten the man? He didn’t seem very frightened.

“Are you alone?” Joel asked.

“Not anymore,” the man answered.

“Don’t be a smartass,” Joel gritted through his teeth, “who you travelin’ with?”

“No one,” the man’s eyes never left Joel, “I live at a farm about a mile away.”

“Take me to it.”

The man walked with a limp Joel noticed. It was barely there, you wouldn’t see it if you didn’t pay attention, but it was there. The man acted tough enough, but his body revealed his weaknesses. It would be easy to kill him, Joel thought, if it came to that.

He followed the man through the trees with his gun pointed at his back. When they reached the end of the forest a clearing revealed itself. They followed a path through a field of, tall but wilted, brown grass until they reached an overgrown gravel road with a fence running along it. Looking out in the distance, Joel could see small spots of white and black wool. The gravel moaned under their feet as they closed in on a small farm. A two-story house sat in the middle of the barnyard where it was surrounded by a barn who’d seen better days, a silo, and a smaller farmhouse – a stable – Joel noticed as they walked closer.

The man trudged up the front stairs of the main farmhouse, a hand on the handrail keeping him steady.

“Put that gun away would you, son? I don’t want you frightening my wife.” The man broke the silence between them, speaking for the first time since they left the woods.

Joel’s grip on his shotgun didn’t loosen. How could he be sure that this man’s ‘wife’ wasn’t some gang of raiders hiding behind the front door? A question he asked the man through gritted teeth when he turned around to look at Joel.

“There’s nothing of the sort around here,” the man said, “we don’t even see any infected.”

When Joel didn’t say anything, and didn’t lower the gun, the man spoke again, “Who are you?”

“Just someone passin’ through,” Joel answered, making the man chuckle.

“You’re something else, passer-througher,” the old man smiled before he turned around again and stepped inside, leaving Joel on the porch alone.

Abandoned outside he lowered his gun slightly. Inside he could hear muffled voices, a deeper one, definitely the old man, and a brighter one, a woman’s voice. He listened, trying to make out their words with no prevail. The man seemed to have spoken the truth up until now. He most definitely lived on this farm – a seemingly normal farm. This man was just someone making an honest living – even after the apocalypse.

Lowering the gun completely, Joel put the safety on before he slung it over his shoulder. Taking a hollowed step towards the front door, movement in the window to the right of him caught his eye. It was there and then it was gone – just a ruffle of blonde curtains. Then, the door opened revealing an elderly woman.

The man’s wife.

“Welcome, traveler,” she greeted, stepping aside to let Joel in.

He passed through the doorway with a “Thank you, ma’am,” never forgetting his manners even after pointing a gun at her husband.

Inside it looked like a picture taken straight out of a Homes & Gardens magazine. The house was cozy, but it was small. He’d been welcomed into what probably used to be a parlor, but now served its purpose as their living room. It was hard to get a read on the house. Not like those open-floor plan houses he’d built too many of back before the outbreak – this was old, maybe hundreds of years old. The floorboard creaked under his shoes as he walked deeper into the living room, the rest of the house locked away like a secret behind three closed doors. The man was seated in a lounge chair by the fireplace, watching Joel with an expression Joel found it hard to decipher.

“Would you like some tea?” the woman asked, “It’s peppermint from our garden.”

Joel turned his head to the woman. She must be around the same age as the old man, Joel thought. He cleared his throat before he answered with a nod, “Thank you, ma’am.”

She pointed to the sofa, urging him to sit down with a smile before she disappeared through one of the doors to what Joel thought must be the kitchen. He felt the old man watching him as he slid his backpack off his shoulders, placing it on the creaky wooden floor behind the sofa. Joel hesitated for just a second when placing the shotgun up against the back, but decided he wasn’t in any imminent danger.

Joel almost groaned as he sat down. He’d been walking for so long, slept on the hard ground for months, he’d almost forgotten what a comfortable chair was. It almost felt surreal, being invited in for tea, like the outbreak had never happened. Here, it was like the time had stood still.

“So,” the man started, “where are you heading to if you’re just ‘passin’ through’?”

Joel cleared his throat again, “I’m lookin’ for my brother,” he answered truthfully, “last I heard he was somewhere in Wyoming.”

“If you’re going to Wyoming, then what you’re doing all the way up here?” The man queried with a chuckle.

Annoyed, Joel grinded his teeth, “Not many signs in the fuckin’ woods are there?” He huffed.

“I guess not,” the man shrugged, “but you’ve made a heck of a detour… where did you come from? Texas? You sound it.”

“Boston.”

“Boston?” the man didn’t hide his surprise, breathing out chuckles in disbelief, “I’ll give it to you, that’s one long trip.”

Joel only huffed in agreement, turning his head from the man to the window overlooking the barnyard.

“Well,” the man broke the growing silence between the two men, “you’re more than welcome to stay for dinner and for the night– you look like you could need a hot meal and a warm bed.”

Joel’s instinct was to say no, but before he could the front door opened, revealing a young woman. You.

You stopped dead in your tracks as you laid your eyes on Joel, “Oh!”.

The door slammed behind you. Under your arm you were carrying a metal bucket filled with apples. You were beautiful, young, but still beautiful – Joel couldn’t deny it.

“This is…” The man paused.

“Joel.” He cleared his throat, introducing himself, “Joel Miller.”

“Mr. Miller is just passing through– he’s looking for his brother,” the old man explained to you.

You nodded at the information, sat the bucket down before you reached out a hand for Joel to take, introducing yourself. Your hand in his was warm and soft while his own dwarfed yours, rough and calloused. He couldn’t help but think about what his hands had done, the people they’d killed. He shouldn’t be tainting yours, painting them red. Joel quickly drew his hand back, balling it into a fist at his side.

Joel looked over at the old man, “Your daughter?” he asked with a tilt of his head in your direction.

“Oh, no,” the man answered with a playful smile, “You’re not the first person ‘passin’ through’ who’s shown up on our doorstep.”

The door to the kitchen opened to reveal the old woman with a teapot in her hand, and a stacked tower of teacups in the other.

“Let me help you Alma,” you said, taking the teacups from the old woman’s hand before placing them on the table; one in front of Joel, a second in front of the old man, “Here you go Arthur,” and a third next to Joel.

“Did you also want some tea, sweetie?” Alma asked you as she placed the steaming teapot on the table.

“Yes, please, but I can grab a cup myself– sit down,” you smiled and padded the old woman’s shoulder, then you grabbed the bucket of apples and disappeared into the kitchen.

Alma started pouring the tea as a silence fell over the room. A small, “Thank you, ma’am,” left Joel’s lips as she moved on to pouring tea for her husband.

“So,” the man started before taking a sip of his tea, “what do you say Mr. Miller? You staying for the night?”

That night as he laid in a real bed for the first time in months, Joel had trouble falling asleep. He wasn’t used to this. Hadn’t been used to it for a while. His belly full, soft fabric against his skin, feeling warm, and clean. The old couple had offered him one of the two bedrooms on the first floor, the two mystery doors in the living room now revealed. Laying in his new bed he tried not to think about who he was sharing a wall with.

You.

You were something else, helpful and kind. Everything Joel hadn’t seen since the outbreak. At the dinner table you’d asked him questions and listened intently – even when his answers were short and brisk. There was a glimmer in your eye, and it touched something inside him he hadn’t felt in a long time. But you were young, mid to late twenties he reckoned, maybe a little older– anyways, he shouldn’t be harboring anything for you, it wouldn’t be right. Especially now, now that he’d agreed to stay.

After the dinner plates had been cleared, Arthur had folded a big map out on the table. “Here are we now,” he’d pointed a finger at the map. Montana. Southern Montana to be precise. “I’ll give it to you Mr. Miller, if you’ve made it this far on your own you probably won’t have any trouble making your way down south to Wyoming.”

“But?” Joel watched the grimace pulling at the old man’s face.

“But,” Arthur had said, “Winter is just around the corner and… well, going back out there in the wilderness alone during our winters is a dead trap, I’ll tell you that much.”

Joel had let the man go on about the far below freezing temperatures, the heavy snow, and the tough wind, but Joel wasn’t stupid. He knew the winters up here were harsh. It wasn’t even winter yet, but every day he’d felt the temperature drop lower and lower, and the last few of nights he’d even had to get a fire going, against his better judgement.

So– the deal was: Joel would stay over the winter. Just for the winter, he’d been adamant on not staying longer. He’d get a place to stay, a warm bed to sleep in, and food in his belly on one condition – he’d help out on the farm.

The fire crackled loudly, red tongues licking up the chimney as Joel fed it another log. He watched as the fire caught in the new log, devouring it quickly and with no mercy. It was really starting to heat up now. A small flicker of pride sparked in Joel chest. He’d always been good at building a fire. It was one of those things, Joel had come to learn, where you needed to pay attention, to have patience.

When he was younger, he’d take Tommy out camping sometimes, just the two of them. Mostly they’d go during the summer; Tommy wasn’t a fan of sleeping outside in the cold, though cold had meant something different back then in Texas. But Joel remembered one time he’d managed to convince him to go with him. It was right after he’d gotten his driver’s license, and his parents had given him a beat-up truck for his birthday – for sharing – they’d told him, “You need to give your little brother a ride when he needs it!” Joel wasn’t exactly thrilled about his future as Tommy’s private driver, but it didn’t mean he didn’t love his brother.

A few weeks into October he’d managed to convince Tommy to go camping. They’d packed the truck with their tents, sleeping bags, and fishing equipment, before they’d gotten on the road, driving to a lake where they knew there were fish to catch. Finding a place to camp was always difficult with Tommy. They’d parked Joel’s truck at the edge of the forest before they’d followed a hiking trail. Joel was convinced they’d walked at least three quarters of the way around the lake before they found a spot good enough for Tommy.

It had to be flat, but also shielded. There couldn’t be too many rocks, but there also had to be enough rocks to build a hearth. Tommy wanted it to be private, but he also wanted it to be open enough that he could see if someone would stumble upon their camp. Joel knew not to argue with him when he got like that, opting instead for a defeated, “Whatever.”

Setting up camp went relatively easy. They’d worked together building the tents, collecting rocks for their fireplace, and even managed to find a fallen tree to use as a bench. When the night slowly started to cover them in darkness, Tommy decided to get the fire going. Joel watched him work the logs into a pile as he started on filleting the fish they’d just caught.

“You’re doin’ it wrong,” he’d told his brother, “You’re suffocatin’ it.” He’d washed his hands in the lake, ridding himself of the slimy smell of fish, before crouching down next to Tommy.

The fire was one big bowl of smoke, and Joel caught himself wondering what messages Tommy must’ve been sending to the heavens. He removed some of the heavier logs, and the fire could breathe.

“See?” he’d looked at Tommy, “It just needed air.” Joel had shifted the smaller pieces of wood around and not long after the fire was alive.

That Joel, that green boy who liked to take his little brother camping, that Joel didn’t know how much those skills would come in handy in a few years when the world would get turned upside down.

“Do you have any mittens, Joel?”

Your question pulled Joel from his memories. He turned his head slightly, meeting your gaze from where you were huddled up in the corner of the couch. You looked cozy, but he knew you weren’t. The house was cold this morning, outside a thin layer of frost had stuck to the grass during the night. It was early too, the sun not having climbed high enough yet to peek over the mountains. You looked tired where you sat, clad in a wool sweater with a blanket pulled over your knees. Under the blanket Joel remembered you were still wearing your pajama pants, and in your hand you held a steaming cup of tea, peppermint, Joel knew, his own cup abandoned on the coffee table.

“What?” Joel answered, eyebrows furrowed.

“Do you have any mittens, Joel?” you repeated softly, like the way people tended to speak in the mornings, like they were afraid they’d wake up the world.

His calves were starting to burn from the strain of being crouched in front of the fireplace for a moment too long, and he tried his best to hide his groan, biting his teeth together as he stood to his feet, knees cracking loudly.

“Um, no,” he said, confused about your question.

“I’ll knit you a pair then,” you smiled before putting your cup down next to his.

“That’s… that ain’t necessary,” Joel hurried, but you waved him off.

“Sure it is,” you smiled again, much to Joel’s annoyance. He didn’t deserve your kindness, but you gave it away like it cost nothing. “If you’re gonna be helping Arthur out in the woods this winter, you need some mittens.”

Joel watched as you got up from your home on the couch and vanished into your bedroom. A moment later you appeared in the doorway with a basket under your arm.

“Also…” you gave him another smile as you sat back down again, placing the basket in your lap. It was close to overflowing with yarn, balls of black and white in varying sizes peeking over the top, the homespun ends fraying against the rough edges of the basket. “I’ll have something to do during the evenings,” you winked before you rummaged through the basket and fished out a measuring tape.

Joel shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he watched you. Mittens? Joel can’t remember if he’s ever owned a pair of mittens. Gloves, sure, but mittens?

You patted the cushion next to you, urging him to sit down, kind smile hanging off your lips like always. Sitting down, he folded his hands in his lap, suddenly very aware of how close you were sitting. It wasn’t like he hadn’t sat next to you before; he’d been here a few weeks now, and he was starting to know you, but for some reason, this felt different. Maybe it was the early morning, the quiet house, or the fact that Alma and Arthur were still sleeping upstairs, but it felt like it was just the two of you, alone, and Joel didn’t know how to feel about it.

You shifted towards him, the blanket slipping slightly off the couch with your movement, in your hands you held the measuring tape while you looked at him expectantly.

When Joel didn’t move, a smile quirked at the corner of your mouth before you grabbed one of his hands resting in his lap. You uncurled his fingers slowly, one by one, making Joel hold his breath.

“I need to see how big I need to make them,” you whispered, holding his hand very gently.

Joel’s heart hammered in his chest. Your hand was warm and soft, like the last time he’d touched you as you’d introduced yourself to him. Joel didn’t dare look at your face, or he’d say something stupid, so he didn’t. He looked at your joined hands, his brain trying to remember the last time someone had held his hand as gently as you did, your thumb running over the back of it soothingly.

He can’t remember. His hands are always empty.

With your other hand, a finger curled around the measuring tape, you slipped it around his wrist before leaning closer to look at the numbers.

“Is this too tight you think, or do you want them to be looser?” You asked through your lashes, eyes sparkling in the low morning light.

Joel cleared his throat, “No, that’s fine.”

“Okay,” you nodded, slipping the measuring tape from his wrist to write down the measurement. He hadn’t noticed your notebook until now. It was a little rough around the edges from use, the spined cracked and the paper a little yellow. Placing the pen in the seam, you grabbed the measuring tape again.

Loosening your grip on his hand you placed it over the thick of your thigh. Joel drew a quick breath, his heartbeat hammering in his ears, under his hand he could feel the warmth of you through the soft flannel.

You continued taking your measurements. You didn’t say anything, so neither did Joel, but you looked up at him through your lashes sometimes, and Joel thought that maybe the most useful thing one can do with empty hands, is hold on.

The creak of the stair made Joel jump, and like he’d been burned his hand retracted on reflex, as Arthur’s heavy steps got closer.

“Morning,” Arthur greeted as he ducked his head through the door to the living room.

“Mornin’,” Joel mumbled, head lowered as he gathered his hands in his lap.

“Good morning!” you smiled, always with that kind smile, “Did you sleep well, Arthur?” you got up from your seat before grabbing your teacup to follow Arthur into the kitchen, leaving the yarn and Joel.

Taking a deep breath, Joel pinched the top of his nose. He needed to get it together. You were just being your regular kind self; your soft touch was nothing more than that. Standing to his feet, Joel grabbed his own cup, trudging into the kitchen.

In the kitchen Arthur sat in his usual spot at the dining table, the chair closest to the window. “I need to get on with this barn soon,” Joel heard him say as he sat down opposite him. “It’s gonna fall apart come spring if we get as much snow as we did last year.”

Joel tried his best not to look at you as he heard you hum. You were stood at the kitchen counter slicing the bread Alma had baked yesterday, readying breakfast. Instead, Joel opted to gaze down into his teacup, where the peppermint leaves had all gathered at the bottom.

“Um,” Joel cleared his throat, “what needs fixin’?”

“What doesn’t need fixing in that barn?” Arthur sighed, peeling his eyes from out the window to Joel.

“I can uh,” Joel eyes shifted quickly to you before he cleared his throat again, “I can take a look at it, if ya want?”

Arthur’s eyebrows met in a furrow as he looked at Joel.

“I used to be a contractor,” Joel explained with a shrug, before taking a last cold sip of his tea.

“So, you know a thing or two about buildings I reckon?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah, well I used to,” Joel leaned back in his chair.

“Well, that would be very helpful Joel– I’d appreciated it!” Arthur smiled before leaning back in his chair making room for you as you started setting the table. Joel gave him a short nod in return, trying to fight the urge to look at you as you placed the food on the table.

Arthur had downplayed the state of the barn – it was a mess – it was dangerous, and had Joel told him as much. But it was nothing Joel couldn’t fix, as long as he had the right supplies, fortunately for him the forest would provide them with what they needed.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The axe dug a deep wound into the bark with every swing. Joel’s breath was heavy, and his arms ached, but it was a welcomed form of tiredness. A month into it, he was starting to get used to the work. There was something so satisfying about manual labor, of using his hands, of making something – he’d almost forgotten.

The routine of the work felt good. Waking up at dawn, then breakfast, he could use his body for something useful for the first time in twenty years and end the day with a warm meal for supper. This new temporary life was simple, but it was strangely normal.

Originally, Joel was only helping Arthur out in the woods for firewood through the winter– but now with the barn, they’d changed course. The last few days they’d started to become more selective with the trees; looking for the tallest and straightest ones that would fall safely.

A frozen sky hovered over the men as they worked. This morning when Joel had woken up, the thinnest layer of snow had fallen like powdered sugar during the night, turning the world bright with winter. Earlier in the week the frost had perched on the farm, and Joel had known winter was closing in. He’d lost count of the days and months passing while on his own, but Arthur had told him it was late October.

“It will start snowing properly soon,” Arthur said, breaking the silence between them.

Joel hummed before taking a bite of his packed lunch. They’d worked all morning – Joel felling the trees and Arthur cleaning them up and removing the branches. Now they were sat on a fresh tree stump each, their first break of the day.

“I have an old logging sled in the barn– used to be my father’s,” Arthur explained, “I think we should leave the trees here until the snow gets deep enough for the sled and have the horses pull them back to the farm.”

“Fine by me,” Joel took another bite of his lunch.

“The logs will have to dry out over the winter,” Arthur mused, “Then come spring we can start the repairs on the barn.”

Spring. If everything goes according to plan, Joel won’t be here come spring. He needed to find Tommy– he couldn’t, and he wasn’t gonna stay on the farm for any longer than necessary. He’d already decided– when the snow finally started to melt, Joel was gone.

Joel hummed, a non-committed answer. It was easier that way, to not get Arthur’s hopes up. He liked Arthur, he was a good man, a hard worker even in his old age, and silent when Joel wanted him to be. Joel liked Alma too, but her age shined through more easily than Arthur’s. Joel couldn’t help but notice her repeating herself more often and forgetting where she put things. It made life harder for you, Joel could see it. Your responsibilities were already a lot to handle as you took care of the animals mostly by yourself, but as Joel had discovered Alma starting to struggle with the housework, he’d noticed you starting to help her more often. In Joel’s mind it was unfair to you, but it wasn’t like he could blame Alma for growing older, in this world it was a feat.

Still, he’d try his best to help you when he could, like doing the dishes after dinner as you dried them off and put them away. The first few times you were both quiet, it was strangely intimate, only the sound of splashing water filling the space between you. One night he'd gotten brave, breaking the comfortable silence and asked you ‘What you thinkin�� about, sweetheart?’ You’d looked at him with big eyes, searching his own for something, but before he could figure out what it was, you’d answered him with a shrug. It was unlike you, unlike you to be this silent, but Joel didn’t push. The next night the silence persisted, and he’d thought adding ‘Sweetheart’ had been too much, but then the next night you’d sighed quietly and whispered, “I’m worried about Alma.”

Looking down at the mittens in his lap, the guilt gnawed at him. The look of worry in your eyes, Arthur’s hopeful wishes, and Alma’s aging. Joel couldn’t have anything tying him to this place. He was supposed to find his brother.

Suddenly, a black and orange butterfly landed on Joel’s knee. Joel stopped breathing, body going rigid as he tried not to move. How the hell was this butterfly still alive? It sat quiet on his knee, wings slowly retracting and widening behind it. Memories pushed its way to the forefront of Joel’s mind then.

Sarah. Another year had gone by, and the thought made his chest tighten.

“That’s quite a sight at this time of year,” he heard Arthur say, “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Y-yeah,” Joel stammered out an answer, afraid his voice would scare it away.

The longer Joel watched the butterfly he found his guilt started to slowly melt away. It’s okay, dad. It was like the rustling of the trees carried her voice with them. You’re on the right path.

“I can do that f’you want, sweetheart.”

Joel’s boots creaked under him as he walked across the barnyard. You looked up at the sound of his voice, smile blossoming across your face as you tightened your grip on the shovel.

“It’s alright,” you said with a grunt as you picked up more snow, adding it to the growing pile, “Good for me to get some physical work in.”

Joel nodded as you straightened up, hand going to your hip while the other leaned on the shovel, your heavy breath curled in small plumes out of your mouth. You took him in for a second, eyes flickering over his form before they fell on the rabbits hanging over Joel’s shoulder.

“Where’d you get those?” you asked, and Joel shrugged.

“Shot ‘em,” he said simply, “they walked right by me as I was choppin’– seemed too good to pass up.”

“Not for the rabbits,” you muttered, and Joel had to fight the urge to smile.

“You a vegetarian or somethin’?” he asked with a single raised eyebrow, and you waved him off.

“No,” you said pointedly, but a teasing lilt lingered, “Just stating a fact... we don’t eat a lot of rabbit around here, is all.”

Joel nodded slightly; it made sense. He knew there was a gun in the house, but it was a revolver– too small to do any real hunting, and Joel didn’t even know if there were bullets for it. So, Joel didn't ask further. Lucky for him, you did.

“So, you just shot those?” you asked, a frown pulling at your eyebrows, “Aren’t they fast?”

Joel made a nonchalant sort of face. “Ain’t that hard when you can aim straight.”

“Well, how do you aim straight?”

“You learn to shoot.”

You let out a small laugh, one that pulled at Joel’s lips. “And how did you go about learning that?”

Joel felt his smile drop, the leather strap of his shotgun weighing heavy on his shoulder, “Practice.”

You didn’t seem to notice the change in his demeanor as you dug the shovel into the snow, so it stood by itself like a watchman. “Can you teach me?” you asked, the snow creaking under your shoes as you took a few steps closer.

His lips pulled at the corner, “No.”

Your eyes widened with disappointment, eyebrows pulling together in a frown as you asked, “Why?”

“Nothin’ good ever comes from it,” Joel shrugged.

“Okay,” you huffed a laugh, “that’s sinister.” Then you narrowed your eyes at him, gearing up for an argument no doubt with the way you rested your hand on your hip. “What if I also wanted to go hunting?” you posed, and Joel shook his head.

“That ain’t happenin’, sweetheart.”

“Okay, but now you’ve brought us rabbits– and what if I end up really liking rabbit?” you bit down on your bottom lip, unconsciously showing off you own rabbit teeth.

Cute.

“Then I’ll shoot as many rabbits as you want,” Joel countered with a teasing smile before tightening his hold on the rope slung over his other shoulder (the one he’d tied the rabbits to), and walked towards the kitchen door at the back of the farmhouse.

He heard you huff in defeat behind him, your creaky steps following him up the stairs and inside. Walking into the kitchen Joel placed the rabbits on the table before he pulled at his mittens, stripped off his jacket, and hung it neatly over the back of one of the dining chairs. Grabbing one of the rabbits he brought it to the kitchen counter to start dressing it, fighting the urge to turn his head as he heard you enter the room.

“Come on, Joel,” you whined, “Why won’t you teach me?”

“Told you already,” Joel replied, “Nothin’ good comes from learnin’ to shoot things.”

Shifting the rabbit around on the counter he reached for the butcher knife in the knife block.

“You know, that’s a really stupid way of saying you don’t want to spend the time,” you told him, your voice closer now as you leaned against the kitchen counter.

“When exactly did ya hear me sayin’ I don't wanna spend time with you?” Joel asked, his eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

“You won’t teach me to shoot,” you teased, and Joel could hear the smile in your voice.

Joel huffed out a laugh, “Damn right I won’t.”

He heard you let out a whiney huff, before you turned on your heel, muttering out a curse under your breath when you accidently bumped your hip into the counter and Joel couldn’t help the smile teasing at his lips. You sat down with an overdramatic sigh, and Joel still didn’t look at you – he knew he’d cave eventually if he did, say yes against his better judgement – so he kept his eyes on the knife in his hand.

“How’s Arthur?” Joel asked as he worked.

“I don’t know,” you sighed, “The same I think– Alma was up there looking after him last time I checked.”

This time Joel allowed himself to look at you. You sat sideways on the wooden chair, legs crossed and tucked under your chair with your head hanging, eyes glued to your lap. Gone were the teasing, and gone were the smiles.

“He’ll be fine,” Joel said, his eyes back on the rabbit, “it’s just a cold.”

“Yeah… but he’s been getting sick a lot more often,” your voice was low, like you didn’t want them to hear you upstairs, “you can’t help but think the worst you know?”

Joel put the knife down and moved over to the sink. He quickly washed his hands before grabbing a towel to dry off, twisting it in his hands as he approached you. Placing the towel on the counter, he hesitated for a moment as he watched you, watched the way you twisted your hands in your lap with no sense of purpose or intent. It was like the worry dripped down your body. Pushing off the counter Joel knelt in front of you, a grunt escaped him as his knees clicked loudly, his balance slightly off on his haunches.

“Shit,” Joel huffed out a laugh, and you followed. Your palms landed on his knees to keep him steady, warmth spreading like jolting electricity.

“Sweetheart, I’ll tell you what–” he stopped himself when you looked at him through your lashes, trying to ignore the way your eyes focused on his mouth as he spoke. “’s just a cold, he’ll be up ‘n walkin’ tomorrow– man’s got gumption.”

“Yeah?” your eyes flickered upwards, meeting his.

Suddenly, under your gaze Joel felt brave. His hand moved on its own accord, cupping your cheek in his hand. He let his thumb ghost over your skin, still cold under his fingertips from being outside, but warming under his touch.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, you only watched him with glimmering eyes, like you were under a spell. Maybe he was too.

“Still,” you sighed, “Would be better if I could pick up more of the slack around here... Arthur does a lot, and I wish I could do more to support them.”

“Like what? You take care of the animals all by yourself– that’s more than enough.”

“Well, I could learn to shoot rabbits,” you told him, before the corners of your mouth pulled into a pleased smirk as he rolled his eyes at you.

Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away, making a move to stand when you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

“I’m kidding, Joel,” you smiled, before a more serious look washed over your features. “I mean it’s… It’s gonna be empty here without you,” you said, “I’m starting to really like having you here, Joel.”

Joel turned his hand to rest the back of it on your thigh, your hand fitting in his.

“I uh,” his eyes fixated on your joined hands, then he cleared his throat, “I’ll stay as long as you need me to. I’m not leavin’ you alone, sweetheart.”

Your eyes lit up at his words, smile growing large across your face. Joel’s heart drummed in his chest as your eyes flickered down to his mouth again.

“Thank you,” you said in a low voice, and then you did something Joel thought was gonna make his heart stop beating. You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. It bloomed against his skin, and made wings flutter against the walls of his stomach.

“You’re a good man, Joel Miller,” you whispered before you pulled away, looking at him with kindness in your eyes.

If only you knew, Joel thought, if only you knew the blood on his hands.

He couldn’t look at you when you looked at him like that. Like you believed your own words. So, he cleared his throat awkwardly and stood to his feet, his knees clicking as your hand slipped from his movement. He walked back to the counter, fingers grabbing the towel with no other purpose than to calm himself down.

After placing the towel back where it usually hung, he grabbed the knife again, turning his attention back to the rabbit, allowing himself to steal a few glances at you where you sat looking out the kitchen window.

“Hey, uh,” Joel broke the growing silence after a few minutes, “how ‘bout rabbit stew for lunch?”

Your head snapped to look at him as he spoke, a smile ghosting over your lips as you said, “I’ll go get some vegetables from the cellar.”

Joel wouldn’t necessarily call himself a good cook – he wouldn’t even call himself a cook in the first place. Back before the outbreak he’d been forced to learn the basics as a fresh single dad, but he’d never been able to provide Sarah with gourmet meals very often, and when Sarah had gotten older, he’d been embarrassed to say that her food was always better than his – eggshells and all. One summer he’d bought himself a nice grill– one of those way too expensive gas grills with too many fancy accessories for Joel to regularly use. He’d had a job that ended up paying well, some rich guy’s mansion that needed renovating, and decided to treat himself for once. That summer all their meals had come from that grill, well mostly, and afterwards Joel looked at himself as a pretty good griller, if nothing else.

You on the other hand, you knew what you were doing, it was clear in the effortlessly way you moved beside him as you got the vegetables ready for the stew. Joel seared the meat to the best of his abilities, making sure it was properly browned on both sides before setting it aside. After that, it was clear that you were in charge, and Joel let you boss him around and tell him what to do. It made his heart warm around the edges, watching how you put so much love and care into everything you did.

An hour later you finally sat down to eat; two hearty bowls of stew each as light snowflakes covered the world outside. You’d let the pot simmer on low over the heat as you’d wanted to bring up a bowl for Arthur and Alma later.

“So…” you started, watching as Joel dug into his bowl, “How’s the stew?”

“’s good!” Joel nodded through a mouthful, and he wasn’t lying. It was good, really good in fact.

“Yeah?” you bubbled through a smile, before you dug into your own bowl to see if he’d spoken the truth. He watched as you face brightened as you chewed, nodding your head to confirm his verdict.

“I think I really like rabbit, Joel,” you said through a teasing smile, and Joel couldn’t fight the chuckle from spilling.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, teasing smile not going anywhere, “So… when are you teaching me to shoot?”

“Shut up.”

The living room was quiet, safe for the cracking of the fire. It had almost died out when Joel had stepped out of his room. He’d been twisting and turning again, counting sheep, but nothing had been able to pull him under the blanket of sleep. He was plumb tired too, that was the worst part. The embers hummed with a low light, and with a small stick Joel had spread them out before placing a small piece of wood on top. No less than a minute later the fire fed on the log.

Taking a seat and leaning back in the lounge chair, Joel looked out the window with tired eyes. The moon looked down on him, big and bright, it shone its white light over the barnyard like a spotlight. His thoughts were clouded over as he gazed up. A billion little lights turning into bright spheres in the sky.

On nights like this, Joel felt like he was barely breathing at all.

His thoughts didn’t stray for long before they found you again. Lately, you were always on his mind. He thought about how you’d looked mere hours ago, when he’d sat in this same exact chair, only this time it was facing towards the sofa and not the window.

You’d been sat curled up in the corner, blanket thrown over your lap with a book in hand. You’d told him you’d read all the books in the house already, but it didn’t stop you from coming back to your favorites. Joel had been reading his own book, an old western he’d found in the bookshelf in the upstairs hallway a few days ago. It was entertaining, but not enough to hold his attention. He found his eyes had a mind of their own, slipping over the top to steal a peek at you as you read, feeling a smile tug at his lips at the barely there furrow of concentration between your eyebrows.

“Joel.”

Joel perked up at the whisper of his name, the memories fading like ripples in still water. He looked around the room –nothing. He sat quietly in his chair for a moment, listening, as his heartbeat quickened in his chest. It had been your voice, hadn’t it? Or was he starting to lose it? His eyes fell to the door of your bedroom. He hadn’t noticed it until now, but he could see it was slightly ajar.

“Joel.”

The voice was louder this time, almost strained, but it was yours. A thousand scenarios flashed before his eyes then at your tone. Was there someone in your room? Were you in danger? Seconds later Joel crossed the room, a mix of fear and protectiveness overcoming him.

Leaning up against your door he listened for the intruder as he readied himself. The soft crinkling of your sheets combined with your strained whimpers was all it took for him to push the door open, fearing the worst.

And…

It was empty, your room, you were alone. Joel immediately felt stupid– the only intruder here was him.

He was about to step out, embarrassed at his actions, when he heard it again, his name falling from your lips. It was all Joel needed to finally take in your body, squirming under your sheets, still asleep. The realization of what he’d just walked in on made Joel’s eyes widen.

Laying on your back, the duvet had slipped down your torso from your movements to reveal the thin t-shirt you wore to bed. Like this he could see your perked nipples through the fabric, as your chest quickly rose and fell, making Joel’s imagination start to run wild.

“Joel.”

In his pajama pants, Joel could feel his cock come alive from the soft whimper that left your lips along with his name. He couldn’t move, like some farm elf had glued his feet to the floor while he wasn’t looking. He watched as you scrunched your face together in pleasure, another whimper falling from your lips, and all the blood in Joel’s body rushed down south.

As if the soundwaves from your voice had broken against him, he took a step backwards, and then another, and another until he crossed the threshold of your door. He tried his best to be quiet, to not wake you and have you catch him in your room in the middle of the night.

The image of you squirming under your sheets, dreaming of him, didn’t leave him as he closed the door to his own room. With a sigh his head fell against the door, a strong hand gliding down his front to hover over his aching cock.

Joel Miller was no saint, but what he was doing– what he was about to do, was bad.

“Shit,” he quietly hissed, running his hand up his clothed cock. He hadn’t touched himself properly in a long time, not since he left Boston.

His cock reacted to his touch, growing harder and harder until he couldn’t take it anymore. He hooked his finger around the hem of his pajama pants, pulling them down to the thick of his thigh, freeing himself. He hissed at the cold air hitting his length, as it bopped with the movement of being freed. Bringing his hand to his mouth, Joel spat, before he wrapped his spit-soaked hand around himself.

His mind found you again as he started stroking himself, slowly at first, pumping himself with a practiced hand, squeezing himself at the base before bringing his hand up to thumb at the tip. Joel couldn’t get the way you sounded out of his mind. Couldn’t forget how you were squirming in your bed, dreaming of him. Couldn’t shake the thought of pulling those moans and whimpers from you with his hands, and his mouth, and with his cock.

“Fuck.”

Joel tried to be quiet, but he couldn’t fight the moan from slipping from his lips. Fuck, he wanted you. He wanted his hands all over you. Closing his eyes his mouth dropped open as he imagined what he was dying to do to you.

How much he’d wanted to help you out of your t-shirt, run his hands over your breasts and tease your nipples. Take his time to pull those moans and whimpers from your soft lips as he teased you with kisses down your body, down the valley of your breasts, your tummy, down to you to your–

Another low moan fell from Joel’s lips. He squeezed himself tighter as he jerked himself off, precum pearling at the tip, and slipping down his length, mixing with his spit.

The sound of the slick rhythm of his hand filled his bedroom as he increased the pace of his strokes. He had to bite down on his lip to strangle a groan when thoughts of getting between your legs, spreading them open and getting his mouth on you filled his head. He fantasized about how you’d taste falling apart on his tongue–Fuck, how you’d sound falling apart around his cock.

His eyes fell shut as he fisted himself faster. Joel could feel his orgasm quickly building, coiling tight in his tummy. With his free hand he cupped his balls, and then he couldn’t help but imagine it was you, a picture of you on your knees before him flashed behind his eyelids, your tongue lapping at his balls while your hand pumped his cock.

“Shit.”

With a strained groan, thick ropes of cum spilled over his knuckles and down his length, coating him in his release. His breath came out ragged, as he continued his strokes, milking himself of the rest of his release.

Fuck.

His cock softened in his hand as he calmed down from his high. With a quiet groan he pushed himself off the door, looking around his room for something to clean himself up with.

The guilt of what he’d done washed over him quickly, settling in his chest like a heavy weight. You were so young, and beautiful, and Joel just an old man. He shouldn’t want you like this, shouldn’t want you this much.

Climbing under the covers, Joel couldn’t shake his thoughts of you, of you dreaming about him in your bed, about your smiles, and your touch. A supercut of you rolling like a tape in his minds eye. A supercut of you bundled up under a blanket on the sofa, knitting him his mittens. Of you, your own knitted hat pulled tightly down over your ears as you stepped out into the snow to check on the animals. Of the way you’d looked at him for the first time, with the bucket of apples under your arm, and the sweet taste of them as you’d offered him one later, after dinner.

Finally, Joel could breathe.

next part -> here! i hope someone liked this? if you did a comment, reply or an ask is always welcome and they make me super happy <3 other than that thank you for reading!!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #tlou smut #tlou fanfiction #the last of us smut #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal

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fallingforyouforeverr · 6 months ago

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𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤:

summary: what the one and only arthurtv would be like as your boyfriend

authors note: tysm for the request anon, i loved writing these! this man is literally a walking green flag like how is he even real. sorry for the slow uploads btw i've been super busy lately

please consider checking out my masterlist

-> the gentleman above all gentlemen istg

-> he's such a caring boyfriend. whenever you are sick or had a bad day, he seems to know exactly what you need and won't leave you alone until you feel better

-> literally gives the best hugs ever. i can't rlly explain it but I feel like his body just runs warm so he's really cozy and you always feel so secure when he's got his arms around you, cradling you into his chest

-> arthur makes getting out of bed in the morning so much more difficult simply because his cuddles are so comfy that you never want to leave

-> not super into pda, the most he will do in public is quick pecks but in private he is SUPER clingy, to the point where he's basically an extra limb

-> whether he's holding your hand/got an arm slung around your waist or has his head laid in your lap while watching tv, he's not happy unless he's touching you in some way

-> we all know arthur is a massive nerd, and you probably are too, so you often go on dates to museums or art galleries

-> also, zoo/aquarium dates are a must in your relationship. he loves to infodump random animal facts and you love to stare at him adoringly while he infodumps random animal facts

-> arthur is always so attentive to you, and notices every difference in your appearance and can tell when your mood changes even if you are trying to hide it from him

-> he also remembers all the little details about you, even the minor stuff you don't remember telling him, and you often joke that he knows you better than you do

-> shows his love for you through small acts of service like always having your favourite food stocked in his kitchen and learning your skincare routine so he can do it for you when you are too tired

-> would also give you his shoes without hesitation if your feet started hurting on a night out. he doesn't care how uncomfortable it is for him or that he looks like an idiot. he just wants you to feel as comfortable as possible

-> arthur absolutely adores the soft domestic moments together. very much a quality time person, and he loves that you can make even mundane chores seem more interesting

-> george and arthur hill like to tease him about being a simp, but they genuinely think its so sweet how happy being around you makes him

-> george once told you, when you were over at the boys' house and your boyfriend was in the bathroom, that in all the time they've known each other, he has never seen arthur smile as much as he did when he was with you

-> similar to george, he has a very busy work schedule so he tries to treasure the time you do have together. unfortunately, he does sometimes miss your dates due to filming overrunning but he always feels terrible and tries to make it up to you the best he can

-> your relationship is so sweet and supportive. you're the kind of couple that you can tell, just by looking at them, how inlove they are with each other

#arthur frederick x reader #arthurtv #arthur frederick #arthur tv #arthur hill #atv #arthurtv x reader #george clarkey x reader #george clarke #george clarke x reader #sidemen x reader #sidemen #cariad rambles

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ellmeria · 10 months ago

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Quick Astro Notes 🍄

— The following are just a few things I've noticed about certain placements (mostly sun). These are mainly based on my experience and observations!

I will always trust a Libra's judgment. I know they can be indecisive, but that's because they see both sides of the matter. They weigh all the pros and cons of things (they're about balance), so when they finally come to a decision, you know it's for the best.

A Taurus Venus can be obsessed with jewelry. They may not be a fan of buying costume jewelry because they care about quality and longevity. They're the type of people who inspect every nook and cranny of an item before buying it to ensure it is worth their money. They also tend to reward themselves every once in a while and encourage others to do the same!

A lot of Virgos I know have such a way with words. I love reading notes/messages from them because they are usually well-written and full of substance.

People with Mercury in Aries are never stupid. I know that sometimes they can be loud, and confrontational and hot-headed, a bit insensitive. I get it. I somehow agree based on experience. But stupid? Nope. These people are fast learners, have amazing wit/humor, can explain even the most complicated topics with conciseness and brevity, and are just so quick and good with comebacks. Their brain (and mouth) works so fast that it becomes a double-edged sword.

Leos are magnificient. I have never seen one who's lacking in the appeal department. They know how to dress and carry themselves. I also love their eyes! It's piercing and gives very similar vibes to their animal representation (lion).

I think the 3rd House may also indicate how a person walk. This is because 3rd House rules short travels, and usually, we travel short distances on foot.

Ex: Aquarius risings may walk so fast due to Aries in their 3rd house. On the other hand, those who have Venus/Taurus in their 3rd house may walk slowly.

Capricorn placements are so attractive when they're in their leader mode. They take leadership positions so seriously that even though someone with this placement doesn't have prior experience with it, they still manage to get things done (and do well!). I noticed this with all the cardinal signs, but most commonly with Capricorns.

Cardinal (Aries, Cancer, Libra, Capricorn) and fire signs (Aries, Leo, Sagittarius) always take the initiative. That one classmate who often starts the conversation about the group activity and instigates the planning? I bet they have these signs in their chart.

Every Sagittarius needs a travel buddy, AKA their Gemini friend. They have food to try and places to be.

I have never met a Pisces who does not know how to crochet or is not interested in learning the skill. They really are so creative with their hands and have an eye for beauty!

Most Sagittariuses I know have a healthy work-life balance. They know how to let loose and have fun while maintaining their 0 missed deadlines status. I am listening and taking notes.

People with many planets in the 1st House can be more assertive, have 'louder' verbal and nonverbal expressions (gestures, tones, etc.), and expressing themselves comes naturally to them. Meanwhile, those with planets in the 12th House may be more docile with their approach and have more tamed gestures and expressions.

Pictures were taken from Pinterest. Credit to the rightful owner/s.

♡ 𝓡𝓲𝓪

#🌿: astro ria #astrology #astrology observations #astrology notes #astro observations #astro notes #astrology posts #astrology blog #astro thoughts #astroblr

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myafterlifeisbetterthenyours · 5 months ago

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Charlie, Alastor, God, Lucifer, Lilith, Vox, and Stolas with the Grim reaper reader. He's a total sweetheart and a gentleman, plus the kind of has dead animals follow him around. They're kind of like his pets. He also believes in Charlie's cause.

You'll be the end of me

Charlie

"Do you really think it could work?"

Charlie asked softly, leaning on your shoulder as you stared out at Pentagram city.

It was early morning, you having found your love sat out on the balcony, watching thr sunrise, you quickly accompanying her.

Holding the young lady close, her gentle form against your own, you just hummed, gently petting her hair.

"Well, I've seen a lot in my, well, not life." That got a chuckle from the both of you. "But I've been sheparding souls down here for millennia... never had to shepard one up from Hell though."

You sat in silence for a long time, it clear Charlie was disappointed with your answer.

"But..." You spoke up, smiling softly. "If its you... I have no doubt."

Charlie smiled warmly at your words, leaning in to share a kiss.

Pulling back you just enjoyed the moment, the two of you so rarely got to just be together.

No hotel buisness.

No staff or guests butting in.

No Nifty trying to draw erotica of the two of you.

Just you.

You holding the young lady close, expressing your love for her in soft, simple ways.

You got to share that moment for a long while, making a memory you were sure to cherish when suddenly the sound of gentle wings fluttering caught your attention.

Looking down, you extended a hand, a small skeletal bird landing on your finger.

You gently whistled back, Charlie doing the same, the bird looking over the both of you before fluttering away, the gentle creature off to do whatever it pleased.

You sat there for a long time, listening to the gentle chaos, the sounds of havoc at a distance as Hell endured its Hellish state, the teo of you just enjoying the moment.

With a sombre sigh you stood up, stretching your back you turned to her, pulling her to her feet.

Holding her close, you'd gently cup her face.

"I'm sorry my dear." You spoke with a warm smile, before you shared another kiss.

"It'll be morning soon, and well, you know souls won't Shepard themselves."

Charlie was clearly disappointed, as she always was when you had to leave.

"I understand." She spoke softly, the two of you standing there for a long minute.

"You know I'll be back tomorrow." You assured her, though it was clear it wasn't necessary.

"I know." She spoke warmly. The two of you sharing one last, loving embrace.

You'd turn, watching as the pentagram sun slowly rose on the horizon.

"See you this evening?" Charlie asked, already knowing the answer.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

And so, as you held each other close, you watched the sun rise, and sharing one final kiss, you'd disappear with the morning sun.

Charlie just smiled as you turned into a swarm of butterflies, fluttering off into the air, disappearing with the sunlight

Unnecessarily, but you felt it was a poetic exit for, well, death.

Charlie just chuckled.

"Drama queen." She spoke softly, watching you disappear.

Alastor

Alastor hummed softly, the dapper demon sat in his room as he listened to a pleasant tune.

It'd be as he sipped his tea, the man about to turn a page when a voice suddenly cut in.

"Weeeeeee'll meet again."

"Don't know where. Don't know when."

"But weee'll meet again, some sunny morn'."

Looking up he'd find you, dressed in your usually dapper if dark attire.

Alastor's smile grew, the man quickly rising to his feet.

With a warm smile of your own, you pulled the man into a gentle kiss.

"Hello dear, good day at work?" He asked, always eager to hear of your daily duties.

You just smiled, walking forwards, leaning down to kiss the man.

"A wonderful morning, but we even better evening darling."

You purred, kissing he cheek.

You spent a few minutes speaking back and forth, your hand warmly placed to his cheek as you spoke back and forth.

Youd joke and laugh, voice gentle as you discussed your day apart. Alastor letting you know the chaos he'd caused, you just listening as he went into a performer's detail of the events.

Pulling the man to his feet, you'd dip the man, smirking as you leaned in, Alastor wearing a strained, if entertained grin.

"I've wanted to do this all day."

Biting the man's neck, Alastor couldn't help the moan as you pulled him close.

Flushed, the man would smack you.

"That's was a dirty move." The demon frowned.

You just smiled, kissing the man softly. "You know I love you, especially when your blushing~"

Alastor blushed hard as you snapped your fingers, a jumping tune bumping from the nearby radio.

You pulled the man into a suave little dance, the two of you jumping and jiving like it were 1922 all over again.

You spent a good few minutes dancing and singing, holding the man close as you enjoyed your tune.

Holding him close, the both of you breathed heavily.

"That's a dirty trick." He huffed, breathing deep, that smirk he always wore on his face faltering, his cheeks dark with demonic red. "You know I can't turn down a chance to dance."

You just smirked, holding him to your chest, leaning in to kiss his neck.

"You know, if you weren't death incarnate, I'd put you in your place."

You just smirked, leaning back to tease his chin, smirking down at him.

"Out of all the souls in Hell, you... well, your certainly the most interesting."

That earned you a smack on the shoulder.

"Alright, alright." You giggled. "You are by far the most intersting. You know I adore you."

That earned you a genuine smile from the grinning demon.

Alastor always smiled, but in the arms of you, well, death. How could he not feel particularly smug.

"... I love you, my dapper radio darling."

That got a smirk from the man.

"And I love you... my dapper incarnation of Death.... even as you pretend to be otherwise."

The both of you chuckled, holding each other close, nuzzling your nose to the other.

"Love you darling."

Lucifer

Lucifer, Fallen angel, failed king of Hell and failing father, sat in his workshop.

The man furiously working on his next duck toy, the Devil furiously working on the next plastic squeaker, dead to the world outside.

"Having fun?" You asked, manifesting besides him.

Lucifer frize, thr Demon King breathing deeply.

"Im... good." He hummed, working on the duck.

The two of you stood in silence for several minutes, the air not quite tense, but words clearly sat unspoken.

"... I missed you." He finally spoke up placing his duck to the side, the King of Hell sitting there.

You simply stepped forwards, picking up the squeaky toy, looking it over.

Squeaking the rubber duck repeatedly, the man looked up, finding you sat on an armchair, looking over the toy before turning to him, gently patting your lap.

Lucifer sat there for a moment, taking a deep breath before getting up and walking over to you, collapsing in your lap.

You immediately pull him close, as the two of you sat there, the king of Hell nuzzling under your chin.

"I missed you... a lot..." he spoke, emotions thick in his voice as he pressed his face into your chest.

You just pulled him close, smiling softly as you warmly kissed his golden locks.

"I missed you too my Fallen Angel." You hummed, hand playing with his heair, you other holding him close.

"It was bad today." He spoke softly, you simply looking down at him.

"You know we could always visit her, I'm sure Charlie would be-"

Lucifer cut you off, pulling from your grasp as he stood up.

"I... I wont put this on her..." He spoke sombrely, the King of Hell hunched over, holding himself.

You just sighed softly, gently waving a hand as 3 little ghost duckling appeared, the ethereal little quackers, Lucifer smiling as he held a hand out, the ducks nuzzling his palm.

He had a way with your duck spirits, the feathered little ghosts naturally flocking to him. It always brought a smile to your face.

After a moment however, a new set of quacks break out, the duckling quickly swimming off, the duckling meeting with a larger duck, the three nuzzling its form as they happily swam about.

You sat up, pulling the short king back into your chest, smiling warmly as you kissed his head.

"You trust me with your issues... why not your daughter... we both love you."

Lucifer sighed, eyes lingering on the ethereal ducks as the papa duck nuzzled one of the ducklings. The king sighing, the King of Sins wiping his eyes.

"Alright. I... suppose we could go see her." He spoke softly, the man leaning back against you.

You just smiled softly, rubbing the back of his head as you stood there. The two of you just stood there, holding each other close, a soft, yet hopeful energy filling the room.

"I love you my dark rose." Lucifer purred.

"And I love you, my Fallen Angel." you smiled, the two of you sharing a tender kiss, a warmth in both your dark hearts.

Lilith

Lilith sat back on the beach, sighing softly as she enjoyed her slice of heaven.

The woman sipped her drink, book in hand as she hummed, a sombreness filling her on this particular day.

You appeared besides her, watching the sun set.

"Been a while." She spoke coldly, eyes not rising from her book.

"Yeah... sorry... I know it's been a while, Ive been very busy. Lots to do... my duties and, well, Charlie."

That made her pause, the woman freezing as she was about to flip a page.

"... How is she?" Lilith spoke cooly, keeping her poker face.

You hummed, a soft smile adorning your features.

"She... she's doing well." You spoke softly, cane resting in your hand as you watched the waves, a gentle smile crossing your face as a few ghostly fish jumped from the water, the small school happily swimming, free of worry.

"She's got a hotel now. She... she's trying to help people. Souls." You spoke sombrely, the woman doing her best to stay cool and collected.

You'd sigh, softly sitting on her beach chair, turning to her before gently reaching out and removing her sunglasses.

"Ya know, if your just gonna ignore me the whole time, it doesn't make much sense for you to get mad when I don't visit for a while."

You were teasing more then anything, the woman looking up at you with a cocked brow.

"Look, I get your mad." You spoke, taking her hand into yours. "But I'm here, and I'd like to enjoy my time with you while i have it... please?"

You finished sweetly, kissing her hand.

Lilith would sit in silence for several moments before sighing, the woman shaking her head.

"You always know just what to say, don't you?" She asked playfully.

You just smiled, reaching out to cup her face.

"I've got some experience consoling people." You told her warmly, bringing her hand up to kiss her palm.

"Will you accompany me?" She asked, clearly worried.

You just chuckled, nodding your head.

"You know I'd never leave your side... well, at least when I'm off the clock."

That got a chuckle from Lilith, the two of you just basking in Heavens twilight. You more interested in watching the spirits jump through the water, happy to see them happy.

Vox

Vox grymbled, rubbing his TV face he, slumping back in his chair he lazily stared at the dozens of screens.

He'd grumble, growling to himself.

Hed endured a long fucking day, dealing with Val and Velvette, being left alone with the pair, the two bickering like children as he somehow found the time go manage his media empire.

He'd sit there, looking over important things, sipping his particularly strong cup of coffee when your voice suddenly cut in.

"You know, you keep slouching like that and you'll resemble a question mark more than a Television, right."

Vox perked right up, head snapping to you as you stood besides him. Dapper as ever.

It was well known by this point that you could appear or disappear without signalling his alarms, something that both impressed and frustrated the media mogul to no end.

"Mmmm, I'll keep that in mind." He hummed, loudly slurping his coffee.

You just chuckled, rolling your eyes. "You know, if your gonna be all salty, I might just not give you your gift."

At that Vox perked right up, the man subtly turning to you.

It was a dirty move on your part, but you knew Vox loved gifts and this was the fastest way to get him over his grudge or grump.

He'd never admit as much, but you did get him the best gifts out of everyone he knew, which was a feat in and of itself, so you knew how to use it to your advantage.

"...What ya get me?"

He asked, trying to be subtle as he gave you the side eye.

To which you just chuckled, fixing your attire, acting casual as you glanced down at the man.

You'd just casually look around his large lab, the various screens showing his sophisticated spying network on the various denizens of Hell.

With a cheeky smile you snapped your fingers, a poof of black smoke and a box landed on Vox's lap.

The Television headed demon released a giddy giggle as he tore his gift open, the man pulling it out victoriously.

He'd yank it out, holding it up to reveal a walking stick, looking it over it was clearly made with human bone.

"This... is cool and all but, well, why the bone?" He asked, looking up at you suspiciously.

You'd just smile, stepping forwards, falling onto his lap, sliding it from his hands, you'd tell him simply.

"Well, ya see, I made this lil beauty using the bones from one Mr. Philo Farnsworth."

You spoke casually, looking over the cane.

"Aaand... that means something to me why?"

He asked, clearly waiting for the punchine.

To which you'd chuckle, biting your lip a little before you'd gently bop him on the head with the cane.

"Beeecaaause, one Mr. Philo Farnsworth, was none other then the inventor one Televeision."

You finished with a satisfied little grin, holding the cane out to him.

Vox snatched the vane up, laughing maniacly as he pulled the cane back, staring at the gift.

"Ohohohohoh fuck yeah~" He laughed, staring at the cane.

"Sooo~" you began playfully. "Have I made up for the inexcusable sin of ignoring your calls to a phone I don't have?"

At that Vox popped up, staring at you.

"Wait, what?" He asked, genuinely perplexed by your statement.

You just smiled, raising a bow. "My job doesnt exactly allow mobile coverage darling, far too busy peading souls through the etherial planes."

Vox furrowing his none existent brow, frowing slightly.

"Then who the fuck have I been texting?"

At that you broke into laughter, Vox quickly joining you, the two of you sat there, laughing like idiots as the Techno Overlord held you close, the two of you sharing a warm kiss, the two of you sat there for several moments, Vox sighing softly.

"You have to work again?" He asked sombrely, looking up to show a screen watching the setting sun.

You just sighed, nodding your head. "You know I have too. No vacations for me."

Vox just sighed, nodding his head.

Reaching up, you'd cup his cheek, leaking in to kiss his screen.

"Lets just enjoy the time we have."

Vox just smiled, holding you close, the two of you enjoying your moment together, free from both of your perpetual burdens.

#x reader #headcanon #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel headcanon #hazbin hotel x reader #charlie x reader #vox x reader #alastor x reader #lucifer x reader #lilith x reader

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dwaekkilinos · 2 months ago

Text

savior complex (pt. 2) | bang chan

summary: Your father had wielded you to become a machine; a weapon. And a machine you would become. Sleep with one eye open. Find food. Tread on until dark. Repeat. He taught you how to protect; specifically how to protect your family. But he never taught you how to survive with other groups, especially when their leader seems to have it out for you.

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader rating/genre: 18+ Minors DNI | strangers/enemies to lovers + zombie apocalypse au, angst, fluff, smut word count: 35.4K? chapter summary: the female of the species are the most deadly. you see it in everything, including the mirror. warnings/notes: i hate this so bad, i'm so sorry, zombie apocalypse au so . . . blood, guts, gore, sad, sad, sad. beware. lots of inspo from every zombie thing i've literally ever seen (twd, tlou, train to busan, etc.), typos probably, parental death, actions of violence and murder, religious TRAUMA, religious undertones, reader does not believe in god but she's deeply influenced by it bc of her childhood and it haunts her, slight inspiration for the host, talk of cwd, animal death, fights, sexual tension, drinking, ever so small blood consumption, sleeping in the smae bed/one bed trope/stuck together trope, making out, dry humping, um chris and reader being actually stupid, i think that's it but let me know if i missed anything, and enjoy! <3

chapter one: the female of the species (are the most deadly) ( ← previous | series masterlist | next → )

Deer are meant to flee.

In the scenario of a predator in an open field, deer always choose to run zigzag to get away. Running straight puts a wanted sign on their heads. Running straight gets them killed. Running straight turns them into prey.

It’s simple. It’s fight or flight syndrome.

Deer will always choose to flee first to save themselves. They will only fight as a last alternative. That is what makes them prey. That is what distinguishes them from the predator.

That was the first thing your father taught you when he led you into those woods during Pestilence’s rise from the dead. But back then, he would ignore your questions of what would happen to the deer that would fight. You’d always wondered. And you remembered even now how you found out the truth. You’d snuck out of your bed in the middle of the night just like at the beginning of Pestilence’s reign, and tip-toed into your father’s study. Then . . . one search and you discovered the truth.

A deer that fights is a dead deer.

It made less sense then, or rather you hadn’t wanted it to make sense. You hadn’t wanted to believe that even nature could be so cruel. At the time, you could take being locked away from the rest of the world with that sickness out there. After all, the town had been tucked away from civilization for so long anyway. Isolation wasn’t anything new to you. But this . . . cruelty . . . that was something you couldn’t stomach all those years ago.

And now . . . now you found it easy to admit that a deer that fights is a dead deer. Now you found it easy to admit that it is better to be the hunter . . . to be the predator. Now it was easy to admit you were never a deer like the rest of your town. Now it was easy to admit, you hadn’t been running from the hunter, you had been running from yourself . . . from the predator ripping at your viscera.

Now it was easy to admit you were the wolf that your town kept in a cage . . . until you’d found a way to break the lock.

And the deer? They still ran.

Your mother had been trying to run from you since the moment the world fell away. Your sister used to walk with you, used to not fight nor run from you . . . until she realized she should’ve been the entire time. And Felix . . . he’d realize one day that it was the right decision to leave you behind in those woods. One day he’d be grateful he’d left the predator preying on his family. One day he would.

You knew he would, too. You knew because he’d witnessed what happened to the deer that fought back. You knew because he’d watched you rip open that man’s jugular like it was just the tough end of a piece of steak. You knew because he’d hesitated before he followed after you when you’d slaughtered one of the dead without a second thought. You knew because he’d listened to you in that warehouse . . . because he hadn’t followed after you.

That . . . that thought was the only thing that kept you going the past couple of days as you faded in and out of consciousness.

And when you did finally come to, your eyes fluttering open to meet the image of fluorescent overhead lights staring back at you, you knew your deer were finally safe from you. That was how you found yourself breathing a sigh of relief as a small smile touched your lips, surely making you appear out of your mind (and well . . . maybe you were).

The first night, with the fever still ruling your body, you realized what you’d gotten yourself into. You realized that no, this was not the afterlife. Your father would not walk through the door any time soon. You would not get to hug him once more. You wouldn’t be able to feel him, hear him, see him, or even smell him.

(You tried to ignore the ache swelling in your chest when you realized even if he was there by some chance, there was a good chance you wouldn’t be able to recognize him from feel, touch, sight, smell. It had become increasingly obvious to you as you laid bedridden that perhaps while trying to survive and keep your family alive, you’d been forgetting your father’s face little by little.)

And while those thoughts haunted you, the dull scenery of the room you’d been locked away in setting in more and more as the days passed, you almost accepted what had happened. You hadn’t gotten yourself killed in those woods. No, you’d stepped into something so much worse.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed since you’d found yourself there. People had come in and out while you were suffering the worst ends of the fever. You couldn’t quite tell who, or why they had come in and out, but you did know you’d put up a fight the few times they’d tried to feed you or shove medicine down your throat. Whether it was the fever taking hold of you or the deep mistrust that ran inside your bloodstream, it didn’t matter. You fought just as you always had.

Only now as you stared at the fluorescent lights above your bed did you have the time to actually think. The fever had subsided, but the pain in your ankle still remained. You weren’t sure if an infection had come about or if the sprain had actually been a break, but you did know you didn’t want to move from your spot. You wanted to stay right there and stare into the light until your eyes started to water and ache from not blinking for so long.

Perhaps if you pretended to be sicker, they’d let you go. Perhaps they’d give up on you, throw you out with the rest of the dead. Perhaps they’d let you rest like you had been begging them.

And perhaps they would. Perhaps they would when you finally let your guard down. Perhaps then they’d kill you like you’d been begging.

Was this all just a trick then?

Or another test?

However, deja vu set in as your mind wasn’t allowed much longer to ponder when the sound of a door opening brought you out of your questioning. Your body stiffened as you shot up in your bed, bringing your knees to your chest despite the pain in your ankle. Your eyes never left the door as you tightened your hand into a fist, making sure you were alert for anything just as you had been taught. Wearily, you watched with stern eyes as a man stepped in, expecting to meet the gaze of the man who had brought you here, but no, he wasn’t him but did he look ever so familiar. You watched as this new man let himself in, not looking up while he closed the door behind him, softly humming to himself as he scribbled down something onto the notepad in his hand.

Your eyes dragged over his figure, taking note of the tattered tee and cargo pants that looked a little too worn, but much less used than the clothes on your own back. His hair was dark and long, long enough to curl around his ears, and he wore glasses that had no smudges or fingerprints tainting the glass, almost as if he’d had the time to think of his appearance that day. And . . . his face and hands were clean. He was clean. There was no dirt or scrapes in sight. He . . . he’d washed himself recently. He had the time to wash himself.

Confusion struck your face for only a mere second before it dawned on you their bunker must have had access to a water supply. That only made your rage grow.

He was allowed to hold up underground, his skin clear of dirt and grime and . . . blood. And you could still smell the squirrel guts that had seeped into your shirt from your last meal.

He was clean, and you . . . you had lost count of how many days it had been since you had had the time to properly clean yourself. Hell, you hadn’t smelled a bar of soap in about a year or more. And yet . . . he probably washed every day.

Gritting your teeth together, your rage grew. Or perhaps this was . . . envy? Jealousy? No, no you were sure it was guilt now. Guilt because . . . here you were stuck in a bunker where they had running water and your family was still out there. You’d run into those woods to save them. It seemed you had only saved yourself in the end, or rather they had forced you to.

And that . . . that made you angry.

The man must have felt the flames of your scorching glare because the next second he was glancing up from his notebook, his eyes quickly meeting yours. His eyes widened slightly. “Oh,” he mumbled in shock before a toothy grin spread onto his face. He advanced toward you, approaching the bed with that smile still on his face. “She lives.”

But you remained silent, calculating.

Your hand remained in a fist.

His eyes flicked down to your hands, his smile faltering slightly, but he didn’t bring attention to it. He was meeting your glare once again in a second, but before he spoke, he took a step back, leaving space between the two of you. “You’ve been out for a few days. I did manage to get some medicine shoved down your throat,” he began again, his voice soft, almost as if he didn’t want to startle you. “Not without a fight—” he softly laughed as he turned his arm and showed a bite mark you had left on the meat of his forearm— “but . . . all’s forgiven.”

Still, you remained silent, eyes flicking from his arm back to his face without even breathing. Your glare remained.

And he faltered under your gaze, his smile dropping as he cleared his throat and went back to his notebook. He kept searching for . . . something as he continued humming, until his eyes landed and he hummed, “Ah, now—”

A knock at the door interrupted the man as his brows raised and he glanced over his shoulder. You followed his gaze just in time to see the door open once again as another man walked into the room. But this time, confusion didn’t strike you. This time you recognized the man as the one from the other night; as the one who had taken your hand and led you out of those woods when you had condemned yourself to your death; as the man you had mistaken as Death himself.

It was silent as he shut the door behind him and began to approach the bed with that same look in his eyes—stern, cold, and calculating just as he had been the other night. In response, you tucked yourself further to the top of the bed, trying to create as much space between you and the men. But . . . the man from the other night . . . Death . . . barely even spared you a glance.

He glanced toward the man with the glasses. “How’s she looking?” he asked, his voice stern and void of emotion as he crossed his arms over his broad chest.

“Well—” the other man began but quickly cut himself off as he turned his gaze to you, eyes casting over your demeanor. He sucked on his teeth in thought, then pointed to the bed sheet which covered your legs. “Can I?”

Clutching the sheets closer to your body, you furrowed your brows, a scowl deepening on your face. What did he want with your body? No one had ever asked to see it before. Why was he?

“Your ankle . . . ” he mumbled, almost apologetically.

And then it hit you, and for the first time in a long time, you felt embarrassed. You had been taught to always be on alert, to never trust, to fight and the others would flee. You had been taught to be a weapon. You’d been taught too well to the point you’d forgotten how the world used to be; how a simple question could just be exactly that and not come with an ulterior motive.

He wanted to check your ankle. That was why he’d come in here in the first place. He didn’t want your body. Perhaps he didn’t want anything from you. But . . .

You have to grow up. No more kid stuff.

Those had been the words your father left you with. You knew what they meant. And you knew what they entailed.

Trust no one. Children had trust. Children trusted blindly. And you were no child. You hadn’t been for a while. And you wouldn’t be today.

Sure, you recognized his motive, but you didn’t trust him, and you certainly didn’t trust letting him get anywhere near you. With your eyes boring into his you pulled back the sheet covering your legs and revealed your swollen ankle.

The man with the glasses took a step forward to inspect the injury, but you jerked back, smacking your back against the wall. Like a dog who had been beaten one too many times, your reflexes were fast, instinctive, and jarring. That was evident by the looks both of the men gave you, then gave each other.

It was only after a minute of thick silence that the same man cleared his throat, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he took a step back. “She can probably walk on it now but not for long,” he began as his eyes scanned his notebook. “As for the wounds . . . “ trailing off, he pointed to the gashing along your legs, across your arms, even the one just under your eye as he sighed heavily in thought. “They look to be healing pretty well, but we’ll keep checking in case a nasty infection decides to latch on.”

Death . . . No . . . the other man nodded in acknowledgement, then turned his attention to you. And you couldn’t look away. Those eyes. The same eyes that had dragged you out of those woods glared back at you, and yet they carried a certain softness that you couldn’t figure out. Those eyes seemed to haunt you. You didn’t know him, but . . . you felt as though you’d seen him before. In that dog as she ran after the stick you’d thrown moments before you snapped her neck; in Felix as you played with his hair so he’d sleep soundly at night; in the beginning when your family still smiled at you.

He continued to glare, and you glared right back, but you saw something deeper in there. You saw the things you wished you could forget. You saw the people you’d lost; the things you’d loved. You saw the decisions you had to commit to in order to keep your family alive.

That only made you glare harder.

“How do you feel?” he finally asked, but his stare only intensified.

You remained silent.

The man with the glasses cleared his throat. “Chris,” he muttered, and your brain took note of the name, remembering it from the other night. This Death . . . had a name. “I don’t think she talks.”

“Oh, she talks,” Chris replied instantly, not taking his eyes off yours. He tilted his head, brows furrowing in thought. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Still, you didn’t speak, your eyes watching him.

There was that quiet rage again. He held himself so elegantly, but his eyes always gave him away. There was no hiding with eyes like that.

It seemed your oath of silence had stirred an even greater anger within him.

Good, you couldn’t help but think. Maybe then he’d finally kill you.

(And yet . . . your hands were still firmly clenched into fists as if one wrong move and you’d attack like the wild dog you knew yourself to be. (It was a peculiar thing to realize: wishing to be killed but still so desperately willing to defend yourself.))

Chris cocked his head to the side. You mirrored his actions, causing him to scoff as he tongued his inner cheek and shook his head. “Ji,” he began, his voice low as he spoke to the other man while maintaining eye contact with you, “will you go get a bath ready?”

This Ji only nodded in response, glancing between you and Chris before he slowly began to back out of the room. He was gone a second later, the door shutting closed behind him. That left you and Death alone.

A visceral beat of silence pounded so loudly you felt it deep within your chest. Had that been your heartbeat or were you too far gone for even that?

The man . . . Death . . . Chris quietly walked to the other side of the room, grabbing the lone chair and placing it beside your bed just like he had the other night. You watched him the entire time, following closely so as to not miss even the slightest action, and only when he relaxed into the chair, his legs spread out, arms still crossed over his chest, as his gaze flicked over the wounds tattering your body, did you let yourself take in his appearance.

He was still handsome, yes, but a little more human now that your fever had broken. His dark hair was still curly, albeit messier than a few days prior, and it seemed the bags under his eyes had darkened even more. Yet, his lips were still pink, still smooth, still . . . pretty. (It made you think of the before; of the years in your childhood when you’d sneak into the living room while everyone else slept and turn on the TV late at night just to watch news reports of your favorite actors.)

You’d never seen a man like this so close before. You should’ve been used to it given the other night, but there was no mistaking the urge buried deep within yourself that wanted him to see worth in the body he was analyzing. You’d felt this thing before. You’d felt it in the way the boys in the pews would stare at you while you played the piano during church. But you had only been a girl then. The world hadn’t ended then.

A girl turned into a creature with sharp canines you had become. And a death valley the world had turned into.

At the realization, you shoved that eerie feeling down so far you were no longer hungry, as you tugged the bedsheet back over your body. You tugged the sheet so far until you tucked it under your chin, not allowing a sliver of skin to show. If your mind wanted to ponder over if someone found worth within it, then you’d bury it for even you to see.

Chris seemed to catch on, his eyes still trained on the bed sheet where your wounded leg once was, before his gaze snapped back up to meet yours. Your eyes hardened first, his followed suit.

“Feel like talking now?” he all but sighed.

A second passed.

You didn’t respond.

And he scoffed as if he had seen it coming. “Fine, suit yourself.”

Chris quickly pushed himself out of the chair, the legs screeching against the floor as he stood to his feet. His back was to you the next moment as you watched him walk to the other side of the room where a small storage cabinet resided right next to a makeshift desk. He opened the cabinet, sifting through its contents before he pulled out a woman’s black shirt and jeans that looked to be around your size. Each piece of clothing he haphazardly tossed onto the desk with a sigh, even pulling out socks and undergarments.

And when he was done, he slammed the cabinet shut and almost hesitantly glanced toward the clothes resting on the desk. His hand seemed to almost shake as he rested it on top of the clothes, rubbing his thumb against the fabric.

It made you wonder. Who had those clothes belonged to?

Your brows pulled together as you finally tore your eyes from his figure, and observed the rest of the room for the first time. At first glance, it was a small room, a little bigger than a closet but just enough to house the bed you were sitting on, along with a cabinet and a desk for . . . whatever you supposed. Your eyes snapped back to the bed you were on, and then it hit you.

This was no medical bed like you had once thought when you first awoke here. This was just a mattress on top of a metal bed frame that had been built into the metal walls surrounding you. And in the corner of the room, there was a pile of clothes which belonged to a man. The cabinet, the desk, the bed, the clothes on the floor . . . this wasn’t an infirmary . . . this was someone’s room.

Was it his?

Those clothes . . . did they belong to someone close to him? Is that why—

“These will probably fit you,” he interrupted your train of thought, throwing the clothes down beside you on the bed. “There’s towels and soap in the washrooms. Ready to wash, yeah?”

You eyed the clothes beside your feet, then peeked at him out of the corner of your eye. He wasn’t sitting anymore. He was just standing there and you could feel his dark gaze on the side of your head, but you didn’t glance up to meet his eyes. Not yet. Not until you figured out what was going on.

This was his room. It had to have been. He was giving you clothes and allowing you to bathe, yet his demeanor was still . . . off. Was this a ploy?

You blinked. Your gun.

Your gun . . . had they taken it to leave you defenseless?

“Did you take my gun?” you harshly bit out as you finally met his gaze.

His brows furrowed. “You didn’t have one on you.”

Your jaw clenched. “I had a gun.”

His brows raised. “Did you drop it?”

You shook your head. “I wouldn’t—”

But your words cut out quickly as a flash from a few nights ago hit you. The woods. He surprised you that night. You’d dropped your gun. You’d dropped your father’s gun. You’d left him his gun there.

In an instant, you sprung out of bed, barely feeling the pain in your body. “The woods,” you muttered out as you scanned the room for your shoes. “It must be—”

But Chris was quick. “Woah, woah, woah, hey,” he said, his hands finding your shoulders to stop you from moving on your ankle, “you’re not going anywhere.”

You halted, but your anger remained. “I don’t answer to you,” you spat out, tearing his hands from your body.

Again, you made another move for your shoes, but he blocked your path with his body. “You do when you’re under my roof,” he reiterated, his words sterner now. “It’s only been a few days. The horde will still be around . . . and you can barely walk. You go out there and you will bring the dead to my door. You force my hand and make me send my people out there, the horde will get them, too.” He took a step closer then, his voice quieter, darker. “I will not let you burden my people.”

“I won’t bring the dead to your door,” you muttered, searching his eyes for an understanding. “I won’t come back. I won’t bring them here. I won’t turn back. I’ll go through the horde if I have to . . . or die with my gun. I don’t care, but trust me . . . I won’t bring the dead to you or your people.” You jutted out your chin. “I won’t be your burden. I can promise you that.”

He didn’t even take a second to think before he shook his head once. “I’m a man of my word,” he spoke, standing taller now as he took a step away from you. “We will retrieve your gun when the horde has moved on.”

“You don’t get—”

“I will not send out my people to die with that horde still around,” he cut you off. “The bomb distracted them then, but more have crowded because of the sound. More will come and then they will pass. But I will not and cannot send out my people for a gun until they pass.”

You remained silent then, watching him carefully. He wasn’t listening. You were prepared to go back for the gun alone. You’d find it, you’d lay down beside it, and let yourself rest. You wouldn’t run. You wouldn’t lead them back to this place. You would barely move. You’d let the horde take you and your gun.

You wouldn’t come back. You wouldn’t. Couldn’t he see that?

“You have my word,” he said once again, his eyes no longer on you, but rather on the clothes still resting on the bed. “And when they pass, I will personally help you find your gun.” His eyes briefly met yours for only a moment, before he was turning around, and walking toward the door.

You took a step forward. You weren’t sure why, but you did. Was it to stop him? Follow? Run?

He noticed, too, stopping in his tracks. His eyes didn’t meet yours, but his profile was in your sights. He just stood there, his eyes on the ground but his profile angled toward you, as if he were waiting for your next moves as if he expected you to attack him from behind.

You wouldn’t. You knew you wouldn’t. A wild dog you may have seemed to him, but you didn’t bite so generously. He hadn’t done something yet. Yet . . .

But before either you or him could address the situation, he spoke, “Grab the clothes and follow me. You have a long day ahead of you.”

On the seventh day, God ended his work which he had done, and rested. The seventh day was meant for worship. Take pause and express gratitude toward your savior, you’d learned. The seventh day was meant for worship, and for years you’d knelt and knelt on those pews until the wood dug into your flesh and made wounds that would never heal.

For years, the seventh day had meant something to you. For years, you’d endured the scabs on your knees. For years, you’d almost worshiped them, too.

But . . .

On the seventh year of the end of days, you ended your vow to protect your family, except . . . you couldn’t seem to rest. The seventh year was meant to be your last. Take pause in those woods with your father’s gun in hand, and let the dead express their gratitude toward your flesh which would satiate their visceral hunger for only a few mere seconds. The seventh year was meant for your end, and for a few years, you had laid on the forest floor when it was night and everyone was asleep, and prayed that your day would come.

For years, the seventh year was just a sick wish. For years, you’d pick at the old scabs on your knees, creating new ones while you stared into the sky and prayed to a god you didn’t believe in. For years, you’d nearly promised to believe in him again if he’d just give you your damnation.

It was supposed to be that night in the woods. You were supposed to be eaten by them or become one. That was how it was supposed to end. That was your sentence for causing your father’s death.

Except . . . like all those years ago, it seemed not even these prayers were worthy enough to be granted. But maybe that was just it. Maybe this was your damnation. Maybe no matter what you did, death would always follow you but never seek you specifically out. Because maybe death was too kind for someone like you. Maybe the real damnation was for you to sit and watch as everyone around you died because of you.

Would Chris kick you out then? If he knew saving you meant bringing death to his doorstep?

Those thoughts in your mind, you continued to follow after this Chris, limping silently behind him as he took you through the bunker. It must have been the backway or something because you hadn’t seen another soul the entire few minutes you’d been passing through each room. Even as you reached the bottom floor, you still could not find another one of his people.

Had he told them to hide? Did he say why? Were there children? Were they scared of you? Were you akin to the monsters in those fairytales your father used to read you when you were younger?

On the seventh minute, the two of you stopped in front of a hatched metal door, and you almost felt fear. But you told yourself you didn’t get to feel that way as he unhatched the door and pulled it open, revealing a washing room akin to a basement bathroom except four showers were lining the wall, all of which were separated by thick slabs of metal dividers and covered by plastic shower curtains. Two toilets were out in the open on the wall opposite the showers, a sink in the middle of them; and a bathtub resting near the middle wall.

You blinked once. Then twice. Then nearly collapsed against the doorframe at the sight.

It had been so long since you’d seen a bathroom; since you’d seen showers and bathtubs and proper toilets. It had been so long since you’d been clean. Sometimes you could still feel your father’s blood on your skin, and no matter how many times you scrubbed your skin in streams or lakes or even puddles, you still felt dirty. You always felt tainted, like your skin was just as rotted as the deads’.

And yet here you were staring into a bathroom with all the things you missed about civilization and you couldn’t quite tell what to do with yourself. You didn’t move. You didn’t even speak. You barely breathed. You just stared, and tried to quiet your rapid heartbeat.

Chris didn’t seem to notice your pause or if he did, he didn’t pay it much mind. Instead, you watched him out of the corner of your eye as he left you by the door and walked toward the bathtub, stretching out his hand toward the water. He swished the water around a few times, checking the temperature before he shook the water from his hand and dried it off on his pants.

Then . . . he was looking at you again. “This should be hot enough,” he muttered before he stalked toward the metal shelves opposite the side of the room where the bathtub rested. He grabbed a washcloth, then dug into a plastic bin which held chunks of soap, all the while you watched him with careful eyes. You continued to watch him as he approached you, taking the clothes out of your hands and replacing them with the washing materials. “I’ll get you a towel once you’ve washed.”

And that was it. Chris tossed the clean clothes onto the top metal shelf, then, with a sign, he leaned his back against the wall next to the shelves, his arms crossed over his broad chest while his eyes lazily trailed from the bathtub to where you stood in the doorway. Your brows furrowed, your head tilting as you stared back at him, almost as if you were challenging him.

“What are you doing?” you asked, but your voice sounded harsh, bitter . . . lethal like the weapon you’d known yourself to be.

Chris sighed through his nose again. “I told you I don’t kill the living . . . and I won’t kill you,” he started off, maintaining eye contact with you. “But I do not trust you. I do not like you. And I won’t put my people at risk just because I let you live. So, wash, yeah? You have my word I want nothing with your body. Just wash so I can show you around and you can finally eat.” His brows raised as he jutted out his chin, gesturing toward the bathtub. “Hmm? Sound good?”

“Men aren’t supposed to—” but you quickly cut yourself off. Men aren’t supposed to see women naked without marriage. That was what you were going to say. That was what your mother had drilled into your head as you were growing up. That was what the town believed, because that was what they preached. And you’d almost slipped up. You’d almost spoken their words, not your own. And while you couldn’t have that, you didn’t address your previous argument, instead, you tore your eyes from his and bit your tongue. “Just . . . don’t touch me.”

“You have my word,” he mumbled, his voice almost softer now, but you ignored it. “I don’t do that. I wouldn’t.”

You swallowed hard.

A beat of silence.

And then another.

Until you couldn’t take it anymore and nearly charged toward the bathtub, but you didn’t touch it. Not yet. You paused abruptly before the tub, then carefully, you outstretched your hand, testing the water. Warm. Not hot, nearly scalding . . . just like the baths you’d used to have when you were a kid.

But you couldn’t let him know that. You couldn’t show that you were once human . . . not to him. Instead . . . you tore your hand from the water, your eyes immediately snapping in his direction, narrowing at his figure. He was staring back at you, almost analyzing you or trying to piece together the things he didn’t understand about you. And then: his brows twitched downward, his face falling slightly before he cleared his throat and that look was gone.

“Listen,” he began, and turned his head to the side so you could only see his profile. His eyes weren’t on you anymore. “I won’t look. Just . . . undress and get in quickly.” He wet his lips, sighing. “I won’t look.”

You didn’t respond. He wasn’t looking for a response anyway. You only nodded at his words before you got to work, throwing the washcloth and soap into the water before unbuttoning your tattered pants and wincing as the fabric snagged on cuts and wounds that you’d accumulated. Your eyes remained on his figure, making sure he didn’t turn his head to see you lift your shirt over your head, throwing it to the floor along with your sports bra. Finally, you nearly tore off your underwear and socks just before you stepped into the bathtub, letting the water envelope your body until you were sitting in the tub, your knees to your chest as the water lightly swished around your shoulders.

Once the swishing of the water ceased, you watched out of the corner of your eye as Chris turned his attention back to you. His eyes were on you once again, and you tried to ignore it. You tried to stop watching him. You tried to enjoy the water surrounding you, but his eyes were nearly burning holes into your skin.

He’d promised not to hurt you, but what good was a man’s word in this world? You couldn’t trust that. You couldn’t trust him.

You kept one eye open. The water surrounding your body was a glorious distraction, but even as you rubbed at your feet underneath the water, trying to ease the aches, you still watched him in your peripheral vision. And the entire time . . . he didn’t move.

The water had begun to turn red and dark due to your accumulation of blood, wounds, and dirt. Only then did you search the tub’s floor to find the bar of soap. Once it was in your hand, you brought it out of the water, rubbing the white bubbly film with your thumbs before you reached for the washcloth and began to rub the two together to create a paste. With the cloth covered in suds, you allowed yourself to feel bliss just for a mere second as you touched the cloth to your skin and . . . scrubbed.

If this were a few years ago or even a few months ago, you thought you might have cried at the sensation. You wanted to cry now. You wanted to scrub your skin until the blood was gone, until the dirt was gone, until your skin was gone, until you were just raw and clean and new, until you were nearly born again. You wanted to scrub it all way. All the years, all the pain, all the memories. You wanted it all to be washed away like the dirt and grim hiding beneath your fingernails.

But you didn’t cry and you didn’t scrub until your skin was raw. You kept your composure, scrubbing up and down your arms with the washcloth, getting your neck, behind your ears, your legs, feet, toes, fingers, your most intimate parts, even your nostrils. And god . . . did it feel good, almost too good, so good, you’d taken your eyes off the man on the other side of the room.

“The blood—” his voice sounded from across the room, nearly startling you but you nearly whipped yourself to maintain your composure— “Is it all yours?”

Your movements paused. You blinked. “No,” you muttered as your eyes went to the dirtied water.

It was never just yours.

“Whose is it?” he asked. You knew what he wanted. You knew what he was really asking.

Running the washcloth over your nails to clean the dirt, you swallowed hard. “Does it matter?”

“It could,” he merely said. “Why did you do it?”

You didn’t respond. He knew. You knew he did. There was no way someone like you stepped into a place like this how you did, without doing the things you’d done. It might as well have been written across your forehead. You’d done something. It haunted you. And he knew it.

“If you stay here you’re going to have to answer my questions,” he said again, reiterating that his questions were harmless.

A muscle in your jaw twitched. Lifting your head, your eyes flicked to his, harsh and hostile. “Kick me out then, sheriff,” you spat, a challenge within your gaze.

But it seemed he wasn’t the type to take the bait. At least that might have been what he wanted you to believe as he discarded your comment and pushed, “Why did you do it?”

Your glare darkened. “Same reason we all do,” you muttered. “I had to.” But you didn’t.

It wasn’t something you had to do. Killing someone was not something you had to do. And even then, even if you had to . . . you didn’t have to do it like . . . that. Yet . . . you did.

“Was it deserved?”

Was it deserved? he had asked.

Yes, you wanted to growl back. Because yes, yes, yes he fucking deserved it. That man had taken your sister. He’d held her in his harsh grasp and laughed as she kicked and screamed. He’d put a gun to her head, and threatened to pull it unless you gave up all your food. But you had seen the look in his eyes. Even if you’d followed his orders, he would’ve pulled that trigger. Maybe he would’ve pulled it on you first or maybe he’d really have killed your sister. Maybe he would have taken you all down before you could even breathe and run off with your food. Or maybe he would have done worse.

Because you’d seen the look in his eyes. You’d seen how he’d put his hands on your sister. You knew what men like that did to little girls in a world without rules, without hope. You knew what he would do.

Anyone would have defended their blood. Anyone would've protected. Some would kill, others would find a way to knock him out and run off before he could catch up. But you . . . you didn’t just kill that night. No, it was a slaughter . . . and it was fun.

That . . . that was what made you different from the rest. You’d taken a man’s death sentence and become death yourself. You’d become god that night, wielding your hand to end another’s life with just your teeth and a visceral thirst that could only be quenched by fresh, spilled blood.

So . . . was it deserved? Yes, but . . . no one person should have that much power. No one should just play god like . . . that. But you had . . . and you had enjoyed it.

If Chris knew . . . would he turn you away, too? He’d given you a bed to rest and heal, a bath, and soon food, but if he knew, would he send you out there against his word?

You could only hope.

“I ripped out a man’s throat with my teeth,” you abruptly bit out, ignoring all the voices in your head telling you to just keep quiet, because you knew you deserved the hell he should have brought to you for this. If God wouldn’t answer your prayers, maybe a man would. Maybe he’d condemn you for him. “Does anyone deserve that?”

His eyes were on you. You knew they were. And you knew he was looking at you as if he was just another deer off the highway. As if you were the howls he could hear in the distance. As if you were what was lurking in the shadows of a dark forest. As if your teeth had been sharpened for the hunt. And he was just prey.

You waited for him to run, too, because you knew what happened to those who didn’t. You could see it before your eyes, all around you, soaking your skin and underneath the dirt in your fingernails.

Because you’d seen this before. You knew who you were in this story, and you knew who he was. It was predator versus prey. It was instinct. It was nature.

You’d seen it before in life before, too. The summer before everything, you’d gone every day to shadow your local vet, and every day you’d seen animal after animal be put down again and again. Some from health issues. Others from abscesses caused in the wild. Few . . . from locking their jaws around a human hand.

It was always the latter that struck you deepest. No one knew the art of the veterinarian clinic. To them, it was just a waiting room with doors, but nothing behind. But you knew what was behind those doors. The stuff no one wants to deal with hid there. The dogs that acted out, barked too loud, became too . . . feral came to die there.

It was almost funny, nearly sickening that almost all of the dogs had two things in common: they weren’t spayed and they were female. Because, you see, everyone always said how neutering a male dog will fix its aggression. Everyone always told you that if not tamed, a male dog will always bite, but they didn’t realize most dogs that bite are female. It was instinct again. Protect the womb. Protect your young. It was nature. Biological. The female of the species were more deadly than the male . . . because they were always in a state of survival.

When you thought about it, you’d like to say that the raising of the dead was when your game of survival began, but you knew better. Your games began the day you were born . . . the day every woman was born.

And while some knew how to wield it well, you had been beaten into another narrative. Like animals, most female dogs can be tamed with trust, but the few that aren’t; the few that come into the world in the middle of the woods, forced into submission by their male counterparts and bred over and over again . . . those few could never be domesticated. They would always be wild.

You’d seen it once in the before. A pregnant feral dog brought in by an old woman with a heart for poor souls. The moment she was brought into the clinic, death followed her. It smelled of shit and piss and blood. And when you’d asked what could have possibly caused such a smell, they’d told you how animals worked in the wild, and it was so much worse than you’d thought. A female dog in a feral colony is but a womb. The males fight. The males become violent and possessive. To mark their territory they will urinate on her, and when another smells the mark of another male, they will become violent again. They will fight and try to claim their territory in the same way. And when they are through with the female, she will be left with wounds from fighting against their force. Yet . . . they still fight. Every time.

It was possible to tame a feral dog with time. But it was impossible to tame a feral dog if female because she would always be in a state of protecting her womb; protecting her young.

You knew what you were. When you’d see your reflection in pond water or shards of glass, it wouldn’t be your face staring back at you, no it would be that dog’s. Every time, you’d see her. You’d see her scared, teeth bared and growls echoing off the walls as your vet and his techs tried to sedate her for surgery. You’d see her lying on the operating table, finally, tame like she’d never been before. You’d see the vet cutting into her abdomen, cutting out the uterus filled with those babies she had been trying to protect. You’d see her as your vet explained to you how spaying her now would prevent her from being impregnated over and over again and causing the colony to grow. Because spaying a feral dog was more mercy than she would have ever been shown amongst her clan.

And you’d understood. You did. But it’d still made you sick to your stomach.

Until you finally did understand. Until you had to do things you’d never done in the before. Until your teeth had been sharpened. Until all you knew was survival. Until you were forced to protect your young. Until that man put a gun to your sister’s head and tried to use her like those male dogs would use the females. Until you charged at him. Until you fought him, fists bloody and knife ready. Until you sunk your canines into his neck and tore out his throat. Until you tasted his blood on your tongue and craved for more. Until his blood began to taste like honey. Until you stepped back, saw your bloodied hands, and realized that this was no longer just survival, but your nature. Until it was instinct. Until you were the female of your species that you had heard so much about.

So . . . you waited.

You waited for Chris to run out of the room and leave you to your bath of blood. Because you knew what happened to those who didn’t. Because you knew you were the female of your species. Because you knew a female dog could never be tamed if deemed feral. Because you could see it before your eyes, all around you, soaking your skin and underneath the dirt in your fingernails.

Because you’d seen this before. You knew who you were in this story, and you knew who he was. It was predator versus prey. It was instinct. It was nature. It was biological.

And yet . . .

“When’s the last time you bathed?” Chris asked, but his voice was different now. It wasn’t like before.

“Like you need to know,” you bit out almost immediately, almost as if it were a reflex.

But you still couldn’t help wonder . . . Why didn’t he leave?

Brows furrowed, you turned to face him, eyes going straight to his as if expecting a challenge, but no challenge was there. The man was just staring at you as if he was just . . . observing. And he was still . . . there.

Why didn’t he run? A deer that fights is a dead deer. Did he not know this? Did he not see what you were?

But he didn’t.

Your body stilled in the water, your hands wrapped tightly around the washcloth. And for some reason, you hadn’t known what possessed you, but you found yourself muttering out, “A few years give or take . . . minus the odd lake here and there.”

Chris shifted his weight to his other foot, but his arms stayed crossed and his expression remained stern, unreadable. “Is that how long you’ve been out there?”

Your brows twitched. You blinked and the past seven years flashed for just a second. “Longer,” you nearly whispered as your eyes sunk back to the water before you resumed dragging the washcloth down your arms. “Not all of us have the luxury of a bunker. Being out there—Fuck.” A hiss left your lips as you tried to bring the washcloth over your back, but the ache in your arms mixed with the evident wounds all over your body sent a sharp pain . . . everywhere.

Chris stepped forward, almost flinching as he did. “Let me—”

“Don’t,” you growled. This time you did bare your teeth like the wild animal you knew yourself to be. “Don’t touch me.”

But he wasn’t like the other deer. “Let me help you,” he said firmly.

And all you could do was stare at him, a skeptical look in your eyes while your heart pounded in your chest. He didn’t move, and you knew he wouldn’t unless you let him. That was the thing that perplexed you. He was fighting back, but waiting for your permission. He wouldn’t lay his hands on you unless you let him. You’d never seen a deer like this before.

Against all your best judgment, you all but threw the washcloth at him. You held out your arm, washcloth in hand, offering it to him and once he took it from you, you hesitantly leaned forward, pulling your knees to your chest to cover your intimate parts. But you still kept your eyes on him, trying to ignore how you flinched each time you felt the gentle scrape of the washcloth on your skin.

You remembered the feral dog at that moment. She’d fought for so long and yet . . . it was almost as if when she finally knew no one was going to hurt her, her growls lessened and her demeanor became more . . . cautious, eyes on everyone at all times, but she’d still bowed, letting your vet draw her blood and administer a rabies vaccine. It was almost as if she couldn’t let herself fully trust him, but she knew she was . . . safe.

You felt her within you as you sat in that now lukewarm water, letting a stranger gently wash your back. You remembered her eyes, and kept your own on him at all times, remembering the exit in case something truly did happen. You let him help you, but you kept in mind how hard the tub was, knowing if you had to, you could smash his head into the metal in a split second.

“What’s this from?” he asked after a minute of silence, his voice softer now as he paused his movement just near your shoulder, where you knew a bullet hole scar resided.

A flash of the man who’d taught you how to become a machine crossed your mind. The night you lost him, too. The way it felt. How it was . . . your fault.

You swallowed hard. “Happened a long time ago.”

“Mmm, wasn’t my question,” Chris hummed before he continued washing your back.

“It’s not from anything you have to be suspicious of, OK?” you spat, your muscles stiffening. “It’s not��” you wet your lips— “that’s not what makes me dangerous.”

“What does?”

“What?”

“You said the scar’s not what makes you dangerous,” He reiterated, dragging the washcloth over your shoulders and sending a shiver down your spine from the contact. “What does?”

You hugged your knees tighter. You remembered the feral dog. You remembered the deer. You remembered your father. But you remained silent.

“The other night . . . you begged me to kill you,” he stated. “What were you running from?”

“The dead.”

“Alright.” Chris tongued his inner cheek and laughed out a scoff, shaking his head at you. “Why were you running from them then?”

You lowered your head to your folded arms. “To survive.”

“Mmm, but then why beg for death?”

“I had a fever, you said.” You bit your arm like you should’ve bit your tongue. “I was out of my mind.”

It was then he sighed. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth.”

And it was then, that feral dog found you again. “I don’t want your help,” you quickly bit out, lifting your head to eye him.

He tilted his head slightly to the side, observing your features. “You need it.”

Your brows furrowed and your anger spread. “I don’t need anything,” you muttered out before you tried to snatch the washcloth out of his hand, but he tore it out of your way.

“Don’t be stupid,” he remarked. “You’re hurt.”

You tried again, but he dodged yet again.

“You are hurt,” he reiterated like he was scolding a small child.

You just stared at him, hesitantly.

And he stared back at you, calmly.

A beat of silence.

Then, your brows twitched almost in pain before you submitted again, lowering your arm. He picked up on this quickly but instead of washing the rest of your back, his other hand gently gripping your arm. You flinched, prepared to smash his head in, but you caught onto what he was doing before your instincts kicked in.

He had taken your arm to clean the large oozing gash on your forearm that would surely need more antibiotics as directed by his quiet remarks while he tried to clean the wound. And you let him. You weren’t sure why. Maybe you were still recovering. Maybe you were sick. Either way, something had possessed you as you let him work in silence while he cleaned the wounds that even you hadn’t realized were there.

Until, finally, he spoke the words that you never expected to hear from anyone. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice soft again.

Your breath hitched in shock before you covered it up by scoffing. “What are you sorry for?”

Beat.

“That you’re here and they are not,” he confessed.

Your brows pinched together. How did he know? “What are you—”

“Whoever you were trying to save . . . “ he cut you off, still speaking gently, “ . . . they will remember it.”

Your eyes snapped to his.

He was already looking at you. “Or,” he continued, “you will forgive yourself for it.”

In the before, everything always had rules. Not just life but . . . your own house, too. Even up until the age of fourteen, your mother would either dress you herself or lay out the clothes she wanted you to wear, never letting you choose. It was only when you turned fifteen and your father gave you his old Harley Davidson leather jacket that you were allowed to wear it whenever you wanted as long as it never left the house. But that . . . that was the first taste of freedom you’d ever had. (Now you thought perhaps it was the only bit of freedom that you’d been allowed.)

Other than that, you were designated to wear long skirts that reached your ankles and a dull sweater that was a little too big for you even during the warmer months. And always with those little black Mary Jane flats.

The first time you felt the stinging of a slap against your cheek, was the day you went to school and came back wearing the leather jacket your father had given you. As soon as you walked through the door, your mother slapped you right across the face, and you realized rules were rules and when they were broken, consequences followed.

Your mother had always been like that. She never slapped you again after that, until . . .

But it was the fact that you knew she would that stopped you from disobeying her. That was until the dead started rising from the dead and you traded short, polished nails for claws. That was before she became more afraid of you than you had ever been afraid of her.

But the fear still remained. Maybe it shouldn’t have, but maybe it was inevitable.

In the beginning, when you first began to learn how to kill the dead, you didn’t realize that the old world was just that. You didn’t realize it would never be normal again, and yet, being perfect, following the rules had been so ingrained into your mind, that you couldn’t abandon it entirely.

Every day, you’d try to manage your hair and keep it neat even in a world like this. Every day, some water was wasted to clean the dirt and blood from underneath your fingernails and staining your skin. Every day, your mother tried to make you live a life that was as close to normal as possible, and you followed that rule (even going as far as to leave that Harley Davidson jacket back at your house instead of bringing it along).

It wasn’t until your family had stumbled across a small shop for supplies and you found this pretty pink shirt, that you realized the old world was dead. Only ten minutes after trading your old, tattered top for the new one, did your father have to kill a few of the dead, their blood splattering and staining your shirt.

You stopped trying to be so . . . clean after that. No more struggling to manage your hair. No more wasting water to clean the blood and dirt and whatever else. No more choosing clothes that your mother would approve of. No more old world.

The new world was supposed to go on without you. The new world was supposed to end for you in the middle of those woods. And yet, here you still were, standing before a mirror, your hair washed and damp as you ran a brush through it for the first time since the beginning.

You almost didn’t recognize yourself either. This person staring back at you in the mirror didn’t look like the you you remembered. This was a stranger and yet so . . . familiar.

Was it your father that you saw?

The feral dog?

Or something else entirely?

Resting the hairbrush on the lip of the sink, you retracted your hand and before you could stop yourself, your fingertips grazed across your cheek. There under your eye was a cut. You didn’t know how it came to be. On your forehead was a scar that must have happened years ago, and another across the bridge of your nose.

You remembered a time when your face was clean of blemishes. You remembered a time when your cheeks were soft with peach fuzz, not raised and rough from the new world. You remembered a time when your appearance had been the only thing you cared about; the only thing you spent hours plaguing yourself with; when it was your only worry.

Swallowing hard, you dropped your hand and your eyes fell to the ground. You couldn’t stare at . . . her anymore.

Who even was she anymore?

A knock came at the bathroom door before your mind could spin further. “Decent yet?” Chris called from the other side of the door.

But you didn’t answer. You didn’t have it in you. Instead, with a sigh, you ignored the mirror once more and approached the door, swinging it open before he could get the chance.

Chris stepped back at your appearance, but his expression remained the same. That was until his eyes flicked down to your clothes, lingering for just a second but in that second you could have sworn you caught the slight twitch in his brows.

“Come on, you should eat,” he said without looking at you before he turned and headed for the stairs.

Tugging on the hem of your shirt, you followed after him without a word or a fight. This time, while the stairs were empty and there was no one lingering in the hallways, you could hear faint chatter from afar. And this time, you held yourself stiffer, on edge, calculating. You kept your eyes on the man before you as well as your surroundings, with your ears peeled, trying to decipher the conversations up ahead. Mostly you were trying to figure out how many voices there were which would tell you how many people were in this bunker, which could possibly mean how many people you would have to fight off.

The noise became louder the further you two walked. As you grew closer, you could mostly hear the voices of men with the odd woman, and you couldn’t stop yourself from winding into position—a stance you’d taken a million times before to protect your family.

Just as Chris turned the corner, you followed after him, knowing what you’d have to do. He wasn’t on your side. This was just a ploy. It had to be. Butter you up for fun, then leave you for the slaughter. That was how it had always been since the world died, and you were sure that was what was awaiting you.

Who knew you could still be scared even after all this time?

Swallowing hard, you readied yourself . . . but when Chris rounded another corner, and his group first came into sight, you almost couldn’t believe it. Right before you was a room, a dining room, or rather something that seemed awfully close to it with tables to eat on and kitchen appliances on the back wall. And in the room were the men you’d heard, but with them were women . . . elders . . . kids . . . The room was filled with people—people you’d never thought could survive a world like this, chatting and eating amongst each other as if . . . as if this was just some kind of picnic.

. . . And . . . in the corner of the room sat a little girl no older than ten, feeding a cracker to a . . . dog.

A dog. You’d thought all domesticated animals had perished during Famine’s reign.

There was no masking the shocked expression on your face. This wasn’t an ambush. But that would mean . . . Chris hadn’t lied to you.

Could this truly be a safe place? Was this really just a community of survivors?

No . . . No . . . it couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. Because if it was then that meant you’d ended up here . . . safe . . . and your family was still out there. That would mean you were the reason you were safe and they were not. And that would mean you’d failed him . . . again.

Chris tossed a lunch tray on the table before you, snapping you out of your own mind.

You blinked, but didn’t show your surprise. Blank. You remained blank.

He only stared at you with the same expression. Then, he raised his brow and nodded toward the tray as if telling you to eat.

And while you sat down, eyes locked on him, watching, you didn’t pick up the fork on your tray. Because this had to be a ploy. This seemed too good to be true. It had to be. And if it wasn’t, then one day it would be.

Chris scoffed when he realized you weren’t going to touch the food. “You think I’d poison you?” he asked, nearly laughing in disbelief. “I’ve given you medical help, a bed, shower, clean clothes and you think I poisoned the food? For what? What would be my game?”

You only shrugged, your body stiff as you kept your eyes narrowed in on him. (It was odd to realize you were still trying to survive. Wasn’t death what you wanted?)

He stared at you a little longer, searching your eyes as if you’d let an answer slip through. But you weren’t one to wear your emotions on your face; you weren’t one to give yourself away, not unless you wanted to . . . and there was nothing you wanted to give to him. You wouldn’t let him in your head. You knew what that did. So, you stared back, gaze harsh and expression stern.

Trust no one, even if they give you a reason to. That was what you had learned. That was what your father’s death had taught you. That was what the world had whispered to you that night. That was your lesson.

But it was almost as if even if you gave him nothing, he knew. His eyes flashed in acceptance (?) as he pursed his lips and nodded once. The next second he dipped his finger into what appeared to be mashed potatoes before he plopped it into his mouth . . . and swallowed. He took a swig of the glass of water by your hand as well, and you watched, blinking rapidly, taken aback.

“Happy?” he asked, placing the glass of water on the table with a clank.

Your brows twitched for nearly a second too long. You hoped he didn’t see. He wasn’t supposed to, but you couldn’t wrap your head around this place. You’d never seen people like this. Why did he want you to trust him? Why was he helping you? What did he want?

Swallowing hard, you averted your gaze from his face to the food placed in front of you. Oddly enough, it almost looked like a home-cooked meal. The mashed potatoes were still hot, still steaming, and the meat didn’t look too fresh, but fresher than you’d seen in a while, and cooked better than you ever could. There were even some freshly roasted walnuts on the side, that smelled like the winter holidays at your house during the before.

It was almost too good to ignore. It was almost too good to deny. Until it was. Until your stomach growled, and hunger sept back in. Until you realized this wasn’t the before and this was the first meal you’d had in a week, maybe longer. Until you realized it didn’t matter if you didn’t want to survive, you were just so fucking hungry and those mashed potatoes were still hot . . . and the meat was cooked thoroughly . . . and the walnuts smelled just like home. Until you realized just how hungry you were for it all.

And then you couldn’t stop yourself. For a few minutes, you forgot who you were. For a few minutes, you forgot how to survive. For a few minutes, you wanted not to be hungry.

Your hunger overcame you as you neglected the fork and knife, your greedy fingers digging into the mashed potatoes first, and shoveling it down your throat before you could even breathe. And when that was scraped clean, you dug into the meat, tearing piece by piece off with your teeth like the wild animal you knew he saw you as. And when that was gone, your hands reached for the glass of water, chugging as much as you could without choking.

The walnuts were left for last.

With your hands shaking from the influx of food, you grasped the first walnut, inhaling its smell as you popped it in your mouth and allowed yourself to savor its flavor. Only then when you took your time chewing walnut after walnut did you realize Chris was watching you again, except this time he was seated in front of you, his elbows resting on the table with his hands clasped in front of his mouth. He rubbed his lips against the rough skin of his hands, clearly lost in deep thought as he analyzed you.

When you'd finally caught on, your grip on the walnut in your hand loosened, your chewing slowing a second later. You dropped the walnut onto your tray and swallowed the rest of the food in your mouth before you cleared your throat and averted your gaze across the room. But you only saw something more unnerving. Everyone in the room seemed to be watching you. Maybe not so obviously, but you could tell their hushed whispers and quick glances in your direction meant only one thing: the topic of their conversations was you.

What did they want? Was it your presence? The way you looked? The way you’d eaten? Could they see who you really were? And . . . why did that . . . hurt you?

Chris interrupted your mind before you could torture yourself further. “You can be out there too long, you know?”

There was your answer. That was why they were staring at you.

While your family had been out there, scavenging for years, losing people after people . . . they had been safe in here. While you barely had any scraps to go around, they were eating mashed potatoes and gravy. While you hadn’t bathed in years, they hadn’t gone more than a day. While you’d lost your father, your mother, sister, Felix . . . children were allowed to grow here. While you had to put down the dog your sister had grown to love just so your family wouldn’t die of starvation . . . dogs were allowed to bark, play, eat here. While you had survived, they had lived.

And while they ate with forks and knives, you’d devoured everything with your hands as if you truly were one of the dead. To them, this was a meal. To you, this was survival.

There was your answer, and it wasn’t one you accepted kindly.

Your jaw locked, anger fueling you once again. “There’s no escaping it,” you muttered out.

Chris’s brows pinched together. “What?”

“What’s out there,” you reiterated, sucking on your teeth as your gaze dropped to the bandages wrapped tightly around your leg. “You can’t escape it. You can run, scavenge, fight . . . but the dead are always right there.” Glancing up, your eyes were blank again. “There’s no being out there too long. It is what it is. Out there is our world. Can’t get away from that even in here.”

There was no response to your words. Chris remained silent. He remained stern, stiff, calculated, but his eyes never left your face.

Was he deciding your fate?

Your eyes flicked back to the little girl and the dog, and you realized you wanted to decide for him. “We found a dog, too,” you began, recalling the bitter memory. “Smaller than that one, but sweet.” Your brows twitched. “And at first I thought it was a good thing. I thought it meant that the dead hadn’t taken everything . . . until the dead started to eat the deer and the squirrels . . . even the rats . . . until it got colder and the things that used to be alive died . . . until we didn’t have any food left.”

The scene before you of the little girl combing her fingers through the dog’s fur played out and you couldn’t help but see your sister and Berry in it. She’d loved that dog. She’d loved it like you loved her.

It broke your heart ripping that away from her. It broke hers, too.

She was too young to understand, but she’d loved you more back then. She’d loved you enough to force herself to ignore your lies. She’d loved you enough to believe that the meat you’d found was a deer and not her beloved dog. She’d loved you enough to pretend that her dog had been killed by the dead and not her sister. Although you supposed she never really had, she just pushed it away, and when your father died, that resentment all came back.

You’d killed her dog and her father. The dead suddenly wasn’t her biggest issue. It was you.

Forcefully tearing your eyes from the little girl, you met Chris’s gaze and held it. “Eighteen days we waited,” you began again, leaning forward this time to make sure he wouldn’t look away. You wanted him to be convinced. You wanted him to learn. “You know you can survive up to a month without food if you’re lucky? It’s funny because . . . you don’t realize just how much the days don’t matter when your only thought is food . . . food . . . food. Kinda makes you sympathize with the dead. Kinda also makes you envy them.”

Still, he remained silent, only squinting his eyes in thought but never tearing his gaze from your face. You mirrored him, but added in a grin.

“No one else wanted to do it,” you whispered with an hiss. “And they were right, right? Should’ve listened to them. Should’ve tested the limits a little longer, yeah?” You clicked your tongue. “But I was so damn hungry . . . “

You saw it then. It was gone in a flash, but you swore you saw it. He’d reacted. It was written on his face, he’d leaned back ever so slightly, but then it was gone. Then he was composed. Then he was this stranger again.

But you had seen it.

But it wasn’t enough.

You had to go further.

Swallowing hard you knew what you had to admit. “Her name was Berry . . . I snapped her neck and made everyone eat her,” you bitterly spat out. “The next morning we stumbled across a fuckin’ deer.”

There. Another flash. He knew. He knew what you were and you knew it, too.

“So I’ll ask you a question,” you quickly continued before he could compose himself. “Do you honestly think you’re safe? You think they won’t find their way in here? That you won’t lose people? Friends? Family? Those kids?” You felt yourself grin again. “They always find a way. Something will go wrong or someone will come along and ruin this place just like all the others. Or maybe it’ll be you.” With a shrug, you toyed with the walnuts, popping another one into your mouth. “Maybe you’ll bring the wrong person down here at the wrong time and you’ll have to kill more than just that dog to survive.”

A beat passed but he still didn’t divert his eyes from your face. And when there was only one walnut left, you sighed and rested your chin in the palm of your hand, meeting his eyes again.

“Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t. And I promise you . . . it will,” you muttered in an almost bored tone. “This place will burn one day and everyone you’ve ever loved will die. There is no difference between out there and in here. You’ll realize that. And when you do . . . you’ll know I was right.” Your hand reached your glass of water again, your finger tracing the rim. “You’ll realize you should’ve poisoned this food and you’ll regret not killing me when you—“

But you never finished. No, instead, Chris abruptly slammed his fist down onto the table. The tray clattered against the table, the glass fell and shattered on the ground, and the room fell silent.

You blinked, trying to mask your thoughts from crossing your face but you were taken aback by the lethal look he had. It was such a familiar look, too. A look that you felt you’d only seen in yourself before.

“Enough,” he bit out, his voice only loud enough for you to hear. “Get up. You’re done.”

There was no time to process his words. He didn’t even let you stand up by yourself. He was on his feet in an instant, moments before his hand wrapped around your arm and tugged you along with him. He seemed to have no care for your injured leg, dragging you behind him as he exited the dining area despite your limping.

And all of it told you one thing: you had him right he where you wanted him.

Grinning slightly, you scoffed out a laugh. “Did I hit a nerve?” you all but mocked. “It’s just logical. What if I betray you? If I open that hatch and lead the dead down here? If I let them—”

Before you could continue your threat, your back was slammed against a wall, and Chris was on you. His body cornered yours, his arms pinning you to the wall as he breathed heavily, his face not even an inch from yours.

“Listen to me—” he began, his voice low, quiet, but lethal. “I know what you’re doing. I know what it’s like to be out there too long. I know what it’s like to kill something you love. I know death and I know people like you. If I didn’t . . . I would have let the dead tear you apart and waited to steal your supplies.” His eyes searched yours. They were a lighter brown from this proximity, you noted. “Don't say that shit around here. My people don’t trust outsiders. You say that when I’m not around and I won’t be able to protect you from what they’ll do.”

You shook your head, but kept your eyes locked with his. “I don’t want your protection.”

“But you need it.”

“Fuck you.”

“You need it.”

You remained silent for only a second, questions swarming your head. “I thought you said your people didn’t kill the living?” you asked, voicing one of those questions aloud.

He swallowed before he answered, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “We don’t,” he reiterated, but . . . there was something in the way he said it. Something that wasn’t there before. “But they can and will hurt you if you bring harm to this place. And if you are a threat, I can’t guarantee that someone won’t be tempted.”

“That go for you, too, ‘man of your word’?”

Only then did his eyes flick from your eyes to your shoulders where his arm had pinned you to the wall before he met your gaze again. “Yes,” he whispered, his words sounding like a confession.

No other words were exchanged between the two of you. You knew what his words meant and he knew what the look on your face said. If you tried to kill him, he’d take you out. And you accepted that knowing if you were a different person with fewer morals, you’d take him up on that offer. But to die like that . . . it wasn’t enough. It was cheap. It was the death of a coward. And it was like he knew you’d never fall into that trap.

So, with a quiet understanding, he cautiously stepped back and waved you down the hall, claiming the tour wasn’t over. And you merely limped after him.

Nightfall came fast. Grounds were covered and this Chris had made sure to be thorough; so thorough your ankle had begun to pulse in pain. But even with your complaints, he carried on, and only stopped when you’d reached the medical room. The same guy before; the guy who’d bandaged you up in the first place had met you there, and quickly redid your dressings from when Chris had done them after your bath. And just when you thought that meant you’d be allowed to hobble back to the room they’d been keeping you in, Chris patted his friend’s back and mentioned something about getting to the dining room before the storyteller began.

Then you found yourself stuck at the same picnic table from this morning, chin resting on your hand as you listened to one of the older ladies share a story of made-up lands and characters to not only the children but the adults as well. It seemed everyone here looked forward to this exact moment and you wondered if this happened every day. (If it did, you’d need to fake a few injuries to get out of having to listen in.)

It felt like a dream. You couldn’t decide if it was a good one or like the kinds you’d had when you were growing up. It was odd to witness; odd to sit in; odd to realize that you were a part of this in some way or another. Sure, it was against your will to sit there and listen in, and yet when all you could think about was surviving in the world outside the bunker, and . . . your heart still raced like you were out there.

There was no without, you supposed. Maybe you’d always feel this way—on edge. Maybe you deserved it. But no matter how you thought of it, there was no erasing the fact that you were underground with food and people and shelter, and your family was out there.

Were they safe?

You shook your head, averting your gaze to the table. They were safer without you. People died around you. You brought death. It was better this way; safer. When a dog is violent, they’re meant to be muzzled before anything else. There’s a reason. It’s so they don’t bite. You discovered that the day your father died . . . perhaps a little sooner. A caged animal is there for a reason. And you, you’d stayed locked in your cage for years, your father’s hand being the only thing keeping you in there.

. . . Until your father died and his hand released you. You couldn’t go back. A caged animal doesn’t cage itself. A caged animal runs. That was why you left. That was why it wasn’t safe for your family to be around you. A freed animal ran, and you had to keep running.

With a sigh, you began to pick at the edges of the table, blocking out the voice of the storyteller. And that was when you felt it: the reason you had been uneasy. Your brows pinched together as you glanced up, your eyes immediately catching sight of the disturbance. Tilting your head to the side, you let your eyes go blank as you stared at him.

Because, there on the other side of the room, stood Chris, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the wall, his eyes focused solely on you. There was something in the way he looked at you; something that told you you didn’t belong here. And suddenly, it was like you were eleven years old again, being told you’d be condemned to Hell because of who your father was.

It seemed that was always the case. The only man in the whole town who didn’t go to Sunday morning mass was your father. The only man who sat silently during dinner prayers was your father. The only man who ignored his neighbors, stalked off early in the morning to hunt, and left the town for the farmers market was your father. He was the only man in the town who’d forsaken their God, and he just so happened to be your father. And you just so happened to look exactly like him.

You understood some of it back then, and from what you gathered, you hated the similarity. You hated that you couldn’t be like everyone else. You hated how it scared you.

When you were little, you were scared to die, because you knew where you'd end up. When you were little, you were scared to be like your father. When you were little, you were scared of everything. And when you’d get a little too in your head, you’d start to think about what Hell was like. You used to imagine Hell was a room covered in blood. A room with only one door that led to nowhere, but with no windows, like the kind you’d see in basements. And in the corner of the room was this chair. It was familiar, almost yours. And as you grew, you started to imagine that this chair was yours; that it did belong to you. It was easy to imagine the seat waiting for you in Hell was a chair you’d sat on many times before during breakfast, lunch, and dinner. A chair with marker stains in the wood. A chair with butterflies, flowers, and rainbows covering the seat, arms, and legs. A chair that was your own.

In this room, this chair would be the only thing left untouched. Bloodied handprints would litter the ground, and claw marks could be seen carved into the walls. The room would be white, too, so the red would just . . . pop.

This was Hell. No demons. No Satan. They were there, sure. They were somewhere, but not in your room, because you’d liked to imagine that everyone had their own room, otherwise how would that make any sense? Hell was different for everyone, and to you . . . to you Hell was a bloodied room with four walls, your childhood chair in the corner, and no one in sight. That was what scared you most—that even at the end, no one would be waiting for you.

When you were a kid, this was your greatest fear, but it was a fear because you thought it was something that might happen to you. Back then, it was only a threat. Now . . . if Hell and Heaven or whatever existed as the town had predicted, then you knew that was exactly where you’d end up. There were no ifs, ands, or buts. A lonely room with bloodied walls and your childhood chair awaited you at the end of the line. (You wouldn’t admit that the thought still scared you.)

The difference now was that it didn’t matter if it still scared you, you would’ve preferred it over this. A grotesque room with no exit was a far better Hell than the one plaguing the earth. Even then, you weren’t sure which you deserved for your sins and bloodied hands.

But it wasn’t until your father’s death that you realized it wasn’t just you who imagined this Hell. It wasn’t just you who had feared it. It wasn’t just you who recognized the dark inside you.

You remembered the night he died. You remembered what you’d done; how it had been your fault. You remembered his face and you remembered his screams. You remembered how he’d saved you from your own stupid decisions. You remembered the look of relief which crossed his face, and the confusion you felt wondering if he was relieved because you were safe . . . or because he knew this was the end. And you remembered the silence.

While your father had died because of a stupid decision you’d made, he’d saved you all, and everyone knew that. The walk of silence after running for hours was agony. The dryness of your throat and the wounds littering your body. The bullet hole leaking from your shoulder. All you had wanted to do was fall to the ground and let the roots and weeds grow over you.

But you were still younger then. You were still . . . open like the wounds on your body. You hadn’t scarred over yet. And, you remembered, what you wanted most in that moment was to rest your head in your mother’s lap and let her stroke your hair. You wanted her to tell you it wasn’t your fault; that you couldn’t have known that would happen; that all of you thought it was safe; that she’d be on your side whether you were right or wrong.

Only . . . you’d forgotten your mother’s love wasn’t all that different from her hatred, and sometimes it was hard to tell them apart. You’d forgotten that you could never really tell if she loved you or if her love was just resentment in the form of a prayer before bed.

You’d forgotten and you’d . . . cried out to her.

That day . . . it had been so hot. The night had died and the sun had come out and you were all so tired from running and running and . . . you’d given in to your temptation and fallen to the ground, crying out for your mother.

“Mom,” you remembered sobbing out, begging for her to slow down so you could all rest. You remembered Felix falling to his knees along with you, wiping the sweat from your forehead and holding on to your hand with his free one for dear life. “Mom.”

Then . . . you remembered how her steps halted, her back rigid as she put your sister on the floor and turned to face you. You remembered seeing it: resentment . . . or was it her love? And all you had wanted to do was cry and cry and tell her that you needed her; that you wanted her to love you; that you need it more than anything in that moment. And then: “Mommy, please, I’m sorry. Please, I didn’t know,” you’d whimpered out, trying to beg for her forgiveness.

For a second, you’d thought she might, too. For a second, you’d thought you’d seen it in her eyes: forgiveness. But just like her love, that, too, had always turned into resentment and rage so quickly. Still, you hoped. You wanted to believe it so much you nearly leaned into her as she kneeled before you, her eyes searching yours as she reached out and cupped your cheek with her shaking hand. And then, she’d wiped the tears from your eyes, and you choked out a sob.

But nothing had ever been certain with her, and just as you breathed a puff of relief, a sudden impact hit your cheek, sharp stinging following. You remembered the pain like no other, not because it’d hurt worse than the open wounds you’d received, but because it had been her. Your mother had slapped you across the face and all you could do was cry out, your hand quickly coming to soothe your cheek.

Her grip had remained; however. Her hand gripped your chin, forcing you to meet her angry gaze. And then: “God made sure to punish me with you,” she spat out, her jaw locked, nose flared, and eyes so similar to your own now.

That . . . was the last time you cried for her love.

God made sure to punish me with you.

You remembered that, too. You never let yourself forget it. You kept it as a reminder that no matter the outcome, you deserved whatever horrible things happened to you. This was only just the beginning of your Hell, and at the end, you were sure you’d see that chair from your childhood, marker stains and all.

The dining room of the bunker wasn’t much different. You still sat alone in the corner of a room far enough from everyone else to know you weren’t one of them; to know that they knew you were there and didn’t want to sit too . . . close.

God made sure to punish me with you.

Would he punish this group, too? Were you his own personal bad omen? Were you more dangerous than the dead? Were you the last harbinger of Hell? Were you the Death you had been so afraid of? Is that—

“Do you not like stories?” a little voice suddenly asked, tearing you from your mind.

You blinked, taken aback before your eyes fell on the little girl who had sat down in front of you. Silently, you glanced around for her parents, but no one seemed to be even looking at the two of you. Your eyes fell upon her again, furrowing your brows as you watched her mindlessly sip on the drink in her cup. Her hair was dark, and her eyes were even darker. Her glasses adorned her face, and there was a small freckle just under her eye. She was little, no younger than nine, but probably smaller than she should’ve been for her age. She had this brightness to her face that reminded you a little too much of the sister you’d said goodbye to a few nights ago.

She turned back to you and puffed up her cheeks, blowing out air. “The others said you don’t talk,” she mumbled, tilting her head to the side. “Is that true?”

Brows still furrowed, you shook your head. Still, however, you didn’t reply.

“So you do speak?” she asked, her voice more chipper as she leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Will you play a game with me then?” She didn’t wait for you to reply, instead, she turned her head and pointed in the direction of the group of kids surrounding the storyteller. “You see that boy over there with the green hat? That’s Jiung. He stole my favorite pen and won’t give it back. I planned to sneak into his room tonight and find it, but two is better than one. You—” she pointed at you, smiling wide, her two canines missing— “look like you want to keep watch for me.”

Your brows twitched, but you remained silent. This kid was bold. She spoke clearly and knew what she wanted. You never grew up with kids like her. Your sister was timid, and still young. You had been like that, too, until you grew into . . . this.

“I don’t play pranks,” was all you muttered.

The little girl rolled her eyes. “It’s not a prank,” she groaned, pausing to take a sip of her drink. “It’s just getting back what’s mine, but that is a good idea. I should pour water on his pillow so he can’t sleep.”

Shaking your head, you fought the small twitch in your lips. “I don’t hang out with children either.”

“I’m not a child,” she huffed. “I’m ten.”

That time the corners of your lips did curve up ever so slightly. And she seemed to notice.

“You smiled,” she exclaimed, pointing her tiny finger in your face. “Bess said you looked mean, but I knew it. I knew you couldn’t be. You like me, of course you do. How could you be mean?”

“I smiled because you’re ridiculous, toothless.”

She grinned wider. “Toothless,” she giggled. “That’s what my brother calls me, but he’s ugly so I don’t really care, and he took after Daddy, so he got all the bad genes. I look like my Mama, you see. Mama was pretty.” She looked down, tapping her fingers on the table. “You’re pretty like Mama. I like to think I’ll be pretty like Mama one day, too. My teeth will grow in, you’ll see, and I’ll get her hair. I’ll be pretty.”

You swallowed, hard, watching as the little girl as she peered over her shoulder at the storyteller. She took another sip of her drink, humming now, all the while, you could only stare at her. You didn’t want to feel this way, but you knew what her words meant. Her parents were gone. You could infer that, and yet . . . here she was smiling at you. Were children truly the strongest of you all? Was that all it took to be brave?

But, no, that was wrong. It wasn’t fair. Children weren’t meant to go without their parents. And yet, here she was, asking you to rob another kid blind with her. It almost made you laugh. It almost made you cry.

In silence, you watched as she turned back, opening her mouth to no doubt try to convince you to help her, but before she could, she knocked her arm on the table, causing her drink to spill. The red liquid splashed her chin and trickled down, staining her shirt. But you reacted quicker. It was almost instinct. It was almost your nature. It was almost a part of you. It was you who reached forward to clean her chin, forgetting yourself.

And then everything happened too quickly, and you were reminded of who you really were.

A glint of steel flashed in the corner of your eye, similar to the one you’d used on that man the night everything changed. You went for the little girl like you’d gone for your sister. An unfamiliar, desperate voice that sounded similar to your own that night you killed that man, yelled, “Don’t touch her!” The storyteller stopped, gasps spread throughout the room, and you turned your head just in time to catch a glimpse of a knife making its way to your skull, your brain to make sure you’d drop dead for good, and then—

It all just stopped. You could still feel it, the tip of the knife a hairbreadth away from piercing your skull and ending you right there, but it didn’t hurt. There was no blood like that night. There was no pain. You were still breathing, but you couldn’t feel her in your arms any longer. Your sister, the little girl, wasn't in your grasp. You didn’t remember closing your eyes, but when they snapped open, desperately trying to find the little girl, instead of your attacker, you realized what had happened.

There, before you, was a man, no younger than twenty, staring not at you but at something behind you with a certain fear in his eyes. He’d come at you with a knife. He’d tried to kill you, and he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t come back as one of them. You hadn’t noticed him. You hadn’t noticed anyone. You’d wanted to clean the dribble of juice from the little girl’s chin like you’d done for your sister many times before. It was a knee-jerk reaction, and it’d almost gotten you killed. So why were you still alive?

You hadn’t noticed him. The little girl hadn’t either. No one else had. Except, the man that saved you from the death you’d sought; the man you’d mistaken as Death; Chris . . .

Chris had wrapped his palm around the blade, his grip deathly. Blood trickled down his forearm, and you took note of how tightly he was holding it, his muscles twitching. You couldn’t see him, but you could feel him. He’d grabbed you at the same time he grabbed the knife, tugging you into his chest and away from death. Your back was against his chest as he held you so tightly, that you could feel him breathe with you. And his hand . . . his hand was secured around your middle, splaying out across your ribcage, holding you there against him to make sure you wouldn’t budge; to make sure the knife wouldn’t touch you; to make sure you were alive.

He’d saved you. Again.

“Chris,” the boy murmured, out of breath. “I’m sorry. I—“ His words were chopped and weak, like he wasn’t expecting the consequences. “The others heard what she told you at lunch. I—I thought she was going to hurt Misun.”

Chris ripped the knife out of the boy’s hand and threw it to the ground, causing more blood to trickle down his arm. “Get your sister to bed, Jeongin,” he said, his voice low as he pointed to the little girl and then the exit. “I will escort our guest to her room and then you and I will have a little chat about hospitality in the hall.”

The boy nodded as he sheepishly grabbed his sister’s hand and led her toward the stairs. But you caught her eyes. She was looking back at you, scratching at her brother’s hold with tears in her eyes. And for a second, you forgot who you were, until you caught a glimpse of the knife on the floor, and then you remembered. You forced yourself to look away from her, masking your emotions and making your face blank once again.

Only once the two were gone and the room was quiet again, did you realize you were still in Chris’s arms. Your back was still pressed against his chest and his hand was still embracing your body. Stiffening, you turned your head to eye him, but his eyes were staring at the exit. His wounded hand didn’t even seem to bother him, he just kept staring as if he were waiting for someone else to walk through. Only when you tried to tear yourself from his body did he snap out of it, blinking rapidly before his eyes landed on you. His brows furrowed before he averted his gaze and pursed his lips as he stepped back from you, his hand dropping to his side.

“Everything will be fine. Continue,” he barked at the rest of the inhabitants in the room, and they all immediately listened, turning from the scene. A few even had to turn their children’s heads from the two of you, but you barely noticed. You just kept staring at him.

He’d saved you again, but he knew you wanted to die. Was he some kind of savior or sadist? Did he want to protect or torture you? You couldn’t figure it out. You couldn’t figure him out, and it intrigued you one way or another.

But before you could ponder longer, he was touching you again. His hand wrapped around your arm, and he tugged, dragging you after him as he headed toward the exit. He was taking you back to that room. You knew it, too. But was he keeping you there for your own protection or for the protection of his group?

When you exited the room, out of earshot of the rest of the group, he turned around, face only an inch from yours. His eyes searched yours for only a moment before he muttered, “I think it’d be best if you stay away from the others until I have a proper talking with them.”

Your brows furrowed as you took in his words. He was confusing. He was different from anyone you’d ever met back home or on the road. You had no idea what his motives were or why he was going to these great lengths to either convince you he was to be trusted because he actually wanted your trust. You just didn’t get it. You didn’t get him.

Tilting your head, you swallowed these questions, masking it all with a scoff. “All these lengths to keep me alive,” you began, lazily shaking your head as your eyes trailed over his face. (He really was handsome, you noted. The teenage girl in you never really was allowed to dream of men like this. You didn’t really know if the race in your chest was because of his face or the questions you had about him.) “You’d think I was . . . important.”

You could tell by the brief look which crossed his face that he wasn’t expecting your words. An odd sense of accomplishment filled you at that. Until:

“All life is now,” he whispered, letting go of your arm immediately.

Then he was gone, stalking down the stairs.

And you followed after him, your jaw tight.

There was something inside you that was sick. Something rotten. Something small, but growing. Dark, grotesque, and ugly. It was akin to a wild animal—feral and unloved, clawing at your ribcage in a helpless attempt to break free. Sometimes you let it out. Sometimes you encouraged it, fed it, nourished it, nurtured it the way you never had been. It had become something of a pet to you.

The little dark seed inside you had laid dormant for years. Water didn’t allow the little seed to sprout. It seemed only blood could do the trick. First with the dog. Then your father. And now . . . the man. Even now, you could still feel the seed clinging onto the blood of his which you’d swallowed. And it was hungry for more; angry; impatient.

You were growing impatient, too.

It had been another two weeks. Your ankle was almost nearly healed; at least healed enough to walk on it. None of that mattered. It seemed Chris was adamant about not letting you go outside even with the results, and you were beginning to feel like the animal inside you: trapped.

The days were long without sunlight, and the people didn’t come near you. The only one brave enough to bother you was the same little girl you’d met on your first day. Yang Misun was something you’d only met once. In a lot of ways she reminded you of your sister, but in a lot of other ways, she was nothing like her. She had a habit of following you around even when you’d ignore her or shut the door in her face. She’d find a way to get to you, and eventually, you kind of just gave up, resorting to just sitting there in silence while she went on about whatever.

Through your silence, you’d learned she liked playing pranks on this Jiung. There weren’t many girls her age, so she mostly played with the group’s dog, Barney. She claimed that it was really her dog since he came to her first when they rescued him three years ago. She hated story time and loved dinner because her brother always gave her a little bit of his every time. (Speaking of which, she’d gone on to say that her brother was an idiot who acted before he thought and that was why he was so . . . “stupid” (He refused to come near you, except the one time he threatened to kill you if you tried to hurt his sister.).)

And that was pretty much all you’d done in the past two weeks: eat, sleep, be avoided and avoid, and glare at their leader.

But sometimes, if you woke up early enough, earlier than anyone else, and walked up the stairs to the highest part of the bunker, you could finally get some peace and quiet alone, and far away from everything. Every time you did, it always went the same way, too. You’d reach the top of the stairs, the bunker exit staring you down as you sighed before you sat down on the edge of the platform, feet hanging over the edge while you rested your arms on the railing. And every time, you wondered what would happen if you just slipped . . .

You were high enough. Something would happen. Maybe that would be best. Maybe that was what you wanted. No, you knew it was. You knew you had to. You knew you had to kill it. You knew one day it would happen, but . . . not before you retrieved your father’s gun. You couldn’t die without him it. You just couldn’t.

That day was no different. You’d figured out the schedule now. It was hard to tell when morning was, but you figured when you awoke out of habit that was when the sun rose. You listened to your body well, waking up when the pounding in your chest followed you even in your dreams. Promptly, you readied yourself and carefully walked the silent halls until you reached the highest point of the bunker. And now, you sat in the same spot you found yourself in every day and just waited. For what? You didn’t know. You just sat, legs dangling over the edge as you rested your forehead against the railing.

The bunker door was right there. You could leave. It would be so easy, and yet . . . you still waited. You weren’t sure why and you didn’t care to figure it out. You just let your body sag against the railing and listened to the noises of the sleeping bunker.

This was how you lived now. How utterly mundane. How selfish. How privileged. You couldn’t help but think if your family was starving. If they had shelter. If they were alive. Were they really safe without you? Could they survive?

Shaking your head, you stopped yourself. You couldn’t go back. Like a wild dog, your love was rotten. A violent dog. You bit. Your love was rotten. Your love was something no one would wish for; it was something that no one could love back; it was tainted; bloody; grotesque; ugly. Who could be safe with a love like that? A love like that would get them killed. They were safer with Felix; they were safer under his protection; under his love, not yours. You couldn’t return. Feral dogs didn’t have homes to crawl back to, anyway. Feral dogs got put down, and you needed to find a way to put yourself down before you brought any more harm to anyone else.

“This area’s off limits, you know?” a voice abruptly interrupted your silence.

Stiff, you glanced up. Chris.

You only stared blankly.

He stood still on the staircase, leaning on the railing as he stared up at you, taking in your demeanor. “I could report you for coming here every day,” he hummed, eyes flicking from your face to your beat-up shoes.

“This is my first time here,” you muttered, clenching your jaw tight.

His brows raised ever so slightly. “Mmm, I don’t think so,” he mused, tilting his head to the side as his eyes flicked back up to meet yours. “Every day, I see you come out of your room, walk up this staircase, and sit right there until the others start wakin’ up.”

How had he seen you? You were sure everyone else was asleep at this time.

Your brows furrowed further.

He’s said your room as if there was anything that belonged to you in this place. But it wasn’t true. The room wasn’t yours. You were pretty sure it belonged to him. Which led you to another question, where had he been sleeping? “Then why haven't you said anything?” you asked.

He shrugged and sighed, “Well . . . I suppose if you’re going to kill yourself, I’d rather you do it when no one’s around.”

You scoffed. Asshole. And that was it. You dragged yourself to your feet, and rounded the ledge toward the staircase. You’d tried to walk right past him like you thought he expected, but before you could, his hand reached for your arm. You glanced his way, remaining silent, but your eyes roared with questions. Almost hesitantly, he dropped his hand, eyes following as he stared at your shoes.

“You’ve healed,” he began, tonguing the inside of his cheek before his eyes flicked back up to meet your scrutinizing gaze. “We can get your gun.”

Your brows twitched. You hadn’t been expecting that.

“Really?” you heard yourself whisper before you could stop yourself. It was odd too. The way you sounded, it was almost as if it hadn’t been you. The voice wasn’t the you you knew, but rather the you from when you first inherited that gun.

Chris nodded. “I keep my word.”

Lips pursed, you nodded right back.

Hunger. You’d always been a hungry child. You’d come into the world hungry, oftentimes being left to cry in your crib alone. When you grew older, your mother used to joke that you were a greedy baby; one that always needed a bottle. It wasn’t until your sister was born, and you noticed not once was she left alone to cry, did you realize it had never been the bottles upon bottles that you were hungry for.

Instead, you grew up hungry. You grew up obedient, wondering if that would satiate your hunger. And when it didn’t, you’d act out, but one cue from the hand that feeds and you’d go back to that quiet, hungry, little girl.

Since the beginning of the end, hunger became something different. You were almost used to it; almost unbothered. Everyone else had a hard time adjusting to it. The food that was gorged, the drinks that were spilled. Everyone seemed to be so . . . so ravenous. But you remained the same—the same, familiar hunger deep inside you. It was almost too hard to differentiate.

And when your father passed, you were reminded of why hunger had never bothered you. You were reminded of the difference between this hunger and the one you’d been born with.

All you had wanted was to keep your family safe. That was your promise to your father. It was your job. That was your life now. But you had begun to think that . . . what you truly wanted was to be loved as much as you were hated. You thought your mother’s love would have been much easier to swallow then. Maybe you’d be able to get it down without choking. Or . . . maybe it’d kill you.

You knew that was what you were truly seeking for. You’d remain hungry until then, no matter how well fed they’d keep you in the bunker. It was a sick kind of hunger. That was it. And suddenly it all made sense: you’d been hungry for everyone you’ve ever loved.

The woods enveloped you and Chris like a living, breathing entity, no sign of the dead or their unnerving groans. It was still morning, only a few hours had passed since he approached you with the idea to retrieve your gun. You managed to convince him you were ready to go off on your own, meeting him back at the front entrance of the bunker an hour after your conversation, but he insisted on accompanying you. He claimed it was his last act of hospitality. You called bullshit but didn’t argue, figuring you’d be rid of him soon enough.

Your hunger only grew as you shoved the food Chris had forced you to pack for your travels. It grew larger and larger when you walked by the room you knew to belong to Misun Yang. It grew harder to ignore when you approached the bunker vault, watching as Chris climbed up the stairs and opened the hatch, climbing out. It consumed you as you joined him on the outside, the sunlight nearly blinding you. But you ignored this hunger; you ignored that a part of you wanted to belong in that bunker; you ignored how much you wished you could stay, and then you shoved it all down, claiming insanity, because that wasn’t you and you wouldn’t think that. You didn’t deserve to.

This was where you belonged—on the outside. Just another animal in the woods. That was who you were. You didn’t get to sleep in a bed or not go hungry. This . . . this was your life—constant hunger. You accepted that long ago. You accepted it once more as you trailed behind Chris, keeping a close eye on him and your surroundings.

The air was thick and heavy; fall was coming; you could see it in the trees. The disgusting decay of fallen leaves was only a reminder. Sunlight pierced through the dense canopy above, illuminating the path before you. Chris seemed to know where he was going, sure, but you couldn’t help but wonder if he was just following the trail the light had given him, trying to stall as long as he could. It didn’t make any sense to you. He should’ve sent you out on your own, and yet . . .

As your mind spiraled, you glanced up, eyes finding him. Chris moved ahead of you, his movements careful and deliberate. You watched his back, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his head swiveled at every snapped twig or rustling leaf. His posture spoke volumes. He was on edge. Always on edge. The slight hunch in his stance, as if he was ready to spring into action at any moment. His hand never strayed far from the knife in his right hand and the gun holstered over his left shoulder. But you . . . you remained relaxed. The dead would come or they wouldn’t. You had no one to live for now. You just wanted your father’s gun, and then . . . then you could lay it all to rest; then you could let yourself become one of the dead things buried deep in the woods.

Chris had barely spoken since you set out, probably sensing you weren’t in the mood for conversation. He knew when to leave you alone. That was one thing you liked noticed about him. Even now, he didn’t ask any more questions, didn’t push for details you weren’t willing to give.

“There,” he said after what felt like, and might have just been, hours, pointing to a small clearing up ahead. “It should be just past those trees.”

You didn’t respond, just nodded and followed. Chris moved ahead, his footsteps careful, almost reverent, as if he were crossing sacred ground. You followed closely, each step weighed down by the knowledge of what lay ahead. This wasn’t just a hunt for a weapon; it was a search for a piece of your father.

As you pushed deeper into the woods, the canopy above thickened, blocking out the muted light. Shadows danced at the edges of your vision, and the sounds of the forest—crickets chirping, leaves rustling—seemed to fade into an eerie silence. The only sound was the crunch of twigs beneath your feet.

Chris paused, scanning the area with a wary expression. “Stay close,” he said, glancing back at you, his eyes dark and serious. “There might be some stragglers from the horde.”

But you barely heard him. You barely cared.

Chris resumed moving, leading you toward a patch of exposed earth that came into view through the thicket. Your breath hitched as the anticipation mounted. The clearing looked different—an unnatural mound rising in the center, marked by an absence of vegetation that made it stand out like a beacon, but you recognized it. You remembered the sprint you’d made down that same mound, screaming for the dead to take you with them; to take you to him.

“This was the place,” he murmured, pushing aside some branches with careful deliberation, as if not wanting to disturb the stillness. You narrowed your eyes at his back as he searched the area, doing your own searching with your eyes and an unsteady heart. A part of you felt like you’d never see the gun again. Another part of you wanted to search the woods until the dead or time consumed you. It seemed Chris had the same mindset as he crouched down, brushing away moss and leaves, his movements urgent yet cautious. “It has to be here,” he insisted, more to himself than to you.

And then, with a sudden, reverent flourish, he unearthed the shotgun near a tree that looked oddly familiar. But . . . there it was. Your father's shotgun.

Time slowed as you stared at it, the world around you narrowing to that singular moment. The metal glinted dully in the subdued light, as if the forest itself had recognized the significance of the moment. You felt a rush of emotions—nostalgia, longing, and an overwhelming sense of urgency—but dread settled in your chest like a stone.

Chris handed it to you, the cold steel familiar but distant, like grasping at a ghost or holding your father’s hand for the last time. The moment hung heavy in the air, thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts. You wanted to feel relief, but instead, you felt an insistent pull of dread, a sinking feeling that this was more than just reclaiming a lost object. It was a harbinger of the path you had chosen; the person you’d become.

This was it. The last piece of him. The last thing you needed before you could leave.

You should’ve felt relief. That’s what you had been waiting for—relief. The plan had been simple: find the gun, then go. You didn’t want to stick around, didn’t want to keep pretending you had a place at the bunker with Chris and the others. You’d leave, disappear, and find some way to submit to the dead. End it all on your terms.

But as you held the shotgun, that sense of closure didn’t come. Instead, something else settled over you—a heavy, suffocating weight that clung to your skin, your chest tightening with an emotion you didn’t want to name. You clenched your jaw, trying to push it down, trying to force yourself to feel what you had expected: a clean break, the freedom to walk away and dig your own grave.

But you couldn’t.

Chris watched you, his expression unreadable, though you could feel the question hanging in the air between you. You avoided his eyes, focusing on the gun instead. It wasn’t relief that you felt. It wasn’t peace. It was something darker, something colder. Dread. Grief. Guilt.

You didn’t want to admit what those feelings meant. Couldn’t let yourself acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, a part of you didn’t want to leave. That part of you wanted to stay, despite everything you had told yourself. Despite the voice in your head telling you that you didn’t deserve it. That staying would only bring more pain, more loss—for you and for them.

But none of that mattered. You couldn’t stay. You didn’t deserve the chance to stay. After everything that had happened, it was better for everyone if you just left. Better if you disappeared.

“Well,” Chris’s voice cut through the tension, steady but unsure, “you found it.”

You nodded, still not looking at him. “Yeah,” you muttered, your voice low, hollow. You needed to get out of here. Now.

Hastily, you shrugged the holster over your shoulder and turned to leave, but Chris’s voice stopped you.

“Did you see that?” he abruptly gasped, not even acknowledging that you had tried to split on him a few seconds ago. It was like he couldn’t even comprehend it; like he thought you wouldn’t. And for a second, as you took in his question, you thought he was referring to the look of dread on your face that you’d tried to hide, but when you turned to meet his eyes, he was already staring at something else in the distance.

His body was rigid, his brows pinched together. At the look, you could only imagine what was behind you. The horde? Death? Your end? But . . . it was meant to be yours, not his. He couldn’t die for you, not when you’d forced everyone else to. You wouldn’t let that happen. Not again.

Swallowing hard, every muscle in your body tensed, adrenaline surging through your veins like liquid fire. Your heart pounded in your chest, its rhythm so loud in your ears that you feared it might give away your position. Your hand instinctively moved to the knife at your belt, fingers curling around the familiar handle, as your eyes followed Chris's fixed gaze, searching for whatever had caught his attention.

But what met your eyes wasn’t one of the dead, or even ten of them. No Death awaited you or impending end. No, instead, there, in a small clearing ahead, stood a deer. Only, as soon as you caught sight of it, you realized perhaps, in a way, this was a form of Death you’d been afraid to meet again.

“I haven’t seen one of those in a long time,” Chris murmured, but you barely heard him.

The deer’s once-proud form was a shadow of what it used to be, a grotesque parody of life that sent a chill down your spine. You’d only seen this once before . . . in the before. The animal's coat, which should’ve been sleek and glossy, hung in patchy clumps from its emaciated frame, revealing sickly pale skin beneath. Ribs protruded sharply beneath the skin, each one clearly visible, a testament to the ravages of disease. The deer's legs, usually strong and nimble, trembled slightly with the effort of standing, as if remaining upright was a monumental task.

But it was the eyes that truly betrayed the animal's condition, making your breath catch in your throat and your stomach churn with pity and revulsion. Once bright and alert, windows to a vital, vibrant spirit, now stared vacantly into the middle distance, glazed over with a milky film. There was no spark of life, no hint of the vital spirit that should animate this creature of the wild. It was as if the deer was already gone, its body simply a shell that hadn't yet realized it should fall. The sight was gut-wrenching. It was a miracle it was even still alive.

Chris raised his gun, his movements slow and deliberate. The metal of the barrel gleamed dully in the filtered sunlight, a cold, hard contrast to the soft greens and browns of the forest. Without conscious thought, your hand shot out, fingers wrapping firmly around his forearm. The touch seems to break the spell of silence that had fallen over the clearing, the contact between you electric, charged with unspoken urgency.

"Wait," you hissed, your voice barely above a whisper. The word hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. The lessons your father drilled into you came flooding back, a bittersweet tide of memory that threatened to overwhelm you. Each word he spoke echoed in your mind, as clear as if he were standing beside you now. "It’s sick. You can’t . . . you can’t eat sick things." And then you took a step forward.

Chris turned to you, his brows furrowed in confusion. The gun lowered slightly, but his finger remained close to the trigger. "Wait, you do that and it’s gone before you even get to it,” he said, his voice gravelly. His eyes searched yours, seeking understanding, but you knew better; you knew more.

"She won’t run," you explained, shaking your head. Your voice was tight, strained with the effort of keeping your emotions in check. “She won't run.”

Taking a deep breath, you stepped closer to the deer. The knife at your belt seemed to grow heavier with each step, its weight a grim reminder of what sin you were about to commit. As you drew it, the blade caught the sunlight, sending brief flashes across the clearing. The deer didn't react to your approach, didn't even twitch an ear. Its stillness was eerie and unnatural. Up close, the ravages of the disease were even more apparent, more horrifying. You could see the hollows in its cheeks, the way its bones seemed to push against its skin as if trying to escape the decaying flesh. A wave of pity washed over you. You’d always hated this part—the killing, even though it seemed to be the only thing you’d been good at in this new world.

You took a step forward, feeling the weight of the knife at your belt grow heavier with each movement. The sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the forest floor, illuminating the sickly form of the deer. Each shallow breath you took carried the earthy scent of the forest, mingling with a faint metallic tang that made your stomach churn.

“Hey, baby girl,” you murmured softly, your voice trembling as you approached. “It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.” Your hand found its way to the deer’s tattered fur, softly petting its back. Its breathing was shallow, and you could barely feel its heart beat.

Gently, you did as you’d seen your father do once before. You continued brushing your fingers through its fur, quietly humming to it as you searched those glossed-over eyes for any sign of life. But deep down, you knew the truth. The deer stood motionless, its eyes dull and unseeing, reflecting a haunting emptiness that gripped your heart. It was a shell of its former self, a mere ghost wandering the world of the living. No amount of searching would ever bring back what it once was.

Is this how your mother had seen you? A dead girl walking? Or something much, much darker?

And just like when you’d glanced at your reflection in the mirror that morning, you couldn’t bear to see the deer suffer any longer. You shifted closer to the deer, laying its head on your chest as you rubbed its cheek with your thumb. This was the end, you thought. It knew you. You knew it, and you were sure, somewhere in there, the deer knew, too.

With a swift motion, you plunged the knife into the deer’s skull, feeling the resistance give way to the flesh and bone. A silent gasp escaped your lips, mingling with the sharp sound of the blade cutting through the skin. The warmth of blood spilled out, soaking into the forest floor and your clothes, a vivid contrast against the muted greens and browns surrounding you.

You slowly lay its body into the soft earth, resting your hand on its stomach as you watched its blood pool, soaking the dirt. For a brief moment, time seemed to stretch, the world around you holding its breath. You remained where you were, unmoving and unfeeling.

Deer were meant to flee. A deer that didn’t, was a dead deer. The predator would catch up to it sooner or later. You supposed you’d finally found the prey you’d been desperately waiting to sink your teeth into, and yet . . . it felt no different from leaving your father in that burning building, and you remained hungry.

Was this a sign from him? A punishment? Did he want you to kill so you knew you were making the right decision to leave? Did he want you to know that you didn’t deserve to live? That you didn’t deserve to stay at the bunker? That you belonged out here—lost in the woods on the forest floor like a sick deer?

Or was it God?

Or had it always been you? Is that why—

“It let you kill it,” Chris suddenly whispered, the words hanging heavy in the air. “Why didn’t it run?”

“Too sick,” you replied after a minute, your voice barely above a whisper. “CWD. Their own personal zombie virus. That’s why . . . that’s why you can’t take it back to them. You can’t . . . you eat a sick deer like that, and you get sick.” Swallowing hard, you could almost hear your father’s voice as you said, “That’s rule number one. Don’t eat sick things.”

Chris's eyebrows knitted together, deepening the furrow in his brow. His expression was a mixture of bewilderment and concern, his eyes darting between you and the deer, seeking understanding. "Then leave it,” he muttered, staring off into the woods, searching, analyzing. “It’ll be noon soon. We shouldn’t stay in one place for too long.”

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, you dropped your hand from the warmth of the deer’s belly, your fingers digging into the soft, loamy soil. The earth was cool and damp against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of emotion burning through you. Then . . . you began to dig, your movements frantic yet purposeful, driven by a visceral need. Clumps of dirt and decaying leaves collected under your fingernails as you scooped away handfuls of forest floor, the physical labor a welcome outlet for the tumult of emotions roiling within you. “My people bury the dead,” you explained, your voice thick with unshed tears that you refused to acknowledge. “We can’t just leave her out here. She deserves more respect than that. We all do. Right? That’s what you told me. All life is important, so why isn’t hers?” You glanced back at him then.

Chris hesitated for a moment, his gaze moving from you to the deer and back again. You could almost see the wheels turning in his brain, weighing the risks, the effort, against the intangible benefits of this act. Then, with a small nod of understanding, he joined you on the ground. His hands working alongside yours, scooping away earth and leaves.

As you dug, you kept your eyes fixed on the growing hole, fighting back the flood of memories threatening to overwhelm you. The rhythmic movement of your hands, the earthy scent rising from the disturbed soil, the quiet sounds of exertion—all of it blended together, creating a meditative state that allows your mind to wander, to remember.

Images of your lost family flashed through your mind like a cruel slideshow, each memory as vivid and painful as if it were happening anew. Your father. The burning building. The bullet. The whiskey. Your mother. Her love that felt like hatred. Your sister. Felix. You were a monster to them now. Just another dead thing. You didn’t want this. You wanted it all to stop. You wanted to be gone, gone, dead. Fuck, the ache of their absence was a constant, throbbing wound. And the worst of it all: you thought that it would have always ended this way, dead or not, end of the world or not. This was always how your life was going to go; how it was going to end. You’d always known it, too, and that perhaps was more terrifying than knowing you’d be dead soon.

You wondered if you’d find relief then. Would you deserve it then?

With your thoughts consuming you, the only sounds surrounding the two of you were the scraping of earth and your labored breathing. As the hole grew deeper, you stole a glance at Chris. His face was etched with concentration, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. His hands, now as dirt-stained as yours, moved with purpose, mirroring your own movements in a silent dance of shared effort. He might not have fully understood the significance of what you were doing, the weight of tradition and memory that drove your actions, but his willingness to help, tugged on something deep inside you. You turned back a second later, reminding yourself that you’d be dead by dusk.

And when minutes had passed and you’d lain the deer in the hole you’d dug, the two of you worked to cover the body with dirt. Another minute would pass before the deer was fully buried, the earth packed down, but the silence between you and Chris felt heavier than the soil itself. The weight of what you had just done. The deer. The wolf. The prey. The predator. You didn’t even know who you were anymore.

You straightened slowly, wiping dirt from your hands, your fingers still trembling. The forest around you was quiet, almost too quiet, as if even nature was holding its breath in the aftermath of this small, sacred act. And then, you tore yourself from the grave, hand reaching for your gun as you holsted it over your shoulder and stood to your feet, unsure of what came next. You could feel Chris’s presence beside you, solid but distant, like a tether you weren’t sure you wanted to hold onto. The quiet stretched, and you realized you had nothing else to say. It was over. The deer was buried. You had become the only predator to mourn its prey, and Chris had been witness to it all. There was only one thing left to do: pay for your sins.

Clearing your throat, you took a step away from the grave. “Well . . . don’t die,” you said softly, almost under your breath. The words felt inadequate, but they were all you had, and before he could respond, you turned to go, your steps already leading you back into the shadowy embrace of the woods.

Chris’s voice stopped you, his tone rough but filled with something you couldn’t quite name. “That’s it?”

You froze, your pulse quickening. Slowly, you turned back to face him, your face hardening, instinctively putting up your walls again. “Thank you, I guess, for, you know . . .” You gestured vaguely toward the mound of dirt, the words feeling clumsy in your mouth, like they didn’t belong to you.

Chris nodded, his expression unreadable. “Man of my word,” he said quietly, the words simple but carrying weight.

“Right.” You gave him a brief, curt nod, and turned away again, eager to leave the scene behind. You had made it just a few steps before his voice reached you once more, this time softer, hesitant.

“I think you should stay.”

The words made you stop in your tracks, confusion flickering across your face as you turned to look at him. His posture was different now—less guarded, more uncertain. “What?”

Chris shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. “I’d . . . I’d like it if you stayed,” he said, voice low, his eyes meeting yours with a sincerity that made your stomach twist. “You’re smart. You’ve been out here longer than any of us. You know things. You’re—”

“Useful?” you cut in sharply, the word laced with bitterness.

Chris’s brows knitted together, and he wet his lips, searching for the right response. “Yes . . . but—”

Before he could finish, a low, guttural growl cut through the air, sending a shiver of dread racing down your spine. Both of you turned toward the sound, eyes wide, as a lone dead one staggered out from the underbrush, its rotting flesh illuminated by the sunlight peeking through the trees.

Chris reached for his gun, but you were already moving. In one fluid motion, you pulled out your knife and surged forward. The blade cut through the air with deadly precision, sinking into the dead’s skull with a sickening crunch. The body crumpled to the ground at your feet, lifeless once more, as you yanked your knife free, wiping the blood on your pants without a second thought.

Chris stared at you, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and admiration, though he said nothing. He didn’t need to. You could feel the unspoken acknowledgment hanging between you—a silent respect, begrudging but undeniable.

But there was no time to dwell on it. The distant sound of more growling echoed through the trees, louder this time, closer. The horde hadn’t scattered like Chris had thought. They were closing in, drawn to the noise, to the scent of death that still lingered in the air.

“Shit,” Chris muttered, his voice tight with urgency. “They’re blocking the way back. Fuck.” Without another word, he grabbed your arm, pulling you with him as you both broke into a run. The forest became a blur around you, the sounds of the dead growing louder with each passing second.

You stumbled over roots and ducked under low branches, adrenaline pumping through your veins. The darkness of the forest closed in, thick and oppressive, but Chris seemed to know exactly where he was going. His hand gripped your arm like a lifeline, keeping you steady as the two of you sprinted through the underbrush.

Finally, he led you to a concealed hatch hidden beneath a layer of leaves and branches. He dropped to his knees, sweeping the debris aside and pulling it open with a creak. “In,” he urged, and you didn’t hesitate. You climbed down into the darkness, landing on cold metal as Chris followed close behind, slamming the hatch shut just as the first of the undead reached the clearing.

You stood in the dimly lit space, your breath coming in ragged gasps as your eyes adjusted to the gloom. The underground bunker was small, claustrophobic, the walls made from welded scrap metal. A single lantern cast a weak glow over the room, revealing a mattress with blankets, some crates, and a few scattered supplies. The air was cool and musty, the kind of place that felt forgotten by the world above.

“What the fuck is this?” you asked, glancing around, your voice still thick with adrenaline.

“Underground shelter,” Chris said, leaning against the wall as he caught his breath. His eyes flicked toward the meager supplies stacked in the corner. “We built it a couple years ago, after we lost some people on patrol. Thought it’d be good to have a place to fall back to if things went south.” He nodded toward the bed and the crates. “Overnight bed. Some food. Lanterns. Walkies if we need to reach home base. It’s not much, but it keeps us safe from the dead. Can’t live down here more than a week, but . . . it does the trick.”

You raised an eyebrow, letting out a dry laugh as you dropped your backpack on the ground. “Jesus Christ, you guys are like fuckin’ moles.”

He cracked a smile at that, just a small one, barely visible in the dim light, but there nonetheless. It was fleeting, like he wasn’t used to showing that part of himself.

“We’ll stay here tonight,” Chris said after a moment, his voice softer now, almost gentle in the quiet space.

You nodded, sinking down to the floor, your back against the cool metal wall. Your heart was still racing, but the immediate threat had passed. Above you, faint and muffled, you could hear the groans of the undead, but down here, in this small bunker, you were safe. At least for tonight.

Sometimes you thought there wasn’t much to say about the way you’d grown up. Other times, you wondered if there was perhaps too much to say. You wondered if some parts of your life growing up would forever be lost to time; forever forgotten because there just wasn’t enough room to remember. A lot of the time, you wondered if your family thought the same. You wondered if you were the part of their lives that would one day be forgotten to time. You wondered if it were better that way.

But other times you wished you could force yourself to forget.

Memories only consumed you as you sat on the edge of the mattress, wine glass in your hand that you’d yet to drink, and the reflection of the dead deer staring back at you in the red of the wine. You’d forgotten to pray.

You’d killed the thing, buried it, and left it without a prayer. Would it be forever stuck in limbo like your mother used to warn you? Dead things needed prayers to be put to rest. Had she been right?

Swallowing hard, your grip on the wine glass tightened. Had she been right? . . . Your knees began to itch.

“Not up to par with your standards?” a deep voice intruded on your thoughts, catching your gaze.

You ripped your eyes from the wine glass, glancing up in time to see Chris sit down in front of you, his back leaning up against the wooden chest he’d pulled the wine from. It had been hours since the two of you had found yourselves down there and he’d only pulled the wine from the chest about fifteen minutes ago, pouring you and himself a glass, claiming the two of you needed it after the day you’d had.

It was a simple thing. Adults drank. You; however, didn’t. Your mother . . . the town . . . it was never allowed unless in the name of Christ.

So your wine glass stayed full, and you empty. You wanted to drink it. You wanted to guzzle glass after glass down and forget about everything like your sister would one day forget about you, but you couldn’t. Memories haunted you, and you knew it wasn’t the town or even your mother that made you think twice about sipping from your temptation.

The last time you’d had alcohol, your father had just died. The last time you’d had alcohol, your world stopped. The last time you had alcohol, you could still taste your father’s blood in your mouth. The last time you’d had alcohol, it wasn’t enough to burn away the memories.

But you hadn’t told a soul that. Not even Felix, and you wouldn’t start with this man now.

“It’s fine,” was all you muttered but you didn’t dare to bring the glass to your lips.

Chris, now, was on his second glass you’d say, not that it seemed to have any affect on him. You had; however, taken note of that.

“You sure?” He cocked a brow, leaning toward you, his hand outstretched toward your glass. “I wouldn’t be opposed to drinking it for you.”

You only snarled, and pulled the glass in closer toward your chest. A second later, you forced yourself to tear your gaze from his smug face, and instead toward the glass in your hand. The reflection of the deer was gone now, but your memories remained.

It was all so familiar.

You’d been here before. You’d been here many times. You’d been here since you were a child, first learning the scriptures of your town. You’d never left.

You’d been here in the before. It was easy to be there then. It had been easy to kneel when you were just a girl; when you didn’t know any better; when wine was blood.

The Eucharist. The blood and body of Christ. You’d walked down that aisle, hands clasped in prayer a thousand times. You’d stopped before the priest and named your father, son, and holy spirit over and over again. You’d taken his body into your mouth and drank his blood. You’d done it for years and years, more than once a week, all the time, every time. You’d done it so long and so well you began to think wine was just blood and blood was never wine. You’d done it until you were sick; until War came and Famine followed. You’d done it until you’d seen your father kill a man before your eyes. You’d done it until you realized spilled blood tasted no different from wine. You’d done it until you’d tasted body and blood and rage; until you’d killed a man and left his body for the dead to consume three days later.

You’d done it until you realized wine was never blood, blood would always be blood, and wine would always be wine.

It was just wine.

It was just . . . wine. It was familiar, but different now. Your knees were still scabbed but there was no body and no blood before you, just wine.

You swallowed hard once more, wet your lips, then brought the glass to your lips and chugged it whole. You could have sworn you’d heard Chris click his tongue in response, but you didn’t care, because you had been wrong.

It was supposed to just be wine. Wine was wine and blood was blood. So then why could you only taste blood when it should’ve been wine?

Memories haunted you once more. The man your father killed. The dog. Your father. The man you’d killed. The deer. All of it. Every single thing you’d had to kill to survive this long. All of it.

And you realized it was too late. The taste of blood would never leave you.

You leaned forward, snatching the bottle of wine from Chris’s hands and pouring yourself another glass of wine. It was gone the next second, and you knew the violent dog inside of you had finally been fed.

“You don’t drink much, do you?” he questioned into the night as you downed another glass.

Glancing up, you wondered how he knew; how he always knew. However, the next second, your head felt funny, and you realized maybe it wasn’t too hard to tell. (You also realized that maybe you should’ve stopped, but you didn’t care and poured yourself another glass.)

Before you could lift the glass to your lips again, Chris’s hand got in the way. He blocked you from downing the drink, and you stopped right before his knuckles touched your lips. You couldn’t have that. You couldn’t let him touch you, so you listened to him despite wanting to down drink after drink after drink.

“You’re supposed to sip it,” he murmured as his eyes flicked from your eyes to your wine-stained lips. He slowly brought the glass away from your lips, and you let him in your haze. “Wine’s meant to be savored. You chugged it.”

“I was thirsty,” you muttered with a shrug, your grip still tight on the stem of the glass.

He shook his head. “No one’s ever that thirsty.”

A beat of silence. Your head felt funnier. It was odd. Odd but good. Too odd for you to care to keep up the charade. “Fine, you’re right,” you huffed as you plucked his hand from your glass. He leaned back again, but his eyes never left you, watching as you tried and failed to sip the drink. “This is—” you smacked your lips— “my third time drinking.”

“Ever?”

You nodded.

He raised a brow. “How old are you?”

Narrowing your eyes, you gave him a look before attempting to down the rest of your glass, but he stopped you. “Nah, nah, nah, hold on. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he muttered out with a laugh under his breath. Only a drop of red wine touched your tongue, and then the glass wasn’t in your hand anymore. “I just kinda assumed.”

With a scoff, you watched as he moved toward you, sitting down beside you on the bed. He swirled the wine in the glass he’d stolen from you before he downed it, leaving no more. You rolled your eyes at him and attempted to reach for the bottle, but he was faster, kicking it to the ground, allowing the last bit of wine to spill onto the floor. Your eyes snapped to his smug face, nearly growling at him.

Tonguing his cheek, he seemed to hold back a smile. “Oops.”

You snatched the glass out of his hand, trying to get the last drop before you sighed and slouched. Maybe it was for the best. You’d never been drunk before. Your mother always told you too many sips led to bad mistakes, and you already had enough of those.

And yet, you found yourself sighing out: “My mother. She always said alcohol was the devil’s drink, unless, of course, it was during mass.” Why were you telling him this? Why was your head so fuzzy? Why did you not care? “I was only eighteen when this whole thing started. There wasn’t much . . . time to drink after that.”

Chris sighed, leaning back onto the bed with his leg bent at the knee and his elbow supporting his weight against the mattress. “Then what were the other times?” he asked, lazily picking at his nails.

You glanced over your shoulder at him, brows scrunched. “What?”

His head dipped back with a soft groan. “Come on, you can tell me. I’m trustworthy,” he mused, gesturing to his chest.

“You’re . . . drunk,” you stated, almost asking.

“Mmm, not quite, but, close,” he hummed as he waved his finger at you. “I also don’t drink much.” Silence. A click of his tongue. His eyes on yours. “Not much time.” He winked, repeating your words from earlier.

Silence again. A clenching of your jaw. Your eyes on his. And then you did something odd. Keeping your eyes on him as if you were predator and prey, you leaned back onto the bed, propping yourself up on your elbow. You kept your eyes on him, and he did the same, like two animals scared to look away, wondering who was in danger of who.

“My dad,” you finally muttered out as you glanced from one eye to the other, taking in his features. “When I hit twenty-one, he snuck me a shot in the woods.”

He squinted his eyes and nodded. “Mmm, vodka?”

You shook your head. “Whiskey.”

“Odd.”

The corners of your lips twitched. “It was his favorite.”

“And the second?”

The second. You swallowed hard, tearing your eyes from his. There it was. The memories. The hunger. The taste of blood.

“Whiskey, again,” you forced yourself to say. And, yet, it was almost too easy to mutter: “After my dad died.”

Out of your peripheral vision, you saw him nod, but you didn’t dare look at him. You didn’t dare acknowledge the look on his face. You couldn’t, and you certainly couldn’t have him seeing the look on yours. You weren’t in the right headspace to hide the secrets you’d buried when you should’ve buried your father.

“Ah, well, you’re missing out,” was all Chris said instead. No talk of your father, no more questions. Nothing. Just . . . moving on, and somehow . . . somehow you felt grateful. “The best drink is plum-flavored soju and beer. Can’t get any better than that.” He leaned forward, whispering now. “But I’d say alcohol tastes the best when you’re bar hopping until two AM, surviving off shots of cheap vodka with friends.”

“Not much of that anymore.”

Chris hummed in agreement. “One day though,” he added. “We’ll all be different then, but . . . someday.”

Your brows furrowed and you scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re an optimist,” you mused as you traced the rim of the glass with your finger. “Thinkin’ like that gets you killed.”

“Mmm, maybe, but so far . . . it’s the reason I’m alive,” he replied almost as if it were fact; as if the reason he was alive didn’t have anything to do with luck and chance. “You’ll see. When we get you a shot of vodka, you’ll see I’m right. Or you can shoot me and leave me for dead. Either way, you win, yeah?”

You couldn’t help but look at him then, your face sunken in confusion. He only had this look on his face: a lazy smile and soft eyes. You swallowed hard in response, unsure of how to react. Why was he so . . . odd?

“So . . . “ he began again after a second of silence, tapping on your glass with his finger— “how do you know so much about deer?”

Why was he so interested? And why did you like it?

“My dad taught me how to hunt,” you heard yourself say before you knew what you were doing. It was odd how he could get this out of you. Maybe alcohol really was the devil’s drink. But . . . you didn’t care, you just . . . couldn’t stop yourself from responding; from talking to . . . him. “Where I come from . . . hunting season was the only celebration we ever had. My dad would come home with a truckload of deer. We’d get to keep one and the rest would be sold at this farmer’s market just outside of town.” You sucked your bottom lip under the grasp of your teeth at the memories. You’d been a dutiful child then. You didn’t know how to shove yourself back into that mold, and right now . . . you didn’t care. “That was the only time I’d ever been out of town before all this. I didn’t even know nothing about hunting back then. He only taught me when . . . when Pestilence rose.”

“Pestilence?”

Oh. You blinked. The hunger. The blood. The wine. The sick.

“I meant . . . “ you cleared your throat— “when everyone started getting . . . sick.”

Silence passed between the two of you once again, and you knew he could see something in you that you wouldn’t share. You knew he could sense it, perhaps even smell it. You couldn’t run away from the lives you’d lived. They were a part of you just as the wild animal you kept at bay had always lived within you. And somehow, it was like he just knew.

“How was that for you guys?” he asked, brushing over your slip-up.

And you let him. “It didn’t reach us.”

Chris stiffened then. “What?”

Your brows scrunched in confusion. “How bad did it reach you?”

“My city was the first to get it.”

Your confusion deepened. “War conquered you first?”

“If you can even call it that,” he muttered, eyes falling to the blanket as his thumb brushed over the loose threads. “It wasn’t a war. It—It—the government—it was genocide.”

“Genocide? But . . . “ you paused. You couldn’t wrap your head around it. This didn’t make sense. You never heard anything about genocide. It had always been the dead. The dead were to blame. “The dead. They rose. What did the government . . . ?”

Chris cocked his head in his own confusion. “You don’t know?”

You shook your head. “What . . . what did they do?”

“Bombed the major cities.”

“What?” you uttered, your face falling. No, but, your father checked the news with you every day. There was nothing like that. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t have lied to you. He wanted you to see the truth. It didn’t make any— “Sense. That doesn’t make any sense. I saw the news. The dead . . . they—”

It didn’t make any sense. Your father had promised to show you the truth, unlike the town. He promised. But the look on Chris’s face. It was as if he’d seen these bombings before his very eyes. You knew that look he held. It was the same one you wore every day. It was familiar and sick and . . . and that was when it hit you. Your father had hidden this from you. He’d shown you the news, but not all of it.

Was it to protect you?

Deceive you?

“I was away at college at the time,” Chris continued with a sigh while you tried to wrap your head around it all. “The travel ban had lifted and I hadn’t seen my family in so long but . . . I was waiting until break to return home. I wanted . . . I wanted to be able to bring good news with me when I returned. I didn’t want to come back without finishing the semester, empty-handed, especially all we had been through the past three years.” He swallowed hard. You’d heard it. “And then the dead started to come back, and they told us to stay inside; to stay indoors; to not leave for our safety, so I stayed. Not even a week later, the bombings happened, and I did everything I could to get back home, to find my family, to make sure they had made it out, that they were . . . that they were looking for me, too.”

You blinked.

He sighed. “I did find them eventually . . . Right where I left them.”

Right where I left them. You knew what that meant.

“You look afraid to ask,” he commented.

You shook your head once more. It wasn’t fear. It was understanding. “I’m not.”

“But you are.”

“They were dead,” you replied, proving him wrong.

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Four.”

You felt your brows twitch, and the memories were back again. Your father, mother, sister, Felix. You’d lost four, too. Four too many.

A second later, you met his eyes again, opening your mouth, but before you could tell him, you quickly stopped yourself. If you did that; if you told him you understood; if you told him you’d lost it all too, then he’d have this over you. You couldn’t have that. He could know only a few things about you, but not everything. Everything was too much. Everything would mean knowing you and knowing you was so similar to owning you. You wouldn’t let him have the ability to control you, not when you were already a gun waiting for your trigger to be pulled.

Instead, you forced your face into a blank slate and muttered out, “They’re lucky, then.”

But he only grinned, scoffing. “I know what you’re doing, but . . . you should know I agree with you,” he mused, brows raised as he studied your face. “It’s not the dead that suffer . . . and I know you know it, too. I can see it on your face. I know people like you . . . I know you think if you tell me these horrible stories, I’ll somehow be afraid of you, too, but this isn’t a storybook and you’re not some wild animal. We’ll always be who we were. Maybe we’ll distance ourselves from who we used to be, but . . . you can’t kill parts of yourself that have already lived.”

You clenched your jaw hard.

You can’t kill parts of yourself that have already lived, he’d said. **

Stop, you thought. He didn’t know that you’d spent your childhood tearing yourself down the middle, pulling stitches from the back of your legs, only to spend all night resewing them. He didn’t know there was a rotten seed that’d been planted inside you from birth, growing and growing the more you did. He didn’t know wine had never just been wine to you. He didn’t know that you had tried so hard to stuff yourself back into the shape of the dutiful child you used to pretend to be. He didn’t know that no matter how many stitches you sewed into your skin, it was never enough to keep the rot inside you from spilling out. He didn’t know that you would remain undone.

In silence, you watched as he locked his jaw, staring off at the wall. “I am all the things I have done and . . . all the things I will do,” he murmured as he picked at the blanket he laid upon. “Good and bad. They were all me at one point, and during those times, I never thought I’d ever change . . . but I did. Can’t take it back; can’t erase it. It’s just there. It just is . . . as am I . . . as are you.”

I am all the things I have done. But that was impossible. How could you still be the girl who’d pretend to be sick so that she could walk the outskirts of the woods? How could you be the girl who’d always imagined faraway lands existed beyond those woods, but was always too afraid to take a step further to find out? How could you be that girl who’d never held a gun before? Who’d been too scared to kill an animal? How could you still be that dutiful child when you’d killed a man not even a month ago? How could that part of you still exist when you could still taste his blood on your tongue every time you took a swig of wine?

You’d never tried to kill that part of yourself. You never wanted to. You wanted to hold onto her, stroke her hair, and let her dream of a better tomorrow, but she just . . . simply didn’t exist anymore.

Well . . . perhaps he was right in a sense. You couldn’t kill parts of yourself that had already lived, but they could die. Parts of you died as you aged. A part of you died in that house you grew up in. A part of you died the night you saw your father kill a man. A part of you died the day you had to put that dog down. A part of you died the night your father died. Another the night you killed a man. And one more tonight. All of which he was oblivious to.

He didn’t know you. He didn’t know you were a rotten seed.

And yet: “You can try to change my mind, but . . . it won’t work,” Chris went on, trying to catch your eye, but you didn’t dare look at him. “You’re a good person somewhere in there. You can’t hide from that.”

But he was wrong. He was so wrong. He was— “You’re wrong,” you blurted out, unable to filter yourself in this state. “I’m not . . . good.” You looked at him then. He was already staring at you. You didn’t mean to let it slip, but for a split second, there was a look on your face. For a split second, you were sure he could see the pain you’d carried for years. You tried to wipe it from your face, but you knew he’d seen it and you knew he’d understood it.

In shock, you held back a gasp and averted your eyes to the blanket. How could you be so foolish? How could you let him see that part of you? Shaking your head, you sat up, stiff and untouchable.

A beat of silence. Then, he sat up, too, nearly brushing arms with you but being careful enough not to touch you. “Bad people . . . “ he trailed off, picking at his fingers as you watched, taking him in cautiously. “Bad people don’t go screaming into the woods with a bunch of the dead after them. They also don’t risk their lives for a gun . . . or bury dead animals.”

Furrowing your brows, you took in his words. He’d caught onto all those things? But . . . that meant—

No, it meant nothing. Bad people kill animals for their own survival. Bad people cause their father’s deaths and still have the nerve to ask for forgiveness. Bad people kill others. Bad people taste blood when they sip wine, and wine when they taste blood.

He didn’t know you. You were still rotten at heart, diseased, and plagued with this darkness you’d been born with, and yet here was this stranger telling you you weren’t all the things you believed yourself to be. It didn’t make any sense. He was wrong. Either he wanted something from you or wanted you weak or—

And, then, something off happened. The next second, his hand hesitantly inched forward, and you watched stiff and silent as he rested it on your knee, giving it a soft comforting squeeze before he retracted, leaving you in shock.

What was that? Why did he squeeze your knee? The boys your mother talked about would’ve used that as their chance to take advantage of you, but he’d retracted so quickly. He didn’t linger. He didn’t try to . . . Then why? What for?

“Sorry,” he cleared his throat, taking note of your reaction. Awkwardly, he scratched the back of his neck. “Not very good at comforting people.”

Comfort?

Your eyes snapped to his profile. He wasn’t looking at you now, but you were staring straight at him, mouth slightly agape and brows furrowed in confusion. You were sure he felt your gaze, but he didn’t dare glance your way. Was he scared? Why would he try to . . . comfort you then? Why did he—

“In junior high . . . I cut Samantha Claken’s ponytail off because she got the lead choir part. I . . . I was just a part of the fucking chorus,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself. Why you mentioned such an old memory you didn’t know, but it just slipped out. You just . . . you wanted him to know he was wrong; that you’d been a rotten child no matter how long you worked each night to sew yourself together. “I’ve always been jealous. Jealous child, jealous adult. I’ve hurt people who’ve taken the things I wanted and I didn’t care. I’m not good. You shouldn’t comfort me. I’ve never once deserved it, not even as a child. I’m not good. I’m not your friend. I don’t like you. I don’t care about you. I won’t. I am not good. I will hurt you.” Your brows twitched. “I’m violent.”

Chris looked at you then, and it was almost as if you were staring into a mirror. The look on his face . . . no, he needed to stop. You wouldn’t let him in your head. You wouldn’t let him know you. You wouldn’t bring death to more doorsteps.

Wetting your lips, you breathed in sharply, and reiterated, “Sam got what I wanted and I cut all her hair off. The year before that she won the superlative for best hair. I knew it would hurt her, and that’s why I did it.” You leaned closer to him just a smidge, eyes blank. “I would’ve done worse if I could’ve. I would’ve cut her. I would’ve.”

But he just kept staring at you like he could see right through you. You’d never felt so exposed in your entire life than you did when you were with him.

And then . . . he smiled. No, grinned. “Well . . . maybe she deserved it.”

Your brows raised. All you could do was stare at him. It was obvious he didn’t believe you. It was obvious your suspicions were right: he could see right through you. Or maybe . . . maybe he didn’t care.

“All she did was tell Sister Agnes that I was the one who stole all the communion wafers before mass,” you replied. “Do you think I did the right thing?”

He laughed through his nose, shaking his head. And for a second you thought he’d agreed with you. For a second, you thought you’d proven your point, but instead: “So she did deserve it,” he mused with a soft sigh, leaning back onto the mattress.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered as you put your glass on the floor in an attempt to cover up the fact that you were fighting back the feeling of your lips twitching upward. “There’s always a clear distinction between right and wrong. I deserved the punishment.”

“Punishment?”

You glanced at him, taking note of his scrunched brows. Had you said too much? “They had to push mass back an hour just so they could make a whole new batch. It was a big deal, apparently,” you went on, going against every bone in your body telling you to keep your mouth shut. “Sister Agnes made me stay after bible study just so she could slap my hands with a fucking ruler. Went home with cuts all along my knuckles—” you offered him your hand, pointing out the old scars with your fingers— “and when my mom saw . . . “ Your brows furrowed at the memory. You’d almost forgotten. “There was this room in the attic . . . I—”

Stop! your brain screamed at you before the words left your lips. You didn’t even realize you were about to tell him anything about yourself. How could you be so foolish? Why had it been so easy to let those words spill? Why did you— Was it the wine or him?

Clearing your throat, you shook your head and sighed. “But you know . . . I think that was the best day of my life,” you said instead, ignoring your previous admission. “Word got back to my mom, and she made me give them all back, you know? But . . . I still got an extra twenty wafers than I would’ve on a Sunday.”

And what was even weirder . . . he let you move on without another question. Instead, all he asked was, “How do they taste anyway?”

But that seemed to shock you more than if he had tried to pry. “You’ve never had?”

He shook his head once. “I grew up believing in nothing.”

“Mmm, you missed out,” you hummed, glancing at him over your shoulder. They’re like the perfect amount of nothing and just a pinch of flavor. The aftertaste . . . I swear . . . is like this wine . . . better than it maybe.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, but that day . . . that day they tasted even better,” you went on, getting wrapped up in your memories again, forgetting yourself. “Like . . . like . . . “

“Payback,” Chris finished for you.

Shock weaved onto your face as you openly stared at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. You just . . . how did he always know? Quickly, you wiped the look off your face, trying to compose yourself. “Payback,” you confirmed, nodding your head, but this time you couldn’t stop from the corners of your lips twitching into the smallest, faintest of smiles as you stared at him. What was worse was the fact that you couldn’t stop yourself from leaning back onto the mattress, your eyes trained on the metal ceiling as you clasped your hands together, resting them on your stomach. “You know . . . I had to clean up after mass every day for a month and wash the windows every week, but it was so fuckin’ worth it to see the look on Sister’s face when she opened the cabinet and they were all gone.”

Chris nodded, then sighed before he laid down right beside you, your arms nearly brushing. “I can’t say I’ve ever done something like that before,” he murmured as he tucked an arm behind his head.

“Mmm, I know,” you hummed back. “I know your type.”

“My type?” he laughed through his nose. “Tell me more about my type.”

Wetting your lips, you knew what you were doing letting him know what you thought of him, but you blamed the alcohol. It didn’t mean you trusted him or anything like that. You were just not . . . yourself. “You’re too good,” you told him as you accepted your fate. “Anyone can see that. It’s so clear, almost too clear. It’s so clear I sometimes wonder if I should warn you.” The words left your lips and you knew you’d said too much, but you just couldn’t stop. “I had a friend. He was good, too. He still is. I know he is, but I’m scared that because of me, he won’t be for much longer. And you . . . you have the same kind of look in your eyes as him.” Felix’s eyes. Chris’s. It was like they both looked at you like you were still there; like the blood staining your teeth was just wine. “They’re kind . . . like you can tell you’ve smiled even in a world like this. You can’t fool anyone with eyes like that. They tell everything about what’s going on in here.” You pointed to your chest, repeatedly jabbing it like a knife into flesh. “I think . . . I think it’d kill you to do something bad . . . to hurt someone.”

A beat of silence. Then another. And by the third one, you were afraid to glance over at him.

So instead, you accepted your fate for a second time that night and went on, “And maybe that’s good. Maybe it’s people like you who’ll survive all of this. Maybe it’s people like me who got it all wrong. I don’t know.” Covering your face with your hands, you groaned. “I don’t know. I just . . . I just think that in this world to love . . . is to kill, and if you don’t get that; if you can’t do that, then the only way you can love is if you die.”

This time when a beat of silence pounded in your ears, you didn’t let him or time make the decision for you. Instead . . .

“I guess that’s the question of the century, yeah?” you scoffed, shaking your head as the memories from all those years came fading in and out, in and out, in and— “Is it better to kill . . . or to die?”

“And—” out of your peripheral vision, you watched as Chris turned his head to look at you, but you wouldn’t dare meet his gaze— “what would you choose?”

“I’ve killed.”

“I know,” he replied, calmly, “but . . . what would you choose?”

It was then you couldn’t help but meet his eyes. You glanced from one eye to the other, searching them in hopes he wouldn’t force you to answer. “Why ask questions you already know the answer to?” you questioned, still searching his eyes for . . . something. “Once you do something . . . you don’t get to choose anymore. You’ve already committed yourself. There’s no undoing the past . . . just like you said. So what I would choose now doesn’t matter. I’ve already chosen.”

Chris nodded at that, but you could tell . . . no you could see that he didn’t believe you. What was he thinking? Why was he always so—

“I think if I could go back to the beginning, I’d turn on the TV sooner,” Chris said before your mind could spiral, and then it hit you that he was giving you his answer on a silver platter, and for some reason, you wanted to know; for some reason, you listened. “I’d see the news and I’d get to my family in time. I’d . . . die with them or for them, it wouldn’t matter. I just wouldn’t want to survive without them if I had the choice.”

Furrowing your brows, you couldn’t help but ask, “Then . . . why did you keep going?”

He glanced away, accepting the silence as well. “If given the choice, every single one of them would’ve died for me. I would’ve done the same. But shit hit the fan and I was the only one who made it out alive,” he said, almost as if it were hard for him; almost if he, too, wasn’t telling you the full truth. “They’d already died waiting for me. I couldn’t let their deaths be in vain. And . . . “ he wet his lips— “I had other people to protect . . . ”

“So you went on surviving,” you whispered more to yourself than to him.

“They didn’t get a choice,” he muttered. “I did. I . . . do.”

Swallowing hard, you bit the inside of your cheek. “Is that why you saved me?”

He looked at you again then, and you swore you saw something different in his gaze. Grief? Regret? Pain? No . . . no . . . what was it? “I don’t know,” he answered your thoughts with a small shrug.

He didn’t know why he’d saved you . . . You nodded and muttered under your breath, “Well . . . you shouldn’t have. Would have saved you all this—” you gestured to the safe house bunker— “trouble.”

“Mmm, there it is again,” he mused, his voice lighter now or maybe . . . amused(?). “I’m not scared of you, you know?”

The beat of your heart could be felt in your throat. Why was he always so . . . like this? And yet . . . you wanted to know what he thought. You wanted to know what he thought of you.

“You’ve tried to scare me, but I see it. I’ve seen who you used to be,” he whispered almost as if he wanted you to know his words were only for you despite there not being anyone alive for meters upon meters. “That story about your dog. The man you killed. I know when someone’s not telling the full truth. I started to believe you weeks ago, but after what happened with Misun . . . I was watching you the entire night. You were only wiping her chin.” You blinked and he smiled, softly. “You had a sister before. I’m right, aren’t I? When Jeongin went for you, you were trying to protect her. You were willing to die for her . . . not kill. That tells me everything.” He brought a hand to his chin, rubbing it as he scoffed. “And today . . . seeing you today with that deer . . . I've never seen someone be so violent yet so . . . so . . . gentle.”

“There’s nothing gentle about me,” you quickly protested, but you could still feel your heart in your throat. Then . . . your knees began to itch, and you wanted to run. You wanted to run and yet . . . you stayed put, laying side by side next to a man who seemed to see all the things you tried to hide, and you just couldn’t look away.

You only became more enraptured by him when he grinned at your words, almost laughing it off; as if your words were the farthest thing from the truth; as if you weren’t a wild animal. “That’s why I want you to stay with us,” he confessed, his voice still soft, still inviting; still hypnotizing. “You’d do anything for any one of those kids. I know you would. It doesn’t matter what else you’ve done, it matters who you are, and I know you’re a good person.”

I know you’re a good person, he’d said. But how could he know? You could still taste the blood of a man on your tongue. You could still feel the hardness of his trachea hitting your teeth as you bit into his neck. You could still feel the arteries stuck between your teeth. You could still feel it all, and yet: I know you’re a good person.

“Something told me to save you that night,” he finally admitted, now searching your eyes. “I don’t know what it was. I don’t believe in God. I’m not religious. I don’t know what it was, but something told me to save you, and . . . “ he paused only for a second, and yet, you could see everything he hadn’t said already . . . “I’m glad I listened.”

But all you could do was shake your head because you knew. You knew he was wrong. You knew because . . . you remembered the whine Berry emitted when you snapped her neck. You remembered how you were gone for seven hours that day; how many times you threw up as you skinned her, gutted her, cooked her, and peeled the meat from her bones so no one would know what you’d killed. You remembered how long it took for you to scrub her blood from underneath your fingernails. You remembered going to the lake that day, and contemplating for hours on end what would happen if you found the heaviest rock you could and just . . . let yourself sink. And . . . you remembered the look on your mother’s face when it was you who came out of that burning building and not your father. You remembered the sting of her slap and the rage in her words. You remembered everything because you couldn’t forget; you wouldn’t let yourself.

“There will come a day where you won’t be,” was all you spat as the memories turned you sour and bitter.

Chris furrowed his brows, opening his mouth to say something, but this time you didn’t want to hear it. This time, you turned away from him and sat up, reaching for your wine glass so you could put it back where he’d gotten it from. But as you grabbed the glass, your hand slipped and the broken part of the rim sliced your finger. With a soft gasp, you dropped the glass and it shattered against the floor, but that wasn’t what caught your attention. No, as soon as blood came into your sight, you didn’t even have enough time to react before Chris sprung from the bed and reached for you.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, trying to tear yourself from him as you wiped the blood onto your shirt, but the cut was deeper than you thought. The blood just kept coming and coming and—

His hands were cradling yours the next second. Gently, he opened up your hand to himself, and you watched, stunned as he leaned forward and wrapped his mouth around your finger. It was quiet then, almost too quiet. Your heart was hammering in your throat, blood pumping through your ears as you felt his tongue softly touch your fingertip, while he gently sucked the wound. A man had never touched you like this, and you’d never touched a man like that either, and yet there he was . . .

Only a few minutes passed before he popped your finger out of his mouth, slowly backing away from you, but his hands never left yours. And all you could do was stare at him wide-eyed, mouth agape and chest rapidly moving up and down. Only then, it seemed, did he realize just how close the two of you had gotten and just how suggestive this position put him in, and only then . . . only then did he drop your hand, rapidly blinking as he cleared his throat.

“I’ll—I’m gonna clean this up,” he muttered, scratching the back of his head as he stood to his feet. “Enough, um, wine for the night, yeah?”

And then he wasn’t near anymore. You couldn’t feel the heat of his body radiating onto yours or smell his shampoo or even his skin. He was shuffling around the room, and you were stuck frozen in time as you processed everything. Then, slowly, you glanced down at your finger, finding it had stopped bleeding.

Swallowing hard, you wondered why he’d done it. Was he not afraid of the taste or was he used to it? Did blood taste like wine or was blood just blood to him? And was wine just blood to him, too?

Despite trying to call it a night and forget the awkward moment you’d shared, another wine bottle was consumed. The two of you hadn’t looked at each other since, but Chris popped open another bottle about an hour ago, quietly offering you another glass while he avoided eye contact, and you graciously accepted it. It was unusual. It was awkward. It was a bad idea.

The bunker felt too quiet, the kind of silence that made the air heavy, pressing against your skin. You lay on the bed, glaring at the ceiling with your arms tightly crossed over your chest as if trying to keep something inside from spilling out. The alcohol buzzed in your veins, dulling the edges of your mind, but not enough. Not enough to quiet the guilt that gnawed at you, whispering that you didn’t belong here—that you never would. You shouldn’t trust him. And yet, here you were. Drinking with him, sleeping beside him, letting yourself unravel. His lips had touched you. He’d tasted your blood and nothing bad had happened. He’d taken a part of you, graciously. And you’d had too many dark thoughts since then, because all you wanted to do was drink more and more and tell him to do it again and again.

How could he do that? How was he always doing that? It was like he’d found a way under your skin, and decided that would be his shelter. Why did he want to build a home inside you? Nobody had ever been hungry for you. You’d always been hungry for everyone else, and yet . . . he’d tasted your blood willingly. It made you wonder . . . everything about him.

Your mind was gone, and all you could taste was blood, no, wine, no, blood, no, no, no, you tasted something else entirely. God, what was it? "Back at the bunker," you felt yourself blurt out before you could stop yourself, wanting to talk more and wanting to know more about him. (Was it curiosity you tasted? You’d never felt this way before . . . ) You just . . . you didn’t want this night to end because when morning came and you were no longer intoxicated with rich rich wine, you’d regret it all. Tomorrow you’d leave, and tomorrow you’d die. You just wanted this one thing. So you let yourself continue. "Where do you sleep?"

Chris lay on the floor beside the bed with just a blanket covering him, his broad frame making the small room feel even smaller. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and something in his expression softened, his cheeks flush from the wine. "The hall," he said quietly, swinging one of his arms under his head. "Outside all the rooms."

The confession made something inside you twist. You frowned . . . because his voice seemed to satiate this hunger deep inside you. "Why?" The word slipped out harsher than intended. You just . . . you wanted more answers, and . . . you’d never been a very dutiful child.

His gaze didn’t falter. "I didn’t trust you enough to leave my people unguarded." There was a pause, a flash of something in his eyes. "And . . . I didn’t trust everyone enough to leave you unguarded."

You flinched inwardly. He should’ve kicked you out. Trust or no trust. It wasn’t worth it. You wouldn’t have been that naive. Letting a wild animal into your home was a bad decision. Just like the wine. Just like that night your father died. Just like the night you killed a man. Just like the pet you’d slaughtered to satiate this deep hunger inside you. Letting a wild animal into your home was a death sentence, so then why did he do it?

"So,” you began again, eyes on the ceiling, “the room I sleep in—it’s yours?"

Chris nodded. "Yes."

And then you knew you’d been right to assume, and remembered. The worn bedding, the lingering scent of him, the faint outline of something familiar and lived in. It felt wrong, like an intrusion. It was his room, and yet . . . he’d let you sleep in it for weeks now, while he slept outside like a dog with no home. And then . . . the clothes he’d given you. Your stomach clenched as your fingers tightly tugged at the bottom of your shirt. Where was she? "You have women’s clothes in your room?" you muttered out, letting your words linger, knowing he’d understood what your question truly meant.

Chris tensed, his jaw tightening for a brief moment. "She’s gone," he said, voice quieter now, almost fragile. "She’s been gone for a long time."

You took a breath, but it felt like you were swallowing shards of glass. You knew what that meant. You’d known what that meant since the day you were taught how to shoot a deer. You knew. "Dead,” you whispered.

His eyes dropped, a shadow passing over his face. "It’s like I said . . . being out here too long. It changes things."

You knew what he meant, but the weight of it sat heavy between you. You were no stranger to loss. Hell, you’d been the cause of it more times than you cared to count. The thought lingered like poison in your veins. You glanced at the floor where he’d been sleeping. He’d taken a wild animal into his home, he’d offered this thing food and water and a bed, and he’d slept on the floor, losing sleep just to watch this animal, and yet . . . he’d never caused it harm. How could he do that? How could he trust you, covered in blood and smelling of death? What kind of idiot trusts someone like that?

And what kind of idiot . . . likes that? You swallowed hard, the taste of wine still on your tongue as you tried to fight back your words. You tried to swallow it down just as easily as you’d swallowed the wine, but . . . you’d turned into one of those idiots, too. You realized that as you asked, "Is the floor . . comfortable?"

He let out a small laugh, one without much humor, rubbing his hand over his face. "Could be worse."

That familiar tightening in your chest came back, the one that was always there when you were too close to people, too close to places that felt safe. It was the kind of suffocation that came with the knowledge that safety didn’t last—that you didn’t deserve it. You’d felt it with Felix. You’d taught him how to fly and refused to let him soar on his own. You hungered for his love, his friendship, him . . . just as you’d been hungry for your mother’s. It felt all too similar to a bullet going through your shoulder. You knew how it felt to heal from a wound like that, but you didn’t know if you could ever do it again. And yet . . . You pulled the covers back, then turned your back to him as quickly as you could. "Sleep with me," you said, the words coming out sharp and impulsive. "Just . . . just sleep on the bed."

Chris stilled. You didn’t have to look at him to know he was surprised. "What?"

"This isn’t some movie," you said, trying to steady your voice, make it sound like you were in control, like this was nothing. "You can sleep on the bed with me, and it won’t be inappropriate."

There was a beat of silence. You could feel his eyes on you, and you were reminded of how painful it’d been to rip a bullet out of your shoulder. "I think you’re still drunk," he said softly, a quiet accusation as he nearly scoffed, humor in his voice.

You chewed on your inner cheek as you picked at the cracked skin of your lower lip. "Grow up," you muttered. "Sleep on the bed. Or don’t. I don’t care."

A beat of silence. You nearly lacerated your inner cheek with your canines. And then: the mattress shifted as he climbed in beside you, his presence warm and solid, too close but not close enough to touch. The space between you was charged, a tension that knotted your stomach. His breathing was steady, almost comforting, but it only made you feel more exposed.

"Has anyone ever told you you can be harsh?" he asked, voice soft but laced with amusement.

You felt the corners of your lips twitch, but you wouldn’t let yourself smile and you refused to let him see it. Another minute passed, and then you felt your stomach growl. Hunger persisted. You shifted uncomfortably, your hip digging into the mattress as you turned over, facing him now as you lay on your side. "My hip hurt," you muttered, too afraid he’d think you wanted to be closer to him. Or perhaps . . . you were afraid to admit that you wanted to be closer to him.

Chris chuckled, a low sound that rumbled through him. "OK."

It was such a simple response, and yet it felt like he was giving you more than you deserved. He always did. And that was the problem. You didn’t deserve this—the warmth, the laughter, the steadiness of him beside you. You shifted again, the words rising in your throat before you could stop them.

"I should leave tomorrow," you said, though the words feel hollow as they leave your mouth.

Chris glanced toward you, brows furrowed. His eyes traced your features, almost as if he were studying you. "You’re asking for my approval," he said after a minute, his voice calm and steady. "Why are you asking for my approval?"

You closed your eyes, a tightness forming in your throat. "You don’t get it," you whispered.

"Then explain it to me."

You exhaled, and before you could stop yourself, the words came spilling out. "When I was a kid . . . I used to pray something bad would happen to me." You didn’t look at him, didn’t let yourself see the expression on his face. "I was always too afraid to do it myself, so sometimes I’d skip class and go into the woods during hunting season. I never went in far . . . but I’d pray that they’d mistake me for a deer. That a stray bullet would hit me instead of one of the fawns." You paused, your chest tightening with the weight of memories you never wanted to share. "I think . . . I think I’ve lived longer now than I ever would’ve if none of this had happened." You swallowed hard, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Then the world died . . . and I’ve watched so many people die since then. And every time, I come out unscathed."

You glanced up, searching his eyes for something—anger, judgment, anything to make sense of the mess you just unloaded on him. "Don’t you see? You welcome me into that bunker, and everyone will die. That’s how it always goes. You should’ve let me die that night," you said quietly. To sleep in the same bed as a wild animal is to put a gun to your head and pull the trigger. Why didn’t he seem scared? And why were you hoping he wasn’t?

The silence that followed was heavy. You watched as his brows furrowed and his eyes left your face and darted across the ceiling as if he were truly thinking. And you wondered what he thought. You knew what he should’ve thought. You knew what you’d told him. You knew what he’d told you. But now . . . it seemed the alcohol in your system had you hoping that he’d prove you wrong. And then: "You’re not the reason people die," he said, his voice calm, as if his certainty could erase the years of guilt you carried. "The world is."

You shook your head, the familiar ache in your chest tightening. "You don’t know me."

He turned his head then, eyes falling upon yours. He searched them for a moment before his brows twitched and he whispered, "I want to."

That simple, direct response cut through you, leaving you raw. He wanted to know you. He wanted to see something good in you, something you were convinced didn’t exist. You had spent so long hiding, so long convinced you were beyond redemption, but Chris refused to see the darkness you clung to.

"You’ll regret your words one day," you murmured, bitterness lacing your tone as you shook your head.

He didn’t flinch. "Let’s make a deal then," he said quietly, his gaze never leaving yours. "If you agree to come back with me, and everything goes to shit, you can leave. No questions asked. But if not . . . if things work out, you get a roof over your head, food, a bed. You get people." His lips quirked into a small smile. "Deal?"

You stared at him, your heart pounding too hard. He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t know what would happen. You were meant to leave tomorrow. You were meant to die tomorrow. How could you go back to him and . . . live? "Doesn’t seem like a very good deal on your end," you muttered, but your words held truth to them.

"You’re a good asset.” He shrugged. “Seems like the best kind of deal to me."

You were about to scoff when he took your hand gently, and placed it against his chest, right over his heart. The gesture startled you, making you feel too close, too exposed, but you didn’t pull away. His heartbeat was steady beneath your palm, grounding you in a way that terrified you. His eyes held yours, unwavering. "Cross my heart and hope to die," he said, his tone soft, playful, but with a depth that lingered beneath the words.

You pulled your hand back slightly, but he didn’t let go. "That’s not funny,” you scoffed, shaking your head.

He grinned, and the sight of it made something in your chest tighten. "You’ll need to work on your sense of humor. So the deal’s fair, you know?"

This was too much. He was still grinning at you, and you felt like you might die. Was this how it felt to be drunk? Or was it him? The wine or him? The wine or him? God, you didn’t know. Your heart sped up at the questions clogging your mind, and you pushed his hand away to clear those thoughts, but the roughness of his skin against yours sent an unwanted shiver down your spine. "Your hands are too rough," you blurted out, more sharply than you intended.

"Strike one," he replied, still smiling. "That was rude."

"It’s the truth," you countered, swallowing hard as you tried to quietly steady your mind. You forced yourself to break eye contact, rolling onto your back to stare at the ceiling. You could still feel him, but . . . you couldn’t see him, and that . . . that seemed to help. Wetting your lips, you felt a pang of guilt tug on your heart. "Mine are too. Just the way it is." You lifted your hand up, showing your knuckles to him, where you knew the scars would still be.

“Liar.”

You were about to scoff when he took your hand again, this time more firmly, inspecting it with his. His touch was gentle just like hours before, his fingers tracing the lines of your palm, the warmth of his skin sending an unwanted shiver down your spine. He seemed lost in thought, studying you with a seriousness that made your heart race.

“Do you believe me now?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, almost as if you were afraid of his answer; as if for the first time in your life, you wanted a man to look at you.

“Soft.” He looked up, his gaze piercing yet soft, an intriguing mix of concern and something deeper. “You’re soft,” he said, and there was a gravity in his tone that caught you off guard. His eyes held so much—curiosity, determination, and an undeniable pull that made your breath hitch.

In that moment, the distance between you collapsed, the air thick with unspoken words and emotions swirling like a storm. You could feel it—a magnetic draw that pulled you closer. And then you realized something peculiar: for the first time in your life, you did want a man to look at you. And . . . and . . . he was.

Swallowing hard, you decided. Tomorrow you’d leave. Tomorrow you’d die. Tomorrow you’d kill yourself with your father’s gun in hand and finally find him again. You’d grown up in a town where there were whispers; where the name of God was the only thing you should’ve cared about; where you were taught if you even so much as looked at a man for too long, you’d gone against the almighty father; where you were the sacrificial lamb in a hollow of wolves. You’d turned into one of those wolves now. You were raw and ugly and grotesque. You didn’t deserve his hospitality, his kindness, him. You didn’t deserve to look at him like he was the apple and you were Eve. You didn’t deserve to taste him as he’d tasted you, but god did you want to. You supposed you finally got what it meant to sin.

But tonight . . . tonight you wanted all the things you’d never had. You’d set the world straight tomorrow. You’d give this God what he wanted, but tonight . . . tonight there was no God, there was no town, no mother, no dead father, no outside world. Tonight, all you could see, all you could smell, all you wanted to feel and taste was . . . him.

You’d never felt a man before. You’d never touched or held or kissed a man you wanted like this before. And for the first time, dying without having ever touching him scared you more than the scabs on your knees or the evil in your heart.

Tomorrow, you’d die, but tonight . . . tonight . . .

You wet your lips, your hunger consuming you while your hands hesitantly touched either side of his face, shaking as the tips of your fingers danced across his cheekbones. You lived in a world where the dead came back; where you had to kill them brutally and violently. You weren’t scared of the monsters under your bed anymore, not in a world like this. And yet, somehow, the man before you was the scariest thing you’d ever had to deal with. It wasn’t what you knew about him that scared you or even what you didn’t know, but rather his proximity.

Was it the wine or him?

You’d never been this close to a man like him before; you’d never touched one like this; you’d never wanted to touch one like this and . . . more; you’d been taught sex before marriage was a sin and never once really found interest in it; you’d never laid with a man or ever kissed, you never wanted to. Somehow; however, every time he was near you, you couldn’t help but stare at him a little longer.

Was it the wine or him?

At night . . . sometimes his face revisited you in your dreams. You thought you couldn’t dream anymore or rather the dreams you were allowed were tainted. Yet . . . the dreams you’d have of him . . . they were just dreams . . . they were just him. It made you curious. It made you go mad. It terrified you, and yet as you cradled his face in the palms of your hands . . . you couldn’t stop thinking about what his lips would feel like against yours.

Was it the wine or him?

Swallowing hard, you knew the answer. Him . . .

Why do you make me feel this way? you wanted to ask. Why is it you and not God? The end of the world was supposed to bring more faith, and yet you’d only lost it. This . . . this was the first feeling of salvation you’d yearned for since the day you first awoke. Why is it you? Why is it you? Why is it not him? Why is it not God? How could the man you’d once mistaken for Death make you feel like how the rapture was supposed to?

Those words never left your lips. Instead, you did something that shouldn’t have come as a surprise to you. You touched your thumb to his bottom lip, breathing out a heavy sigh, then . . . you crashed into him, slamming your lips onto his and nearly knocking out all the air in your lungs. The warmth of his lips obliterated your every thought, melting your mind as you melded into him. Chris, however, remained stunned, his hand frozen still on your arm while you pressed your chapped lips against his soft, plush ones.

But when your fingers gently grazed across his cheek, traveling up to curl his hair behind his ear, he gave in. He reacted quickly after that, and gripped onto your thighs, locking your leg over his hip the best he could to shift closer to you. And then he was wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you even closer to him until there was no space left between. His other hand found its way to the back of your neck and he deepened the kiss, causing you to release a soft gasp into his mouth.

You’d never touched a man. You’d never wanted to before. But in that moment, all you wanted was to feel more and more of him before you left the next morning and bid him goodbye. You’d never see him again, and maybe that was what scared you. You wanted to feel all of him. You wanted to know more about him and why you felt the way you did, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t let yourself, not when the next morning you’d be off and alone like you were supposed to be. Tomorrow, you’d end it all and never see him again . . .

But God . . . you wanted to see him again and again. You wanted him like this over and over. You wanted more and more, but you wouldn’t let yourself. Death would follow. He’d seen enough of it. Kissing him was not the worst you could do to him, but it was the only sin you’d allow yourself to commit. You wanted to remember this when you died.

The descent into madness only quickened as you realized you weren’t just kissing him, but kissing anyone for the first and only time. You wanted this. You wanted him. You wanted it to be memorable. And so it was.

It was sloppy and needy . . . like the two of you were trying to drink each other up; like you were thanking him and he was thanking you right back. And his touch. His touch lit a fire inside you as he sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, asking you for permission first. And you willingly gave it to him, parting your lips just enough to allow him access, and relishing in the way he nearly groaned at your neediness.

Every squeeze of your hips, every hurried touch he left along your sides, your legs, your arms, face, lips . . . you felt yourself sinking further and further into him. You just wanted more and more and more. No one had ever felt this good. Nothing had ever tasted this sweet, not even blood or wine. No one had ever made you want to kiss them until the sun rose, but him . . . He was nearly otherworldly, and you hated that. Why him and not God? Why him? Why now?

“I don’t like you,” you heard yourself gasp against his lips before you began to kiss his cheek, then his jaw, until you reached his neck.

Chris chuckled under his breath, tilting his head to the side to allow you more access and you eagerly took it. “You don’t like me?” he questioned, his voice deeper now as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when you leaned back and your finger replaced your lips as it lazily traced figures along the slope of his neck.

“You make me feel like I’m on fire,” you confessed, continuing to trail your finger across his beautiful, beautiful neck as he drew your body closer to his, your core now directly resting on top of his lower half. “I hate it. I hate . . . “ You swallowed hard. “I have this . . . hunger inside me. It’s incorrigible and disgusting and . . . and . . . I’ve always been like this even as a kid. I would do things and make trouble because I wanted to feel full; I wanted to feel normal . . . fulfilled . . . content . . . and then I would try to apologize for this hunger by pretending to be this perfect child and praying and repenting and swallowing it down, but right now—” you shook your head, in disbelief of yourself— “I just . . . I don’t . . . I don’t feel violent . . . I’m not. I don’t know why I am . . . and I don’t know why I’m not right now. I hate this. I hate you. I . . . don’t feel violent with you.”

Chris laced your fingers together, holding your hand close to his neck. “What do you feel?” he whispered, almost hesitant to hear the answer.

You could only shake your head, your words nothing but gibberish. “A different kind of hunger,” you spat out, scoffing at your own confession. “I want . . . “ You choked out a laugh, inching closer toward him. “I just want to kiss you.”

The corners of his lips twitched into a handsome half-grin as he softly brushed his nose against yours. “Kiss me then.”

That was all it took. You pressed your lips firmly against his, trailing your hand up to the back of his head, pulling him into you. He laughed into your mouth, but didn’t dare pull away. He only pulled himself closer, and the fire inside you burned brighter. He took the reins from you as he deepened the kiss, his tongue melding against your own, and then you felt yourself inhaling sharply just before you pushed yourself further into him, trying to taste as much of him as you could. His body moved with his lips, melding into your own body as his arm wrapped around your back once again, trying to get you as close as possible.

That was when you felt it—his hardness poking you where you needed it most. You’d never felt something like this before; something so hot and . . . there. You’d never been too curious about it. You’d never had the time, but now . . . it was all you could think about. For a second, you were just a woman and he was just a man, and that was all. You knew how it all worked, and now . . . now you wanted it. You couldn't tell if he was fully hard due to the material of his jeans, but you didn't care. The feeling alone was enough to set you off—your skin grew hot and your breath hitched in your throat as your core ached for even the simplest of touches. It was new. It was odd. It was everything.

Even just the slightest of pressure on your body had your head spinning. His hand squeezed your thigh and you nearly sighed into his mouth, wishing he’d just hold you against him and squeeze you into his broad chest. “You’re—” he began at the sound of your quiet gasp, but his words quickly died on his tongue when your body moved against his.

Grinning against his lips, you mumbled, taunting him, “I’m?”

But he only groaned, his deep voice doing unspeakable things to you as his grip on you tightened. His touch only spurred you on further. “You make me—You’re—” he cut himself off as dived back in, his mouth skillfully working against yours— “everything.” His words shocked you to the core, but not for long as one of his hands tightened around the hair at the back of your head, pulling you into him while his other hand tugged your body against his in a new position, the movements simultaneously brushing your core ever so slightly against the tent in his jeans.

If he knew how he was affecting you, he didn’t show it. It just seemed he wanted more and more of you, and that was it. Yet, still, his simple touches were making your underwear stick to your core, and you were becoming more and more lost in him as the seconds passed.

When your core began to ache all too much, you listened to your body, subconsciously grinding against his hardness. And oh . . . you’d never felt that. Your stomach flipped, your most intimate parts of yourself pulsing against his body. And instantly, he, too, curled into you, a deep moan sounding from the back of his throat as he buried his head into the crook of your neck.

But he didn’t dare touch you like . . . that . . . back. No . . . instead . . . his hands stilled, his touch light against you as he halted you from grinding against him again.

And you were left out of breath, dazed, and confused, with an odd ache in your chest.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He kissed your neck once, but it was gentle, almost innocent, and then he was pulling away.

A beat of silence.

Beat.

It was deafening.

Beat.

And for a second, you thought it was the second coming.

Beat.

For a second, you thought this was Hell, and then he looked at you and spoke, and you realized it was.

“I just . . . “ His eyes met yours, searching and you searched right back, practically begging him to tell you the truth. You knew you’d never been someone people . . . liked. You could take this. He just . . . he just had to tell you. But instead: “I just . . . I can’t be . . . intimate with you.”

Oh. Your brows furrowed, your face hot, and suddenly, you remembered who you were, and what had happened, and what that meant. Then . . . you hated him for a whole different reason. “Um . . . OK . . . “ scoffing, you tried to turn over to get as far away from him as possible, but he pulled you back.

“Please,” he begged, hand still on your arm as he searched your eyes with such earnestness. “I want to kiss you.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “But . . . I just . . . I can’t.”

You blinked once. Then twice. Then once more as you stared at him while confusion and something else twisted through your brain. He wanted to kiss you. He had, and yet . . .

“OK,” you said, voice flat, void of the emotions swirling inside you. You slipped out of his hold without looking back, grabbing the blanket from the floor, and made your way to the corner of the room. The cold, hard floor seemed like a fitting place for you now, far away from him, from everything you’d just felt. You dropped down onto the floor, wrapping the blanket around you like a shield.

“You don’t have to—” he began, but you cut him off before he could finish.

“Don’t console me.” Your words were sharp, a dagger thrown with precision. “You think you mean anything to me? You don’t. You touch me, I will not hesitate to kill you. I have my gun. I will slit your throat, steal your shit, and leave your body to rot down here.” Your voice was icy, harsh. You wanted him to believe it, to push him away before he could come any closer, before he could see through the walls you so carefully built. You turned to look at him, meeting his eyes with a glare that you hoped would drive the point home. “I’m not your friend. I don’t like you. I don’t care about you. I am not a good person. I will hurt you.”

The silence that followed felt heavy, oppressive, like the weight of your own words was crashing down on both of you. You stared at him, daring him to challenge you, to call you out as a liar. But all he did was nod, his face unreadable.

“Understood?” you added, your voice softer now but no less dangerous.

His eyes flickered with something—sadness, maybe, or something deeper, something you didn’t want to recognize. “Understood,” he replied quietly, his voice steady, though the tension between you crackled like a live wire.

You turned away again, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, trying to will your body to relax, to push away the hurt that had taken root deep inside. You closed your eyes, blocking him out, knowing that sleep wouldn’t come easy tonight.

You had built your walls higher than ever, but somehow, you'd never felt so exposed.

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