You raise it in the air and sniff it delicately; the tang of the metal is acrid and bitter, but it’s better than the rot lingering in the air, which is heavy and humid and sticks to your skin and clothes and hair until you feel like vomiting. You really might've vomited — you did the first day, after all — but as of late your reserves of food have dipped so pitifully low that all you have left to your name is a pack of crackers and a perpetual nausea, gnawing low in your gut and almost certainly the cruelest part of this entire situation.

“Well, then,” you say, twirling the knife between your fingers. “Let’s get to business!”

You’re oddly cheery for a girl who’s about to die, but given that you’re meeting this death without jaws sinking into your shoulder or decay coating the inside of your nostrils, you feel like some happiness is deserved. It’s strange to think of, but you really are luckier than most, and certainly you are luckier than those who were caught close to the epicenter of the outbreak’s beginning.

Right as the tip of the blade comes to rest against your sternum, not deep enough to pierce it but firm enough that you know it’s there, you hear a low groan. Your eyes widen, and then you whip around, brandishing the knife before you as if it will do anything.

It’s one of them — the infected, the undead, the sick, or whatever other polite term the media is using to refer to them now. You can’t keep track of them all — it feels as though there is a different name every minute — but your mother was once a fan of this genre, and you’ve seen enough movies to know what they are actually called: zombies.

This one is tall, achingly slim, its skin clinging to its bones and riddled with holes, its fingers gaunt as they reach towards you, twin black pits carved into its face where its eyes once sat. It doesn’t need to see to know where you are; it can sense you, the sweetness of your living flesh irresistible to its decomposing maw, which hangs loose with another trembling moan of delight at your proximity.

With a yelp, you scramble backwards. To your dismay, the knife slips from your hands and is immediately caught underfoot by the zombie, the metal hissing into steam as it dissolves from strength of the mucus dripping down the creature's legs. You swear to yourself, because that was your one chance at peace and your own hesitation cost you it, but then the zombie wails and breaks into a run and you’re swearing for a different reason.

Your instincts tell you to scream for help, but you don’t, because you don’t want to attract more of them and end up cornered, torn apart by an entire pack of the things. You've managed to avoid that outcome thus far, your strategy of hiding in whatever bodies of water you can find successful enough given that your scent is washed away rather handily by the rushing currents, but of course your luck would run out eventually.

“It’s fine!” you chant to yourself as you run. “It’s fine, I’ll go through with it next time. I’ll do it next time! It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s — ah!”

You attempt to skid to a stop, but you cannot stop yourself from tripping over the man crouched by the smoldering remains of a fire, tumbling over him with your legs in the air and your limbs askew as you land in a heap behind him. Not even taking the time to greet him, you shoot back to your feet and shove him in the direction of the zombie, calling out an apology over your shoulder and hoping that his sacrifice buys you enough time to get to the river you left behind when searching for a weapon.

There’s a loud bang, and then someone is yanking you back by your sleeve. With a squeal, you squeeze your eyes shut and kick at your captor, but instead of the grating, rumbling sound characteristic of zombies in distress, you hear a grunt.

“What the hell is your problem?”

You crack your eyes open and find yourself met with the arresting glare of the man, who is both the one holding you in place and the one snapping at you. There’s a layer of dust on his face and smears of blood on his jacket, but he’s otherwise clean and unharmed, though the scowl twisting his handsome features is more reminiscent of someone who's dying in agony. 

“Where did it go?” you say. “That zombie, where is it?”

“The infected,” he corrects you, rolling his eyes. “I killed it.”

“Killed it? You have a weapon, then?” you say, ignoring his snarky amendment.

“So what if I do?” he say.

“Give it to me,” you say. He’s disgusted now, disgusted and more than a little horrified as he drops you to the ground and steps away from you.

“No way,” he says. 

“I’ll give it right back! I just need to borrow it to do…something,” you say.

“Uh-huh,” he says. “That’s very convincing.”

“You don’t sound very convinced,” you say. He doesn’t even give this the grace of a response, and you huff. “I’m not going to take it from you. Look, I’m not some kind of survivor or whatever. I just want to get out of here before I’m ripped to shreds and messily enjoyed by one of those zombie freaks.”

This time, he doesn’t bother with correcting you for the casual name, only looking you over, measuring you with his steady gaze, which is unreadable and blue and reminds you of what summertime used to feel like.

“You’re looking for one of the strongholds, then?” he says. 

“Strongholds?” you repeat. You’ve heard that some of the bigger cities have consolidated their forces, built impenetrable fortresses that are checked meticulously for any signs of illness, but you’ve long since dismissed such tales as nothing but fantasies created by survivors desperate to cling onto something like hope. 

“Yes,” he says, and he’s clearly impatient. “There’s one not too far from here. Isn’t that your destination?”

“I didn’t know those were real,” you say. He squints at you, and then he clicks his tongue.

“Seriously,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you’re still alive. How unprepared can you get?”

“I wish I wasn’t,” you say, candidly and without any emotion. “I’m sick of this. The only reason I’m still going is because I need something a bit more sophisticated than a well-shaped stick to get the job done, you know? I’m not that brave, after all. If I were, I would’ve just let myself be taken by the hordes, but as it is, I’m waiting until I find something that’ll make it quick.”

“What?” he says.

“I found it, too!” you continue, and it’s been so long since you had a proper conversation with an actual person, not a tree stump or stray deer, that you find yourself more than a little impassioned. “I found a knife, and I was just about to do it, I really was! But then, ugh, that zombie came and I panicked and dropped it and then it melted, because of course it did, of-fucking-course it did, and then I was running and next thing I know, I’m tripping over you!”

He blinks at you, and then he exhales, running a hand through his dark hair like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, although you think it’s fairly reasonable, all things considered. His other hand drops to his belt, and that’s when you notice he has a pistol hanging on his belt — indubitably the source of the bang from earlier.

“No,” he says when he notices where you’re looking. “That’s not an option.”

“It would be so easy, though,” you plead. “Come on, help a girl out, won’t you?”

“Haven’t I helped you enough?” he says. “I saved your life earlier. You’d be, uh, what did you call it? ‘Ripped to shreds and messily enjoyed by one of those zombie freaks?' Yeah. You definitely weren’t outrunning that thing for much longer, I can promise you that.”

“Why does it matter to you?” you say, deciding not to comment on his swift judgement of your athletic ability. He’s probably right, anyways, and besides, anything resembling the pride you had once maintained had fled with the first zombie you had narrowly escaped from.

“Ammunition isn’t cheap,” he says.

“I’ll pay you for it!” you say. “How about that? Sounds fair, right? I give you something, and you do it for me. Total deal!”

“Hm. What do you have?” he says, and you’re so taken aback by the genuine answer that you fumble about for a bit, your hands fishing around in your pockets for something of value.

“How about these crackers?” you say, waving your only possession at him tantalizingly.

“Crackers,” he says, the corners of his mouth tugging downwards.

“They’re gourmet,” you say.

“No, they’re not,” he says.

“They are!” you insist.

“I’ve seen that exact brand in the convenience store before,” he says. You pause at this.

“You must have some…very fancy convenience stores where you live,” you say finally. He’s clearly unimpressed, and you shove the crackers back in your pocket before clasping your hands together. “Look, this is all I’ve got. If it’s not you or a zombie, I’ll just die of starvation, anyways. Can’t you consider it a mercy kill or something?”

He shifts from foot to foot, and for the first time you realize that it’s not just obstinance — despite the ease with which he shot the zombie, the thought of killing you is another thing entirely, and he’s clearly repulsed by the idea. So, pursing your lips, you nod at him.

“Alright, I get it,” you say with a sigh. “Don’t worry, I’m not that horrible. If that’s how it is, I’ll just get going now. Thanks for the help…?”

You don’t expect him to give you his name, not when you’re a stranger who could do anything with it, but it’s a holdover, an old habit from when you would go to school and make friends in exactly that way, with a raise of your brow and an invitation to complete your sentence.

“Rin,” he says. Your eyes widen, and then you smile, because it’s a name that suits him, lovely and simple, strong like the bridge of his nose, which is currently wrinkled in something resembling a frown. 

“Rin,” you affirm. You don’t give him your name in exchange, and he doesn’t ask for it. “Thanks again.”

“Wait,” he says, opening his bag and tossing a can at you. “Here.”

The label is faded beyond comprehension, but you can tell that it’s something like beans or vegetables, something substantial that makes your stomach grumble by its weight alone. It’s precious, this food which won’t go bad for years, and you furrow your brow, because what reason does he have for giving it to you?

“Live long enough to come by something worthwhile,” he says, answering your question before you can ask it. “And then come find me again.”

“Then will you—?” Your voice breaks off, and you hug the can to your chest. It’s harder to speak of when you’re so close to it, harder to tell him you want death when he’s offering to give you just that. 

He swallows, and you can tell even with that one simple act that he is sick from it, sick from the mere possibility, but you're selfish, in order to survive you have to be, so you don’t move to reassure him.

“Yes,” he says, and it's shuddery and reluctant but he does it. “The next time we meet, if you still want me to, I’ll kill you.”

“Good morning,” he greets, leaning in and kissing your cheek as you smile. It doesn’t feel real yet, but you’re sure you’d get comfortable with dating baseball’s hottest pitcher to play in both the twentieth and twenty first centuries. You just hoped that day came soon because you felt like a clown right now with how nervous you were just standing on his front porch. “Come in.”

“Shoes on or off?”

“On is alright, if you want. I’m getting the floors deep cleaned tomorrow anyway so it doesn’t matter.”

He has his shoes off, so you carefully toe out of your shoes and place them on the rack by his front door before following him through the entryway to the living and kitchen area. What having floors “deep cleaned” meant and the potential cost associated with doing so regularly was way outside of your salary range, so you don’t comment on it as if you understood the thought process and continue to walk behind the pitcher — your date? boyfriend? is that who he was now? no, right? — but it would be rude to clarify so that train of thought has to get pushed to the side as well. 

“It’s bigger on the inside,” you comment, taking in the simple decor as he hums. “Very you.”

“How so?”

“It’s nice but not super extravagant.” Is all you say at first, looking away from your host to the living room. “Well taken care of, I guess. No bear skin rug.”

“I’m more of a tiger guy.”

“Still mad about Detroit,” you say, an exaggerated wince leaving you as he takes the orange juice from your hand. “It’s been two weeks, bud.”

“That was a bullshit call and we all know it.”

He had a point. That ball was nowhere close to being in bounds to be allowed, which was why the Raccoons on the field didn’t bother to chase it, only for the umpire to allow the base to be taken and subsequent run to be scored on that play. They’d gotten their lick back though, coming back the next night to beat the Tigers 17-1 on their home turf. You were very busy that night posting your edits and finding your clips, but it was worth it to see how excited your boys had come back to town the next day. 

“I have a little bottle of champagne, is it a mimosa morning?”

“Can it be? It’s game day.”

“It’s early enough,” he assures, setting the juice down on the counter before taking your hand. “Let me give you a quick tour, then I’ll start cooking.”

You nod, following him through the house as he points out where the bathroom and den were downstairs, then upstairs to where there was a second bathroom, a guest bedroom, and his bedroom.

“And there’s my roommate,” he points out, and you smile at the dog curled up in the middle of his large bed. “That’s Travis.”

“Travis?”

“Yeah, he’s a barker.” 

“Funny,” you mutter, not wanting him to know that he was actually funny. “Will he be joining us for breakfast?”

“Probably when he smells the eggs cooking.” Then he’s leading you back down the stairs, telling you a bit more about Travis as he does. He’s a borzoi, pure bred with papers but rescued from a puppy mill so technically adopted and not shopped, and he’ll be five in October. Travis’ favorite game is fetch, he gets walked by the neighbor across the street when Leon is away for games, and he has to bring a stuffed lambchop toy to bed with him or he won’t sleep. 

“Does he do tricks?” you ask as Leon beats the eggs, trying not to stare too much at the way his forearm flexed while he moved the whisk. His other arm wasn’t much help, as his bicep looked huge wrapped around the bowl he held against his chest. 

“He knows the basic ones and he’s great on walks. Stops at corners and all that.”

“Smart boy.”

“His trainer was an angel. Very patient with us.”

You’d argue that anyone dealing with him would have to be. His schedule alone was difficult when it went according to plan, add in the surprise signings and meet and greets the team liked to schedule to keep the fan base alive during the offseason and the wonderful curveballs life threw in general, and you’d argue that Leon was one of the worst people to try to schedule things with. “Do you have pets?”

“Huh? 

“Pets?” He asks again, drawing each letter out delicately as he adds bell pepper to the egg mixture. 

“Oh! Not right now, I’m renting and no pets allowed on the lease.”

“That’s fucked.”

“Yeah, but it’s temporary I hope.”

The sound of sniffing can be heard over the eggs beginning to cook in the pan, and you peek over the bar counter to see that Travis had made his way to his father's side as predicted. Leon steps away from the stove briefly to give you the little bottle of champagne from his fridge and two glasses, and you set to your task that was preparing mimosas for yourself and your host as Travis sits at the stove in anticipation of food falling to the floor. 

He doesn’t have to wait long, Leon takes a small clump of shredded cheese to be suckled into the narrow mouth of the borzoi that was better named Hoover based on how clean the floor was when he was done. How Leon told that cute little face no you couldn’t understand, but you commended his strength when he told his dog that he’d gotten more than enough cheese and didn’t fold when Travis whined. You’d give the cute little beast anything he wanted if he whined at you like that, which was why you probably would never be asked to dog sit. 

“Bed, Trav.”

The dog goes to the bed in the corner of the living room, and you watch as Leon brings the two plated omelettes to the bar where you sat. It’s a beautiful omelette, and he smiles when you compliment his work as he comes around to sit in the stool beside yours. 

“The drink might be on the strong side,” you warn, watching as he took an experimental drink only to feel your face warm when he immediately grimaced. “I’m sorry!”

“It’s not that bad! I’m not worried.” He takes a more confident drink for emphasis, and it’s your turn to grimace as you watch. “See? It’s good. Now it’s your turn to try the omelette.”

He watches with vested interest as you cut into the egg with the side of your fork and scoop it up, and you cover your mouth in a misplaced attempt to hide as you chew. It was actually perfect, the egg was perfectly cooked and seasoned well, you couldn’t find a complaint if you tried. 

“Too much salt?”

“It’s actually perfect,” you assure, earning yourself a smug smirk from the man sitting beside you that has you resisting the urge to roll your eyes. He was allowed this moment, but only this one. 

All in all, it was a nice morning spent getting to know Leon and his private life better. You supposed that you now were part of his private life, if the way he spent fifteen minutes weighing which old jersey of his he wanted to send you to the stadium wearing instead of the one that had your name on it that had been your welcome gift from the team. He’d first wanted to give you one of his old rookie jerseys, since you two were in the “rookie days” of your relationship (ignoring your coughed tease that he was corny) but the value of that jersey had you adamantly declining because you’d hate for something to happen to it while you were in the stands taking photos and videos of the crowd. One beer or accidentally thrown hot dog and it was ruined, and you couldn’t have that on your conscience. So instead he settled for last year’s all star game jersey, taking the time to help you out of your jersey and into his and smiling as he watched you adjust how it sat on your shoulders in the mirror. 

“And you’re sure?”

”You look better in it than I do,” is all he says, gently pulling you in closer by the jersey before those hands settle on your hips over your tshirt. “But I am positive. I want you to wear it, it’ll give me good luck.”

”Tested theory?”

”Actually yeah. We don’t always win when you’re wearing my jersey but I always pitch one hell of a game when you do, and that’s more important.” 

“Alright Captain,” you murmur, your arms draping over his shoulders as he smiles in his victory. “But I should get going. They want to test drive the new drone.” 

”I’ll walk you to your car.” 

But you don’t move, instead feeling rooted to the spot with his fingers hooked in your belt loops and your hands settled on his shoulders. It still feels weird, like you shouldn’t be standing here with a man like Leon being so affectionate (especially on the real first date). Did he really want to date you seriously? Or were you just a pretty younger woman who was accessible because you worked for his team? To question his intentions when he’d been so kind to you this morning felt unfair, but it was difficult not to do so when he’d done his best to avoid you for the first half of the season. 

The trance is broken when Travis pushes himself between your legs, bringing both of your attention to the dog rather than each other. 

“I’ve got to run him before I go, too,” Leon comments, looking back at you as you look back up at him. You’re the first to move, taking a step back that forces him to release your belt loops but his hand does catch yours to let you lead him from the bedroom. 

“Thank you for breakfast,” you murmur as he walks you to your car, Travis on his other side after wiggling into his harness for his late morning run. “It was really good.”

“Good enough for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Are you trying to speedrun breakfast dates?”

“I know what I want,” is all he says at first, and you smile nervously at the implication. “I meant what I said last night, I’m serious about you sweetheart.”

You nod, biting your tongue to keep yourself from saying something that would kill the moment. There were quite a few scenarios floating through your brain, worrying about potential issues that weren’t guaranteed to happen but shouldn’t be worried about unless they actually happened. It also didn’t make sense to worry about whether or not you were worth his time when he clearly thought you were. 

“Maybe we can do something tonight if you’re not too tired after the game,” you offer, unlocking your car and watching as he opens the driver’s side door for you. There was another game tomorrow, early afternoon which meant everyone was getting to the ballpark in the morning, and you would prefer to not be at Leon’s house at six in the morning for breakfast. 

“Let’s grab a drink after. I’ll text you the name of a good bar.”

“It’s a date.” The way he smiles when you say that makes your heart flutter as you get into the car, and your face warms when he leans in to kiss your cheek. “Enjoy your run, I’ll see you later.”

“Drive safe.”

After a win barely clutched out, you find yourself walking into a bar after being dropped off by an uber. Your car was left at the ballpark since Leon wanted to drive you home and also spend the morning with you despite the earlier call time for tomorrow’s game. He’d be at least twenty minutes behind you, needing to shower quickly before dodging media and coaches to get to his car and get to you, so you order yourself a drink and settle yourself at the table in the corner. It gives you a good time to think about just what the hell you’re doing with Leon, and why you were so uncomfortable with being publicly attached to him.

Your primary concern, you supposed, was the fact that he was Leon Kennedy and you were the team’s social media manager. He was the captain, the multi-time all star and MVP, two time Olympian and the most attractive man in baseball — and you were you. Nothing special, just the TikTok girl which meant you had to work with him and his teammates every day, and you didn’t want to risk losing your very cool job because you got involved with the team captain and it didn’t work out. 

Another concern was your age. You were around twenty years his junior if you were doing the math right and, while you weren’t freshly eighteen making him look weird, you also don’t want to risk any negative attention coming either of your way because of the large age gap. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to chase after younger women to get their attention and make him feel younger, but what if he was? 

The last big concern was truly why you? He’d dodged you and your camera whenever he could for the entirety of this current season and the half of last season that you were with the team, so this was a relatively new-to-you experience where he actually had a real interest. All of the bad romance drama movies pointed at him being put up to it by his teammates or a meddling public relations manager, to either prove that he could pull you or prove that he wasn’t a robot programmed to be good at baseball and only baseball. You should give him more credit than to think a man as evidently thoughtful as him would do such a thing, but right now everything was potentially true until you sat and debunked it all with him. 

“I absorbed your tab,” Leon states, setting your credit card down in front of you as he takes the seat at your booth, and you withhold the question about why the bartender would just give him your card to return to you because you already knew the answer. This was a place he came to a lot, probably for about as long as you had been alive, and with that came a strong trust. “You haven’t been here too long, I hope.”

“Just a few minutes,” you assure, smiling up at him while trying to force yourself to relax while putting your card back into your wallet. “How’d your theory pan out?”

“I’ll need to test it some more to make sure it’s the jersey and not me needing to show off for the pretty girl wearing the jersey.”

“Sure,” you murmur, taking another drink of your beer. “It was a good game.”

“I thought so too. Sloppy start but we recovered.”

“You looked kinda irritated in the first inning.” Your comment has him sighing, raising his own bottle to his lips as you watch him with interest. That wasn’t a reaction that would indicate that you were wrong, and your nosiness wins out as you press. “Did something happen?”

“I think I’m getting too old for this,” is all he says at first, earning an interested hum from you as you take another drink. “We’re voting tomorrow on if we’re officially adding ‘six-seven’ as a banned term in the locker room and on the field. But my contract ends this season, so I could retire and just let them do what they want until I’m gone.”

“You want to?”

“I want a Series win, but if we don’t do it this year I don’t know that I have another season in me.”

“Is that why you’re courting me now?”

“Not at all.” He’s quick to reply, making you feel better about where this conversation could go. You weren’t just convenient, and that was important for you to sit with. “I always thought you were beautiful, but I didn’t want to creep you out since so I kept my distance. But I can’t live my life afraid, and I don’t want to live with any regrets and I would have regretted not asking you out.”

“Why would I be creeped out by the most handsome man in baseball?”

“That’s old enough to be your father.” 

“Does it bother you?”

“Would we be here if it did?” His counter makes you sigh, because you supposed you wouldn’t be here if it did bother you — but you were here and…curious. “It’s not a fetish thing either, I’ve only dated women my age or older until us.”

Us. That had a ring to it, settling your nerves in a way such a small word shouldn’t be able to but had achieved so quickly. Maybe it was the way he carefully takes your hand on the table, his thumb dragging along your knuckles slowly, bringing a visual of what us meant to the man across from you. 

“And you don’t care that this would be a wage gap relationship also?”

“Wage gap?” he asks, confused, before taking another drink. “That’s a new one. If that means how much money we make separately, I don’t care. You have your own career and I have mine, you can take care of yourself but I want to take care of you as much as you’re comfortable with.”

“Because taking care of me is taking care of us,” you murmur, earning a gentle squeeze to your hand in confirmation as he nods. “But you can’t just pay for everything. I don’t want that.”

“If you want to pay for something you can, but if I’m inviting you out the only card you should need is your license.”

“Okay, then if I invite you out the same rules should apply.”

“I can respect that.” You can tell that he’s struggling to respect it, but he’d proven that he was a more old fashioned kind of guy so you expect him to have a slight issue with letting you pay for things. But this was dating in the twenty-first century, he was going to have to get used to it. “When are we getting married?”