Little bit about me: my name is Heaven, call me Hev! Iâm college student, studying biomedical engineering (pre-med) and this is where I write my ideas out, cause there is a lot of them! Please keep in mind that English is my second language, not everything will be perfect. Thank you for understanding! Golden rule: If you donât have something nice to say then please donât say anything at all.
Requests are open. Please keep in mind what I have written and use that as a baseline as what I am willing to write.
⣠⣠My masterlist ⣠âŁ
The last of us
Safe and Sound
The shattered chapters: part. 7 Part 8. Volume 1 Volume 2
Part 9
Blood and Water
~1~
Safe are the Ghosts
Episode 1: Pt 1.... Pt 2... Pt 3.... Pt 4 ...
The start Hospital bubblin over
The Zoo Grandpa⨠Wednesdayâ¨
Diner High school â¨
Around the Block⨠water park
All the girls ⨠best friendsâ¨
Not sick Career Day⨠so lovedâ¨
The boyfriend⨠new born⨠the horse â¨
The dabbles (Requested dabblesâ¨)
The stream / Wow we do love a deathbed confession / It's like a slipân slide / Maybe in another life / Since day one / Parent-teacher conference / Snitch / Pretty In Red / Starshine / â¨The Great War, Part Twoâ¨/ You Are In Love / Repercussions⨠/ out of the woods / Ration Cards ⨠/ he calls me a knucklehead ⨠/ my dummies / Secret Spot â¨/ seven days ⨠/ I swear it ⨠/. itâs just- someone ⨠/ dino nugs / I got you ⨠/ end of all good things / mister Dansa / common ground
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summary: In post-apocalyptic Jackson, you work as a medic and navigate tense relationshipsâespecially with Ellie and your father, Joel. Despite the past, grief, and unspoken wounds, you figure out how to continue in a world that seems to love nothing more than ruining your life. - based of the HBO television series, currently in Episode 2
Word count: 6k
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 âGale,â you called, voice cracking more than youâd meant it to. But she kept walking.
She shouldnât have kept walking. Not with the way her boots slammed against the floor, not with the way her shoulders were squared in that kind of grief-fueled determination that only ends in heartbreak. Her steps were too purposeful, too loud in the echoing silence that had followed the scream, the gunfire, the collapse.
She shouldnât have been moving at all.
You could see it in her face when she passed youâher eyes barely met yours, just a flicker of a glance, but it was enough. It was all she needed. Because in that split second, something inside her changed. Like her brain was fighting to rewrite the truth, but her eyes wouldnât let her.
The blood on your hands was impossible to ignore. Dark, drying, tacky in some places and still wet in others. It had soaked through your sleeves, crusted into the creases of your palms, caked under your fingernails like dirt youâd never be able to scrub out. You didnât even feel cold anymoreâyou didnât feel much of anything at all.
Your knees were soaked, heavy with a mixture of snowmelt, dirt, and blood from where youâd dropped too fast, too hard, too late. And still you hadnât moved. You hadnât had the strength to.
And then your face.
That was what broke her.
Because panic was carved into every inch of itâyour mouth trembling around words you couldnât form, your chest rising too fast, your eyes glazed with something deeper than shock. Not fear. Not confusion. But that hollow understandingâthe kind that only came after.
The glaze hadnât gone away since youâd pressed your hands to his chestâdesperate, fumbling, begging for movement, for breath, for anything. But thereâd been nothing. Just the stillness. The unbearable silence that followed the last heartbeat.
And your voiceâyour voice had broken with it, splintered open like glass. When youâd called for help, it had already been too late.
She saw all of that in a glance.
And still, she kept walking. Because stopping meant accepting it. And neither of you were ready for that.
The hallway was lit in harsh red pulsesâthe overhead emergency lights flickering on and off like a dying heartbeat. The sun was long gone. All that was left was the cold, sterile hum of power reserves failing, and the metallic tang of blood clinging to every breath.
âGale, pleaseââ you begged again, your voice barely audible over the blare of the high-pitched alarm that wouldnât shut off, screaming over your grief like it didnât know when to quit.
Heâs dead.
She stopped.
Not because your voice convinced her, but because her mind finally caught up with what she was about to do. The door in front of herâthe one that still hung half open. The one with the trail of blood leading inside. The one you had stumbled out of just minutes ago.
âStop,â she said. Her voice wasnât loud. It didnât have to be. It was final.
You sâStop,â she said. Her voice wasnât loud. It didnât have to be. It was finalâcut through the chaos like a blade, sharp and simple, the kind of word that made everything still.
You swallowed hard, chest tightening as you stepped toward her. Not fast, not all at onceâjust careful, deliberate steps, like she was a wire pulled taut and one wrong move would snap her in two. Your hands trembled, still sticky with blood that had dried unevenly across your fingers, your wrists, under your nails. It was beneath your skin now, like you'd never be clean again.
âDonât go in there,â you said, voice hoarse, small. The words cracked as they left your throat, raw from screaming and silence and everything in between. âHe⌠heâs gone.â
Gale didnât move. Didnât breathe. But something behind her eyes falteredâjust a flicker of disbelief trying to claw its way back.
You kept going, because if you didnât speak, the memory would do it for you.
âItâs everywhere,â you whispered, the words tumbling out faster now, unfiltered and jagged, like floodwaters slipping through a cracked dam. âJust blood andâbââ your voice caught in your throat, choked and broken, âand itâitâs all over the floor. And hisâhis hand was still twitching and I tried, I swear I tried, I didnât know what to press, there was just so much and heâhe looked at me like he knew and he, bu-but he-he couldnât be looking at me because- it was clean, clean shot through the head-an-and b-blood and bââ
You couldnât finish.
Your knees buckled slightly beneath you, and you caught yourself on the wall, the weight of the moment pulling you down like gravity had finally won. The emergency lights strobed red over your face, your voice, your painâpainting you in flashes of hell. Sallowed hard, stepping toward her as carefully as you could, as if one wrong move might shatter her completely.
âDonât go in there,â you whispered, the words dragging out of you like they hurt. âHe⌠heâs gone- Itâ itâs everywhere,â The words began to tumble out, as if you couldnât stop them, âJust blood and b-...and it-âÂ
She means brains, Abby, his brains are on the floor.
âYouâre lying,â Abby snapped, her voice sharp and hot, cutting through the thick weight of panic like it might be able to slice your words in half, undo them, erase them.
You flinchedânot from her tone, but from the truth in your hands. Youâd almost wiped your face, almost tried to dry the tears burning your eyes, only to freeze when you saw the blood again.
Still fresh. Still wet. Â Your breath hitched, staggered and uneven, as if your lungs couldnât decide whether to sob or scream. You stared at your palms, trembling, shining in the low red light like some cruel joke. Like a stain you werenât meant to wash off.
âNoâno,â you stammered, voice cracking, thick with grief. You shook your head, your voice desperate and fraying at the edges. âCome back.â
â
âHEY, DOCâ!â
The shout slammed through the thin veil of your sleep like a sledgehammer, rattling against the inside of your skull and dragging you violently from whatever shallow dream you'd been clinging to. The words stung, sharp and echoing, still bouncing around your head as you jerked upright, disoriented and half tangled in the blanket that had slipped off your shoulders sometime in the night.
Adrenaline surged through your chest like a crash, a hot, immediate wave that left you breathless and wired. Your heart was poundingâthumpingâso hard and fast it almost drowned everything else out. No birds, no wind, no hum of the old heater from the next room. Just your heartbeat and the faintest trace of panic still buzzing in your veins.
You stood too fast, your feet hitting the floor in uneven steps, and your socks betrayed you instantlyâslipping on the smooth wood as you stumbled, caught yourself against the edge of your dresser, and pushed off toward the door.
Your mind was already racing ahead of your body.
Something was wrong. You knew that shoutâDoc only meant one thing when it was yelled like that. Not casual. Not routine. Urgent. Emergency.
With clumsy, adrenaline-fueled steps, you staggered out of your bedroom, one hand bracing against the wall to steady yourself as the world caught up in blurry, disjointed pieces. Your hair had come undoneâhalf fallen from whatever sleepy, half-hearted braid Joel had managed to weave into it last night after he found you curled over the toilet, vomiting up what had once been a perfectly good dinner and about three drinks too many. His hands had been steady, his voice gruff but gentle, the way it always got when you were sick or hurting or scared and trying not to show it.
The hallway lights were off, but the faint spill of lantern-glow from downstairs illuminated the upstairs landing just enough for you to see the outline of another figure stepping into view.
Your father.
Joel stood in the doorway of his room, hair tousled, shirt half-buttoned, his own eyes wild with that specific mix of sleep confusion and immediate, paternal dread. His posture was tenseâback straight, shoulders squared like instinct had already carried him halfway into fight mode. He looked toward you instantly, gaze darting to your face, down to your hands, checking for blood, for a limp, for something broken.
You stopped when you saw himâyour breath caught in your chest, your socked feet still sliding slightly on the floor, your own panic momentarily giving way to his.
You didnât have to say anything.
Because he was already speaking, voice low, coarse, and tight with concern.âYou okay? What the hellâs goinâ on?â
The words hadnât even fully formed on your tongue before the next shout cut through the quiet againâ
âDoctor Miller, we need you!â
You winced. Not at the volumeâthough it rang through the house like a shotâbut at the title.
Doctor.
It never sat right with you. It clung too heavy to your shoulders, too clinical, too official for what you were. It didnât feel earned. Didnât feel yours. Not really. You werenât trained for thisânot in the way that word implied. You didnât sit in classrooms or pass boards or swear under oath with clean hands and steady futures. There was no diploma hanging over your desk, no framed certificate, no moment where someone in a white coat handed you the title with applause.
What you had was blood. Trial by fire. Scar by scar. You had the memory of holding down screaming bodies while trying to figure out what was bone and what was tendon with nothing but a dull knife and shaking hands. You had Joel reading aloud from a tattered copy of Greyâs Anatomy in a whisper, squinting in the half-light of a lantern while you dug into someone's side with a pair of repurposed tweezers.
You learned from mistakesâmistakes that bled and cried and sometimes didnât make it through the night.
But stillâpeople called you Doctor Miller.
Because it made them feel safer. Because in a world of collapsing walls and too many funerals, they needed somethingâsomeoneâto believe in. And if that someone could stitch a wound, stop the bleeding, bring someone back from the edge? That was enough.
âDoctor Millerâ was easier to say than scared kid who learned how to stitch a laceration in someoneâs basement by flashlight while praying they didnât nick an artery. It gave people permission to hope. And so you answered to it. Every time. Even when it made your skin crawl. Even when the word felt like a lie stitched just as tight as the wounds you closed.
So, you didnât argue. You just jerked your chin toward Joel.
He nodded without a word, already stepping into his room, grabbing the worn, leather-wrapped first aid kit from the hook by the door. It was old and heavy and patched together with duct tape and thread, but it had saved lives more times than you could count. He didnât need instructions. Heâd done this beforeâtoo many times.
Your steps down the stairs were faster than your brain could catch up. Each thud of your feet echoed through your skull, still buzzing with leftover whiskey, dehydration, and dread. Youâd sobered up the second your name was calledâbut your body hadnât quite forgiven you yet.
And still, you didnât hesitate.
Youâd seen it all beforeâlived through it more times than you could count. Pregnant women screaming through clenched teeth on the kitchen table while someone boiled water that wouldnât stay hot and Joel held their hand, silent and steady. Babies born blue and silent, and some that werenât. You remembered the way Mariaâs eyes didnât leave yours during the worst of themânot in panic, but in pure, hard faith. Because she had to believe you could do it. There was no one else.
Kids with fevers so high they trembled until their limbs stiffened, foam bubbling at their mouths as you tried every old-world remedy, every whispered wivesâ tale, and watched, helpless, as their parents crumpled before your eyes. Youâd held a child as she went still. Youâd lied to her father and said she didnât feel a thing.
Youâd patched up shattered limbs and torn skin, digging glass and gravel out of tissue with forceps that had seen more war than peace. Youâd sewn lips shut, reattached fingers, drained abscesses so rancid you had to burn the rags afterward.
Youâd screamed at people to hold them down while you worked. Youâd begged for more light, more hands, more time.
And then there were the bites. The ones no one wanted to talk about. The ones you tried to clean anyway. That you wrapped tight and whispered promises overâpromises you never kept.
Youâd seen the eyes go hazy, seen the tremors start, seen someoneâs last coherent thought flash through their expression as the infection took hold. Youâd been the one to nod to Joel or Maria or Tommy when the time came. Sometimes you did it yourself.
Youâd worked through all of itâsweat, blood, bile, terrorâwith your sleeves rolled up and your hands shaking so badly you thought theyâd never be steady again.
But you never let them shake during. Not until afterward. Only when the door shut behind you, only when the patient was goneâor savedâdid your body catch up to the storm. Youâd sit on the floor, head in your hands, blood dried on your arms, and let yourself feel it.
Then youâd get back up. Because there was always someone else waiting.
But thisâthis made your stomach twist.
Kyle.
He sat on the couch, his face pale and slick with sweat, jaw clenched as he tried not to groan. One hand gripped the side of the cushion, the other pressed against his upper thigh, blood soaking through his jeans in a wide, wet patch. His shirt had been pulled off and wadded beside him, clearly used as makeshift pressure.
He was a good patroller. Young, sharp. Earned respect fast. Always the one to help the new kids, always quick on his feet, always came back in one piece. Until now.
Beside him sat Tommy, steady and calm, one hand on Kyleâs shoulderâquiet reassurance. And on the other side, Maria, already pale from too many nights without sleep, her gaze snapping to you the second your feet hit the bottom step.
Two other board members lingered nearby, one pacing near the front door, the other wringing their hands uselessly, trying to look like they belonged.
The wound wasnât horrifying. Not at a glance. A deep gash in the upper thigh, wide and angry, possibly from a blade or shrapnel. Ugly, yes, but not catastrophic. Not unless it hit the wrong artery. Not unless infection set in. It bled more from movement than depth, you could already tell that from the streaked trails on the floor and the way Kyle winced every time he shifted.
Still. Something about itâthe weight of the room, the way all the voices had gone still the second you stepped in, the anxious eyes of board members trained on you like you were some kind of savior or ticking clockâmade your skin crawl.
The kind of silence that didnât feel like trust.
It felt like pressure.
With a slow blink, you forced your breath in and out, grounding yourself. You stepped forward, wiping your hands along the hem of your shirt without thinking. âW⌠what happened?â
âIâm not bit,â Kyle blurted out immediately, voice sharp and defensive, like the words had been locked and loaded before you even asked. His gaze met yoursâsteady, firmâbut his words shook around the edges. You could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the twitch of the hand still gripping his leg.
Your knees creaked as you lowered yourself to the floor beside him, your focus shifting fully to the wound now that the adrenaline had thinned enough for clarity to set in.
Kyle spoke again, quieter this time. âGot it riding through the edge of town⌠snow was thick, couldnât see shit, and it caught my leg.â
Your hands stilled for a moment. âWhat did?â
He didnât even hesitate. âMetal. Rusted pipe, maybe. Fence that fell in the snowbank. I didnât stop to check, justâfuck, I felt it tear.â
âOkay,â you murmured, a little steadier now, nodding slowly, your voice more clinical, more in it. âOkay. Good. No bite, just a laceration.â
Joel had set the kit down on the coffee table without a word, already open, the contents lined up like familiar tools in a battlefield shrineâgauze, thread, peroxide, forceps, antiseptic wipes, tape, bandage rolls, scissors. All waiting. All ready.
âThey ran into a small horde. Thirty or so,â Maria began, her voice even but distant, like her mind was halfway elsewhere, calculating, already three steps ahead. âThey said theyâd come across a fewâmaybe sevenâfrozen solid.â
You didnât look up as she spoke, your focus rooted in the angry, jagged tear down Kyleâs thigh. The antiseptic soaked the gauze and your gloved fingers worked with quiet precision, cleaning the blood away from the edges, checking the depth, your breath steady despite the way the room felt like it had dropped a few degrees.
Maria continued, âThen thirty of them broke out from underneath. Snow-covered. Camouflaged. They didnât even hear them coming until the ground started moving.â
There was a pause in the room thenâa stillness that stretched too long. Like everyone was thinking the same thing, but no one wanted to say it aloud. The kind of silence that waits for a confirmation no one wants to hear.
You finally spoke, voice quiet. âWhich direction?â
Mariaâs eyes flicked to you, her mouth set in a hard, unreadable line. âSouthwest ridge.â
You nodded once, eyes narrowing slightly. Youâd been out that way before. Sparse woods. Shallow drifts. If they were frozen, that meant they were waitingâdormant, hidden. The kind that didnât move until you were already too close.
âTheyâll come here eventually,â Maria said, not with fear, but with that resigned certainty that only came from years of this. Of knowing.
Joel didnât hesitate. His voice was steady, already sliding into that no-nonsense tone that meant this was now real.
âAlright,â Joel said, his voice cutting through the room with that familiar weightâcalm, commanding, the kind of tone that turned chaos into a checklist. âPrep the town. Lock down the outer gates. Get lanterns posted on the blind cornersâweâre not gonna be caught off guard.â
You didnât even pause your work, but the shift in the room was immediate. The energy snapped from dread to movement. Maria was already pulling out her radio, barking quick, clipped orders through static. One of the board members stepped out into the cold without a word. Tommy vanished into the kitchen to grab the weapons ledger, his boots echoing behind him.
Then Joelâs voice came again, softer but just as certainâthreaded with something warmer beneath the grit.
âStarshine, baby, you get bundled up,â he said. âWeâre heading out.â
You peeked your head over your shoulder, squinting past the strands of hair that had fallen from your braid, still carefully pulling the thread through Kyleâs skinâsteady, even, despite the hammering of your pulse.
âWant me to wake Ells?â you asked, tone light but laced with purpose. âBe good for three of us.â
There was a beat of silence. Just long enough for the tension to shift slightly, like a breath had been held.
Then Joel replied, his voice a little quieter, a little gentler in the way only someone who knew the shape of tiredness could manage.
âNo,â he said. âLet her sleep in. Some of us need to have a good nightâs sleep.â
You nodded once, not smiling exactly, but something softer pulled at the corner of your mouth. It was a rare kind of care he gave, hidden behind the bark and gravel, wrapped in sarcasm and bossy ordersâbut it was there. Always there.
You tied off the final stitch with a practiced flick of your wrist, trimmed it clean with the scissors Joel had laid out, and pressed a thick gauze pad firmly over the wound on Kyleâs thigh. He hissed through his teeth but didnât complainânot out loud, anyway. His knuckles had gone white from gripping the edge of the couch, his face pale but grateful.
You gave him a nod, the kind that said youâll live, then leaned back on your heels, already a few steps ahead.
If you were heading out tonightâand you wereâyouâd need to move fast.
Layers first. The cold had teeth tonight, and if you were headed southwest, you'd be hitting deeper snow and open terrain. Thick socks, thermals, the insulated jacket Joel had patched twice over, and your scarfâGod, if you could find where you threw it after patrol last week.
Two knives. One for quick kills, close and silent. The other tucked in your boot, heavier, better for hacking through brush or something worse. You always double-checked the edges before leaving. Your gloves were still hanging by the fire downstairsâif someone hadnât already moved themâand youâd need the good ones, the pair Ellie had stolen and re-sewn the fingertips on after you'd worn through them last winter.
And your packâalready half-stocked, but youâd have to double-check for backup radio batteries. The last time the comms went dead mid-patrol, it had nearly ended with you stuck on a rooftop watching infected swarm through the street below with no one listening to your signal.
You stood slowly, your knees stiff from kneeling, and gave Kyleâs shoulder a soft squeeze. âKeep it elevated. Donât move unless Maria says so.â He nodded, too exhausted to argue. Tommy had already stepped in to take watch.
â
âWhaâŚâ Nora breathed, her face nearly pressed to the cold glass, eyes wide as the landscape unfolded in front of them. âItâs a city, Abs. I thought itâd be like⌠I donât know, a tent colony. Wood frames and tarps and open fires or something.â
Abby stood a few feet behind her, arms crossed over her chest, her jaw tight as she looked out the same frosted window. Beyond the trees and rolling snowbanks, Jackson rose out of the quiet like something impossible. Streets laid out in grids, homes with actual rooftops, smoke curling from chimneys, lights glowing in second-story windows like the world hadnât fallen apart.
âWell,â Abby murmured, âwe knew they had lights.â
âYeah, well I thought they were like... little generators,â Mel said from the corner of the room, her hands half-tucked into her sleeves. âLike the kind we used at the FOB. Couple hours of light, tops. Rationed use.â
âNope,â Nora muttered, shaking her head with a bitter little scoff. âThey got full fuckinâ power lines. Substations. Poles. Cables. Look at that.â She gestured toward the skylineâbarely a skyline, really, but enough. A town with structure. With order. With comfort.
âWell isnât that great,â she added under her breath.
The room went quiet for a moment, just the pop and crackle of the fire burning low in the hearth.
Owen, seated closest to the flames, barely turned his head. He didnât look outside. He didnât have to.
âPower lines arenât the problem,â he said flatly, voice almost bored but with that undercurrent of calculation he always slipped into when things got serious. âHere are the problems: theyâve got four main gates, no in-or-outs without clearance, guard towers flanking each exit. Mounted patrolsâheavily armed. Tight rotations. Routes that overlap.â
He leaned forward just slightly, tossing a glance at the floor like he could see the cityâs layout spread across it like a map. You could tell heâd been watchingâreally watching. Taking notes even when the others were still caught up in the shock of seeing a town that had functioning power and fences that werenât made of scrap.
Nora stared at the floor too, brow furrowed. âThese guys are trained.â
âYeah,â Owen nodded. âTheyâve got some Vets down there for sure. Iâd bet a few old QZ soldiers, some Fireflies, maybe even a few FEDRA leftovers that got tired of orders and set up shop for themselves.â
He took a slow breath, jaw flexing, then stood. The firelight caught the edge of his expression, shadows warping across his features.
âBut okayâletâs just say we somehow get past the gates. Slip the guards. Avoid the patrolsâŚâ
âOkay⌠and the dogs,â Owen acknowledged with a tired sigh, running a hand down his face. âEven then, we still donât know where Joel is. No map. No layout of their housing sectors. No indication of whether heâs even in the inner ring.â The room felt colder then, despite the fire.Until Abby spoke.
âSparrow does.â
Her voice cut clean through the tension in the roomâlow, calm, unshaken. There was no hesitation, no flicker of doubt behind it. Just certainty. Heavy and anchored. Like she wasnât just guessingâshe knew.
Everyone turned toward her. The flickering firelight caught the edge of her jaw, set her expression in sharp contrastâcold eyes, clenched fists, arms crossed tightly over her chest like armor sheâd worn a thousand times before. She didnât flinch. Didnât shift under the sudden weight of the silence.
âThatâs why Iâm not worried,â she said. âBecause Sparrow is down there. Thatâs her home. And she probably knows himâŚeven if she doesnât know she does.â
There was a pause. A long, quiet one that seemed to hum with the tension of everything no one wanted to say aloud.
Then Nora, voice thin and skeptical, finally let the question fall into the open air like a dropped match.
âIf sheâs alive⌠then how do we know she didnât already kill him?â
The words didnât echo, but they felt like they had. Like they'd rippled through the room and set something off, something no one could take back. The weight of it didnât just landâit hit, sharp and sudden, like a blade laid across old wounds.
Everyone felt it.
Because that was the unspoken fear, wasnât it? The uncomfortable truth humming beneath all the planning and quiet hope. That maybe Sparrowâtheir Sparrowâwasnât the person they remembered anymore. That time and distance and grief had twisted her into something else. Something cold. Something capable. That maybe Joel was already gone, and not by accident. Not by some patrol gone wrong. But because sheâd found out before they did. Because her rage got there first.
Abbyâs eyes narrowed, and for a moment, it looked like she might snapâbut she didnât. She took a breath instead, slow and tight, and answered with a clipped, deliberate calm.
âShe didnât know what he looked like. She didnât even know his name. Hell, we barely did. Thatâs how careful they were.â
âShe wouldnât have done it on accident?â Nora pushed, arms folded, eyes flicking between Abby and Owen.
âNo,â Abby snappedâthen softer, âShe wouldnât. Jesus- Nora, she wouldnât hurt a fucking fly.â
Another silence stretched. Then Owen spoke up, tone a little more cautious, a little more tired.
âFine⌠butâhypotheticallyâif she is alive, and she knows, why would she help us? What makes you think she hasnât just picked her side and stayed on it?â
The question hung heavy, thick in the air like smoke refusing to clear.
It was fairâbrutally so. And it didnât just come from suspicion. It came from experience. Everyone in the room had seen what survival turned people into. What time and loyalty and betrayal did when left to simmer for too long. People didnât always stay who they were. Especially not out here. Especially not when it came to him.
Abby didnât blink.
No hesitation. No flicker of uncertainty. She just stood there, spine straight, her voice calm and clean like she'd rehearsed the answer in her head a hundred times. Like she'd hoped someone would ask.
âWe have a standing invitation,â she said.
Simple. Direct. Final.
And that simplicity stopped the room. Noraâs brows lifted, her skepticism cracking just slightly at the edges. âWhat?â
There was something in Abbyâs eyes nowâunreadable, but fierce. Not emotional. Not pleading. Just⌠certain. The way someone looked when they were betting on a truth no one else could quite believe in anymore. âShe told me,â Abby said. âBefore she left. That if we ever needed to find her, to come to Jackson. Said Iâd know how. She meant it.âAnd maybe that didnât seem like much. But coming from herâfrom someone who didnât trust easily, didnât speak. unless she had reasonâthat kind of conviction was its own kind of proof.Â
âWeâll wait till it warms up a little bit to go down,â Abby said, her voice steady, practical. She crossed her arms again, glancing toward the frost-laced windows, where the pre-dawn light barely touched the snow-covered treetops outside. âTill then, Iâll take first watch.â
There was no discussion. No challenge. Just a quiet, collective understanding that settled over the room like an extra layer of weight. Abby wasnât askingâshe was deciding. The kind of decision that came from experience, from loss, from knowing what it meant to wait too long or move too soon.
She stepped back toward the window, scanning the dark treeline below like she could see through the shadows, through the buildings, through time itself. The fire behind her cracked, casting her silhouette in long, flickering lines against the wall.
There was tension in the room stillâquestions unasked, fears that hadnât yet dared to take shapeâbut no one argued. Not when her shoulders were squared like that. Not when her eyes were fixed like that. Theyâd come all this way. And now all they could do was wait⌠and trust that if Sparrow was still out there, she hadnât forgotten which way home was.
Ellie,Â
Thereâs something going on. My dad and I are on patrol, I think you and Jesse are coming out at 0800. Do me a huuuuuge favor and feed Pedge and Johnny before you leave? Youâre the best. Love you.
 -Starry
Ellie blinked down at the note, the familiar messy scrawl of Starryâs handwriting barely legible in the early morning light. Her eyes still heavy with sleep, she rubbed the heel of her palm against one and then glanced up at Jesse, whoâd already pulled the note from where it had been pinned crookedly to the doorframe of the makeshift home theyâd been crashing in.
The paper fluttered slightly in the morning breeze, creased at the corners, written in blue ink that smudged just enough to prove it had been scribbled in a hurry. There was a faint little coffee stain on the bottom corner. Typical. Starry probably left it right before hauling herself out into the freezing cold.
Jesse was squinting at the note like it was a puzzle. âPedge and Johnny?â
âHer sheep,â Ellie muttered, already turning toward the small pen at the back of the lot, where two unmistakably disgruntled animals were already bleating in complaint like they knew theyâd been left waiting.
âOh. Right.â Jesse shook his head. âI thought they were, like, cousins or something.â
Ellie rolled her eyes, but she smiled faintly all the same, folding the note once and tucking it into her back pocket. Love you, it had said. It was simple. Rushed. But it still warmed her chest in a way that made the frost bite a little less when she stepped out into the snow.
âAnyway, heard you had quite the night after Doc anâ I left,â Jesse said slowly.
Ellie froze just slightly, her breath catching in that subtle way someone does when theyâre suddenly two steps behind in a conversation they thought they were leading. The warmth in her cheeks betrayed her immediately, even in the cold.
âOhâŚâ she started, trying to play it offâcasual, like it was nothing. Like the night hadnât burned itself into her bloodstream.
âYeah⌠yeah, she kissed me,â she muttered, and it came out too quick, too defensive. Her hands shifted awkwardly in her pockets as she looked away, out toward the snow-covered fence line. âIt was just Dina being Dina. She was high. She wonât even remember itââ
But Jesseâs expression didnât shift the way she expected. Because he was not talking about that.
â-Ahh, I was talking about some fight you had with Seth and Joel. You kisseed her?â When his eyebrows lifted and that dry, confused look crossed his face, Ellie felt her stomach dip just slightly, her brain catching up to the part of the story sheâd missed. The part that mattered to everyone else. The fight.
Seth. Joel. Raised voices in the middle of a community potluck, threats whispered too loud, pride stung too deep. Ellie had felt the eyes on her afterward, the ones that stuck around long after the shouting stopped. And the worst part? She couldnât even remember how it started. Only how it feltâhot, sharp, humiliating. Like no matter how long she'd been in Jackson, she was still just half-outside.
Maybeâmaybeâshe could still save this.
âNo.â
One word, sharp and immediate, like it could rewind time, undo the crack that had just formed in Jesseâs expression. But it didnât. It landed flat, too late, too transparent.
âWooow, Ellie, câmon.â His voice wasnât angryânot yetâbut it held that bitter edge, like something was breaking loose under the surface. âWeâve been broken up one week, and you made a move on her?â
Her chest tightened. Oh no. This wasnât going to be saved.
âI didnâtâ I didnât makeââ Her words tangled, stumbled over each other like they were trying to catch up to the damage already done. Her hands moved uselessly at her sides, caught between explanation and defense.
Jesse looked away, jaw tense, the kind of quiet that meant he was trying not to say what he really wanted to.
âDinaâyouâit didnât mean anything!â Ellieâs voice cracked, pushed too loud, too fast. âItâs like when I kissed Starshine, itâsââ
âWhoaââ
She hadnât meant to say that. Not like that. But now it was out, and the silence it left in its wake was too big to ignore. âIt doesnât mean anything,â she said again, quieter now, trying to shove the words back into their box. âShe was probably just trying to make you jealous.â It felt weak even as she said it. Like she didnât believe it. Like she was hoping he would. Like saying probably was enough to pretend it hadnât mattered to her at all.Â
âIt didnât mean anything, it didnât. I wouldnât do that, manââ
Ellieâs words were coming fast, tangled and frantic, her chest tight with the weight of guilt and panic. Sheâd already started bracing for the falloutâthe ruined trust, the cold shoulder, the long silences that would stretch into something permanent. She was already halfway through grieving the friendship when Jesse finally spoke.
âIâm screwing with you, man.â He said it with that infuriating calm, that Jesse calm, the one he used when he was already ten paces ahead of her in the conversation.
âI already know,â he added with a shrug. âTrust me. I donât care.â Then, without skipping a beat: âCâmon, get dressed. We gotta go.â
Ellie just stared at him. Like the world had tilted on its axis. Like sheâd braced for a punch and someone handed her a glass of water instead. Her mouth hung open, caught somewhere between disbelief and outrage as he turned on his heel like nothing happened. She was still stunned when the door started to swing closed behind him. And then, as if on cueâ
Wham. She tried to slam it, but his boot caught it just in time, wedging between the frame and the edge. He leaned back in, grin already forming, eyes sparkling with mischief.
âBut I do wanna hear the story about how you and Doc kissedââ
âShut up!â Ellie shouted, voice cracking with horror and a flush creeping up her neck like wildfire.
Jesse just laughed and walked off, whistling like he hadnât just sent her into cardiac arrest.
summary: In post-apocalyptic Jackson, you work as a medic and navigate tense relationshipsâespecially with Ellie and your father, Joel. Despite the past, grief, and unspoken wounds, you figure out how to continue in a world that seems to love nothing more than ruining your life. - based of the HBO television series, currently in Episode 1
The ride back to Jackson was steeped in that kind of charged silenceâthe kind that buzzed under the skin like static, heavy and loud in its own quiet way. No one said a word. Not for a long while. The only sounds were the rhythmic crunch of hooves against packed snow and the soft hush of wind slipping through the trees.
Katâs jaw was clenched so tight you were pretty sure her molars were grinding into dust. Her posture was rigid, straight-backed and sharp, and her hands gripped the reins like they were the only thing anchoring her to the thin thread of composure she had left. She hadnât looked at any of you since you left the ruined building, and honestly, that was more terrifying than if she had. There was something about the way she rodeâcontrolled, silent, calculated rage simmering under every movementâthat said if anyone so much as breathed wrong, sheâd spin her horse around and start yelling. Probably at Ellie. Maybe at you.
You wouldnât even blame her.
Dina rode ahead of you, shoulders slightly hunched, her eyes scanning the treeline like she was pretending to look for threats just so she didnât have to meet anyoneâs gaze. Every now and then, she would glance back at Ellie, then shake her head like she still hadnât processed what exactly happened.
And EllieâEllie was riding with a smugness that wasnât on her face, but radiated off her entire being. Like sheâd swallowed a firework and it was glowing through her ribs. She said nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just chewed her gum (when did she get gum?), sat too casually in her saddle, and occasionally glanced your way like she knew you were dying to ask her what the hell that little stunt was about.
You didnât.
Mostly because you werenât sure you could without laughing.
Snow had started falling sometime in the last mile or soâlight at first, soft and drifting like ash. Then steadier, heavier, the kind that came down in thick, quiet curtains and turned everything still. Big, lazy flakes spiraled through the air, melting the second they kissed the warmth of your coat, but clinging stubbornly to your gloves, your eyelashes, your horseâs mane like the forest was trying to dress you in winterâs hush.
The sky stretched wide overhead, a dull, glowing gray that blurred the edges of everything below it. Not dark, not lightâjust hushed. Like the sun had stepped aside and the world was caught in that in-between moment before breath and after heartbeat. The clouds hung low and heavy, pressing down on the treetops, casting a silvery tone over the snow-dusted ground, and for once, there was no wind. No rustling. Just the steady rhythm of hooves against frost-hardened dirt and the faint, distant creak of saddle leather.
Even the trees seemed to hold their breath. Limbs dusted in white stood frozen in place, not swaying, not shifting, as if nature itself had paused to watch you return.
Jacksonâs walls peeked out through the curtain of falling snow in the distance, rising like a quiet promise against the pale horizon. The snowfall softened the world around it, dusting the trees and fences, blanketing the earth in white, but Jackson still stood strongâsolid, unmoving. The tall, reinforced walls curved gently around the settlement like a protective arm, worn but reliable. Built not just with wood and steel, but with sweat, fear, and a stubborn kind of hope that had outlasted the worst of what the world had thrown at it.
Warm light flickered from the towers and narrow windows embedded in the higher buildings, casting golden glows onto the snow-drenched rooftops. Smoke curled lazily from a chimney near the mill, the scent of burning wood always the first sign that you were nearing home. From here, you could just barely hear the distant clatter of lifeâthe thump of boots on walkways, the low rumble of voices, the distant bark of a dog. Life was still happening in there. Safe, controlled chaos. A world you could almost call normal.
It wasnât perfect. The walls had been patched, reinforced too many times to count. Supplies were never plentiful. Grief lived in those homes just as much as laughter. But it was a place people returned to. A place people fought to return to. And seeing it there, through the snow and silence, felt like exhaling a breath you didnât realize youâd been holding.
You shifted slightly in your saddle, your muscles still sore from the earlier chaos, your coat stiff with dried blood, and your nerves barely starting to settle.
âSo,â Dina said finally, voice dry and low, her breath visible in the cold. âAnyone wanna explain what that was?â
No one answered.
Not immediately.
Then, from behind you, Ellieâs voice: âI saw an opportunity.â
You closed your eyes.
Katâs horse snorted.
âI told you not to go in that building,â Kat snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the snowfall. âI told all of you.â
Ellieâs boots creaked against the stirrups as she shifted. âTechnically, I fell through the ceiling.â
âOh my god,â Kat hissed under her breath.
You bit your cheek, hard, to keep the laugh down, the sting grounding you just enough to keep a straight face. Dina didnât try nearly as hardâshe choked on a snort and tried to pass it off as a cough, which only made Kat whip her head around with the kind of glare that could shatter stone. Dina ducked like that might help.
With a quiet exhale and a shake of your head, you eased Birdie into a slower trot until you were riding beside Ellie. She still had that look on her faceâjust the slightest upward curl at the corner of her mouth, like she was doing a terrible job of pretending she wasnât thrilled with herself.
You gave her a sideways glance. âRight, soââ
âI am not getting a check-up,â she cut in immediately, not even looking at you. âI refuse.â
Your frown was instant. âNo, not thatââ
âNot getting poked, not getting prodded, and Iâm definitely not answering any of your condescending âso where does it hurtâ questions.â
You blinked. âEllie, Iâm notââ
âAnd if I see you coming at me with stitches, Iâm pushing you off your horse.â
You sighed, staring at her with flat disbelief. âEllie, I wasnât going to ask about your injuries. I know youâll lie about them anyway.â
She finally glanced over, eyes squinting in suspicion. â...Then what?â
You hesitated for a beat. Then, quieter, âI was gonna ask why you looked so⌠pleased with yourself.â
She didnât answer right away. Just looked forward again, the wind tugging at the collar of her jacket, snowflakes catching in her lashes.
Then she grinned.
âBecause,â she said, voice low, âI told you Iâd survive anything.â
You stared at her, your eyes locked on the side of her face as she rode just ahead of you, a little too proud, a little too smug, her breath still visible in the cold air as she grinned like someone whoâd just pulled off the worldâs dumbest magic trick and somehow made it look cool.
Your heart stuttered. Just a beat. Like it hadnât been expecting her to say thatâlike it hadnât braced for the way her voice had gone low, cocky, soft, all at once.
Because I told you Iâd survive anything.
It wasnât fair. Not the way she said it. Not the way she looked back at you like it meant more than just a joke. Like it was a promise. Or a challenge. Or a quiet confession, half-buried under bravado and bloodstains and the snow still clinging to her shoulders.
You rolled your eyesâhard enough that it bordered on theatrical, the kind of overdone gesture you hoped would disguise the sudden warmth blooming in your chest. You did it out of self-preservation, really. Because if you didnât, you were either going to smile like an idiot or say something you couldnât walk back.
It almost worked. Except your face was already flushed. Except your mouth was twitching at the corners. Except your stomach was still doing that dumb fluttering thing like it hadnât gotten the memo about how dangerous this all wasâfeelings, not just clickers.
âYeah? Well, maybe try surviving without falling through buildings next time,â you shot back, the words sharper than you intended, but laced with something else beneath the sarcasmâfear, maybe. Relief. That awful cocktail that still hadnât quite left your chest since the moment the floor gave out beneath her.
Your voice wavered just slightly at the end, not enough for her to call it out, but enough for you to hear it in your own ears. Because what you really wanted to say was donât scare me like that again. That the sound of her crashing through the boards had made your heart stop. That your hands were still shaking, even if youâd tucked them into your coat to hide it.
But instead you smirked, tried to play it cool. Because thatâs what the two of you didâdance around the panic, lace your worry in sarcasm, bury care in banter.
Ellie just gave you a crooked smile in return, one corner of her mouth pulling higher than the other. She didnât say anything. Didnât have to.
âNo promises,â she said sweetly, kicking her heels into her horse with a little too much glee, taking off ahead of you like she hadnât just narrowly avoided death. Snow kicked up behind her, scattered in the air like confetti.
âWaitâ!â you called after her, already clicking your heels against Birdieâs sides. Your horse groaned like she was just as exhausted as you were, but still obediently surged forward, hooves pounding against the softening path.
You pulled up alongside Ellie, your breath visible in the cold air, heart thudding more from nerves than the ride. âOne more thing! ELLIE!â
She glanced over, wind in her face, eyes bright from the adrenaline and cold. âWhat?â
âWhââ you blinked, the cold stinging your eyes, your thoughts scrambling to catch up with your mouth. âArenât we gonna slow down?â
Ellie didnât miss a beat. She snorted, not bothering to look back. âYou said one thing.â
You shook your head, brushing snow from your sleeve where it had started to cling, melting slowly through the fabric. The cold was biting at your fingertips, but it didnât matter. The words came out before you could second-guess them.
âNever mind. Dinner. Tonight.â
Thatâthatâgot her attention.
You watched her posture change, subtly but definitely. Her hands tensed slightly on the reins. Her eyes flicked between you and the snowy trail ahead, like she couldnât decide which one was the real danger. There was hesitation in the silence that followedâjust long enough to feel it stretch tight in the space between your horses.
She said it like it might be a trap. Like she wanted to be wrong about what she thought you meant, but didnât want to hope too hard in case she wasnât. Her voice was caught somewhere between curiosity and caution, and under thatâsomething quieter. Something almost⌠tentative.
You recognized it instantly. You felt the same thing. Every time you asked her to stay. Every time you reached first. âNo,â you said, voice flat. âFamily dinner. Everyone. Benji, Uncle TommyâŚmy dad. Mariaâs idea.â
Her face immediately soured. âNo.â
âEllie, please!â you groaned, reaching out to lightly tug at her coat sleeve like that might physically stop her from riding off, which alone was risky but you couldnât bring yourself to care. âCâmon. Just one night. You donât even have to talk that muchâjust nod, make eye contact, maybe chew your food like a civilized human being.â
âI hate those dinners,â she grumbled, but there was already a crack forming in her resolve, you could hear it. âEveryone stares at me like Iâm gonna throw a chair through the window.â
âThen donât throw a chair through the window,â you deadpanned.
âI only did that once.â
You huffed, eyes narrowing with a small grin you didnât bother hiding. âJust show up. Thatâs all Iâm asking.â
Ellie hesitated. Slowed a little.
Then, dramatically, she slumped forward over her horseâs neck like the weight of the request had physically crushed her. âFine.â
âSeriously?â
She peeked over at you, her smirk half-hidden beneath the weight of the wind and the flush in her cheeks from the coldâbut her eyes were steady, watching you like she knew exactly what she was doing. âOnly if I get to sit next to you.â
Your heart stutteredâjust a flicker, like something skipped and landed in the wrong spotâbut you forced your mouth not to twitch, forced your voice to stay flat. Cool. Controlled. You swallowed the heat rising in your chest and answered with practiced calm.
âDeal.â
She grinned wider, playful but dangerous, like sheâd just secured a win in a game you didnât realize you were playing. âThen Iâm wearing something awful.â
The image flashed across your mind instantlyâEllie showing up to Mariaâs family dinner in some god-awful outfit, probably layered in clashing patterns, maybe even sunglasses indoors, just to make a point. You didnât doubt sheâd do it. Hell, she'd probably make a spectacle of it if she knew itâd get a reaction out of youâor even worse, Joel.
âAlso expected.â
Her grin turned into something wicked. Mischievous. Proud. Like she was already plotting ways to ruin the evening with precision-level chaos.
âCool. Canât wait to traumatize Joel over soup.â
And just like that, she nudged her horse forward again, riding a little faster, snow flicking off her coat as she disappeared into the slow haze of the falling dusk.
You stayed where you were for a moment longer, the cold biting at your ears, your breath fogging up around youâand your heart still thudding that half-beat behind.
Because yeah. She was joking.
Probably.
But it was getting harder to ignore the way your chest fluttered every time she chose to sit beside you. The way her shoulder would brush yours like it meant nothing, but always lingered just long enough to mean something. The way she smiled like she knew exactly how to disarm you with it. The way she said your name like it was easyâlike it belonged to her lips, like it was hers to keep.
And it wasnât fair. Because youâd made your choice years ago. Back when the world was a little more on fire, and your heart was still too tangled up in grief and guilt to know the difference between affection and safety.
You remembered that dayâclear as anything. Youâd looked her in the eye and said, Weâre like sisters. Said it with a shrug, with a practiced ease that masked the crack in your voice. Told her you were best friends. That the two of you could survive anything. And maybe you believed it. Maybe you needed to.
Because youâd already packed those kinds of feelings away. Neatly. Quietly. Locked them behind doors labeled not now, and not again, and never with herâbecause those keys had once belonged to someone else. Someone who left. Or disappeared. Or someone you had to leave behind, with no promises and no closure. Just a memory and a dull ache.
And god that had taken awhile to get over.Â
And you told yourself that was enough. Being alone was enough, because you were alive and you could stay alive. That is was enough and everything else was justâŚjustâŚ
But now⌠now Ellie was still here. Still fighting. Still falling through floors and throwing out dinner invitations like they were life preservers.
âÂ
Your steps were slow into the houseânot your own, or rather not technically yours. Joelâs, officially. But this wasnât his place. This was Tommy and Mariaâs, just a few houses down, same creaky porch steps, same frosted windowpanes softened by snow. You barely made a sound as you nudged the back door open with your hip, arms full of a carefully packed box.
It was second nature to try here when you couldnât find your father at home. He and Tommy had a way of being predictably unpredictableâeither knee-deep in a project, halfway across town on a supply check, or sitting in near silence at the kitchen table, sharing the kind of conversation that didnât require many words.
The door gave with a soft creak, the warm smell of wood and something vaguely herbyâprobably whatever Maria had brewed earlierâwrapping around you like a blanket. You stepped inside, boots leaving faint, melting tracks on the rug as you closed the door behind you with a gentle nudge of your foot.
The box in your arms was heavier than it looked. Full of scavenged medical supplies: a blood pressure cuff, a couple of thermometers, three half-used glucose kits, a box of alcohol swabs, and a splint that had definitely seen better days but would still do the trick. There were a few sealed medication bottles tooâbasic painkillers, some antibiotics. Nothing rare, but valuable enough that you carried them like gold. Youâd even found a few rolls of gauze, two cracked cold packs, and an unopened bandage wrap.
Everything inside was organized with almost compulsive care, labels facing the same direction, tape rolls tucked into corners, syringes banded and capped. Youâd packed it the way you packed your fear: neatly, methodically, pretending it wasnât there at all.
As soon as you opened the door, the warm, savory scent of stew wrapped around you like a wool blanketâthick with herbs, something tomato-based, maybe beef, and definitely Mariaâs doing. Your stomach gave an immediate, almost rude little growl in response, and you let out a content hum, already feeling the warmth of the house pulling the cold from your bones.
You didnât even think about it when you called out, voice raised just enough to carry through the house: âAuntie? Uncle Tommy?â
And that was apparently the magic phrase.
Because before the echo of your voice even faded, you were greeted not by Maria or Tommyâbut by the unmistakable thunder of tiny feet on hardwood.
A heartbeat later, a very recognizable four-year-old came tumbling down the stairs.
Not fallingâtumbling. Purposefully chaotic, arms flailing for balance, one sock on, one sock missing entirely, a mop of curly brown hair bouncing with every step as he barrelled his way down like gravity had personally challenged him to a race.
You barely had time to set down the box of medical supplies before he was launching himself across the entryway with full commitment, little legs pumping like he was chasing down the last slice of cake in the world.
âStaaaaar!â he yelled, voice high and delighted as he flung himself at your knees.
You barely caught him in time, stumbling back a step as his arms wrapped around your thighs, clinging to you like a human koala. His face was already squished into your jacket, giggling like a maniac.
âWhoaâhey, hey! Careful, Iâm armed with thermometers,â you laughed, one arm instinctively wrapping around his small frame to keep him from toppling both of you over.
He tilted his head back, cheeks flushed from his epic stairway descent, curls sticking to his forehead in wild loops, eyes bright with that particular brand of mischief only four-year-olds could possessâlike he knew heâd startled you and was very pleased about it.
âDid you bring boo-boo stuff?â he asked, voice breathless with excitement, his little hands clutching the front of your jacket like he was fully prepared to drag you into a pretend triage situation right there in the entryway.
You nodded solemnly, like it was a matter of national importance. âA whole box.â
His mouth dropped open in a tiny gasp, awe widening his eyes. âCool,â he breathed, like youâd just told him you brought a dragon instead.
The grip he had on your coat tightened.
You could already see the wheels turning in his head.
âDoes it have the stingy spray?â he asked with a hopeful wince. âThe one that makes your leg cry but then you feel better?â
âYeah,â you said with a grin, tapping the side of your nose. âHidden at the bottom. Top secret.â
âWhoa,â he whispered. âIâm gonna get a fake injury so we can use it.â
âLetâs not,â you said, picking him up and balancing him on your hip as he leaned into you like heâd done it a hundred timesâwhich, to be fair, he had. âLetâs pretend no one gets hurt today. Deal?â
He stuck out his pinky. You shook it with exaggerated seriousness.
Then he leaned in close and whispered, âBut if someone does, I get to be your helper.â
âWell obviously, Auntie Starshine and Medical professional Benji.â You chripped, which earned a gleaming smile from the young boy.Â
From somewhere down the hall, Mariaâs voice called out, laced with affection and the usual exasperation of someone parenting a human rocket. âBenji! Did you just tackle our guest again?!â
âStarryâs not a guest,â Benji mumbled into your coat, grinning. âShe lives here too.â
With a soft smile curling on your lips, you carried Benjiâstill clinging to you like a particularly affectionate barnacleâinto the heart of the home. The kitchen was a swirl of warmth and motion, every corner alive with sound or scent or the gentle clatter of domesticity that felt almost sacred in this world.
The table was already set for six. Plates stacked with care, mismatched mugs at each seat, silverware wrapped in folded cloth napkins that didnât match but felt right. A small jar of preserved jam sat at the center beside a half-empty salt shaker and a candle that had been burned down to a stub and lit again anyway.
The stove was aliveâone pot bubbling with something thick and savory, the scent of herbs and garlic and slow-cooked meat filling the air. Something else baked in the oven, sweet and spiced, the kind of smell that reached down into your ribs and tugged gently on childhood. A kettle was whistling low, not shrill yet, just humming, and the old percolator rattled faintly beside it, coffee bubbling in rhythmic hiccups like it was trying to keep time with the household.
You set Benji down gently, ruffling his hair as he scampered off toward the table to inspect exactly which mug he wanted for dinnerâeven though he didnât drink anything but warm milk and watered-down juice.
Beside the stove, her back to you, Maria was working with that effortless multitasking ease only a momâor a woman with too much experience keeping things togetherâcould master. She stirred one pot with her right hand and flipped something in a cast-iron skillet with her left, barely glancing away from the bubbling stew.
You stepped up beside her, tucking your hands into your jacket pockets, and hummed quietly as you leaned over to peer into the pot.
âSmells like someoneâs trying to win Aunt of the Year again,â you teased, eyes twinkling.
Maria gave a sideways glance without missing a beat. âI am Aunr of the Year. Every year.â
You chuckled. âWell, your competition is a four-year-old with a spoon and a lot of opinions.â
She smiled, lips tugging up as she handed you the wooden spoon without looking. âTaste that and tell me if it needs salt. But donât lie to spare my ego.â
âYour egoâs unsinkable,â you muttered as you took the spoon, carefully blowing on the broth before tasting it.
Benji let out a triumphant âI found the red cup!â from the other room.
Maria just smirked. âTold you.âÂ
Benjiâs voice echoed from the dining room again, now narrating his highly scientific mug-placement process with the kind of intense focus only small children possess. You could hear him tapping things on the table and muttering about âsymmetryâ like he knew what it meant.
You were still mid-eye roll when Mariaâs smirk faded into something quieter, her gaze lingering on the pot just long enough to mark the shift in atmosphere. She turned slightly, the ladle resting on the edge of the pot, and looked at youânot sharp, but deliberate. Measured.
âSo,â she said carefully, âthe market.â
You stiffened a little, your hand still loosely holding the spoon, suddenly very interested in stirring the stew again.
âOh, please donât,â you sighed, not quite meeting her eyes. âWe told you what happened.â
âYou told us,â Maria repeated slowly, folding her arms across her chest. âBut I know you. I know Ellie. I know Dina. And I definitely know Kat. What you told me was a report. What Iâm asking for is the truth.â
You tried to scoff, to laugh it off, but it came out thin. âWhat part of âwe cleared the area and fell through the floorâ sounded untrue?â
Maria raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. âThe part where you all made it home in one piece, and no oneâs limping or sobbingâbut Ellie looked smug, Kat looked homicidal, and you walked in like you were trying not to cry or throw up. Or both.â
You didnât say anything. You just pressed your palm to the edge of the counter and focused on the burn still healing beneath your bandage. It wasnât much, but the sting helped ground you.
âStarshine,â Maria said more softly now, her voice dropping into that calm, patient tone she only used when you were trying very hard not to unravel. âIâm not mad. Iâm not here to scold. But I need to know what I donât know.â
You looked at her thenâreally looked at her. The lines on her face from years of holding too many things together. The quiet concern behind the strength. She wasnât just asking because she was Maria. She was asking because she was family.
You swallowed thickly. âIt was close,â you admitted, voice barely above a whisper, like saying it too loud would make it real all over again. âLike⌠really close. Ellie went down hard. I thoughtââ You stopped, the words catching in your throat like glass. You cleared it roughly. âThere were about eight clickers⌠and a stalker. Second and third stages of infection. All of which have been eliminated. I donâtâWe took care of it.â
The silence that followed felt heavier than the snow gathering on the roof. Maria didnât speak right away, just exhaled slowly through her nose, the corners of her mouth twitching downward like she was biting back a thousand things at onceâanger, fear, maybe just exhaustion.
âYou fuckinâ Millers,â she muttered, shaking her head as she turned back to the stove. âYou and your emotionally crippled ass instincts to not ask for help. Jesus.â
You didnât argue. Couldnât. Because she wasnât wrong.
She stirred the stew once, twice, like she was channeling something into the motion. Then she looked over her shoulder, eyebrows arched, voice a little tighter now. âAnd you checked yourself and the other two?â
You nodded firmly, pulling your coat back to show the bandage peeking out from under your sleeve. âCourse. Dinaâs clean, just a few bruises. Ellieâcouple scrapes. Sheâll pretend sheâs dying, but sheâs fine.â
Maria narrowed her eyes for a moment, assessing you like she was reading your heartbeat through your face alone. You met her gaze without flinching. Barely.
âOkay,â Maria said finally, turning the heat down on the stove with a decisive twist of her wrist. The bubbling stew quieted to a soft simmer, the warm, rich scent still curling through the air like a comfort blanket. She didnât look at you this time, just stared down at the pot as she added, âBut if any of you start coughing, twitching, or brooding more than usual, I will sedate you and lock you in the pantry.â
You huffed a quiet laughâhalf breath, half disbelief. It was her usual deadpan humor, but there was an edge under it. She meant it more than not.
Then she glanced at you again, one brow arching knowingly. âOh. Ellieâs coming?â
You hesitated, your fingers tapping the edge of the counter lightly. The question was simple, but the answer never was.
You took a slow breath through your nose and gave a small nod. âSaid she would.â A pause. âBut⌠I doubt it.â
It hung there for a momentâbetween the two of you. You werenât even sure if you meant she wouldnât come to dinner⌠or that she just wouldnât stay long enough to matter.
Maria didnât press. She never did when the subject turned into that.
She just gave a single, understanding nod and turned toward the cabinet, already pulling out another plate from the stack. âIâll still get one ready.â
And somehow, the simple act of thatâof someone setting a place for her even when she probably wouldnât showâmeant more than any question or lecture or well-meaning warning ever could.
âÂ
Later that night, you sat between Joelâs legs on the living room floor, your back resting gently against the curve of his knees, knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped around them. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting a soft amber glow across the room, throwing long shadows that danced over the worn floorboards and the quiet clutter of homeâbooks, boots, a half-finished mug of coffee left forgotten on the side table.
Your eyes stared ahead, unfocused, fixed somewhere past the flickering flame, but your mind was far from the fire. It had been a long dayâlonger than mostâand the exhaustion had settled in your bones, heavy and still.
Joel worked quietly behind you, fingers deft and gentle as they threaded through your hair. His calloused handsâhands that had held rifles, built fences, broken bonesâmoved with surprising softness, parting strands with a kind of reverence. There was a rhythm to it, a muscle memory in his movements that felt older than the man himself, as if braiding your hair was something etched into his bones, even if you both knew that wasnât quite true.
But it was familiar.
He used to do this almost every morningâback in the QZ, when days started with ration lines and the metallic tang of burning trash. You were younger then. Smaller. The back of your head barely reached his chest when you sat in front of him on the floor. He'd sit cross-legged, still half-dressed for patrol, and youâd hand him your brush without a word, already knowing what came next.
While Tess mapped routes and mumbled curses at broken radios in the background, Joel would braid your hair by the first light of dawn, his brows furrowed like he was doing surgery. It was always a little too tight, never symmetrical, and he'd mutter under his breath the entire timeâbut he'd do it. Every damn time. And right before he tied the band in place, the sky would shift from navy to gold, and the birds would start to sing.
That was your cue.
A soft snap of the band. A low grunt of approval.
And then the day would begin.
Now, years later, it felt the same. The tension in your shoulders slowly melted with each pull of the braid. The quiet between you wasnât heavyâit was full, layered with memory, with comfort, with all the things you didnât need to say.
Joel cleared his throat softly behind you, not to speak, just to clear the space. His fingers paused at the nape of your neck, holding the braid in place as if he needed to linger there a second longer. Maybe for your sake. Maybe for his. Outside, the wind rustled against the windows, soft and distant.
After a moment, you felt the familiar tension of the band wrapping around the end of your braidâtight, secure. Then, the soft press of a kiss to the crown of your head. It was quiet, unceremonious, but you felt it like a warm ripple down your spine.
âAlright,â Joel murmured, voice low and rough with sleep or age or something heavier. âFinished up.â
âMmm,â was all you could manage, not even bothering to lift your head from where it leaned slightly back against his knee.
He paused. It took him about a millionth of a second to realize you had absolutely no intention of moving. No desire to get up, no instinct to shift into conversation or activity or anything else. Just you, settled there on the floor in front of him like a weight he wasnât in any rush to put down.
So he adjusted. Shifted just enough so his back pressed deeper into the couch, knees settling on either side of you with a soft creak. One hand rested loosely on his thigh, the other absentmindedly smoothing down the braid he'd just finishedâlike some part of him wasnât ready to stop.
âHow was the trip?â he asked after a beat, his voice careful. Not pressing. Not yet.
You let out a short, scoffed laughâhalf amusement, half exhaustion. It wasnât really funny, but the sound escaped you anyway. The kind of laugh that said you wouldnât believe me if I tried.
Joelâs hand paused against your hair.
âWell,â he said, quieter this time, âI ainât gonna pretend I didnât hear about it.â
And that was Joel in a nutshellânever one to pry, never demanding answers, but letting you know that the door was open, that he knew. That heâd already heard from Maria, or Tommy, or someone else in town whoâd used the word clickers and floor collapse in the same breath, and heâd been sitting with that knowledge ever since, waiting for you to offer the rest.
Waiting like he always didâsilent, steady, and there.
It took a moment, the kind that stretched between breaths, heavy and quiet.
Then your voice came, rough around the edges. âI missâŚâ You trailed off, shaking your head like you could scatter the thought before it solidified. âGod, Iâm just missing stuff today.â
Joel didnât move, didnât speak. Just let the words settle.
âLike?â he asked after a moment, his voice low, neutral, soft in that way only he could make feel like a safety net instead of a pry.
âMom.â The word left you faster than you meant it toâtoo sharp, too unfilteredâbut it was there now. You breathed around it. âI miss FEDRA,â you said next, and then winced, already bracing for the look. âWhich is messed up, right? I know. But I miss⌠being a kid. I miss the routine. The school. The drills. Even the goddamn whistles.â
You laughed softly, but it broke halfway through.
âI miss my friends,â you continued, voice softening to almost nothing. âI miss stupid things, like canned peaches. And the sound of the elevator in our old apartment building. I miss⌠I dunno. When it was just us.â
Joel didnât say anything. He just stayed there behind you, his presence like a wall against the chaos of the world outside. His hand rested at the base of your braid, thumb tracing lazy, slow lines over the woven strandsânot rushing you, not offering solutions, just being there.
âI know it wasnât easy,â you murmured, voice fraying at the edges. âIt was never easy. But at least it made sense. At least I knew who the bad guys were. At least⌠you were always right there.â
Your words drifted into the room like smoke, too heavy to disappear but too fragile to hold.
The fire crackled, low and steady, and Joelâs hand moved againâsmoothing over your hair with the same careful pressure he used when you were a kid and couldnât sleep. It wasnât just comfort. It was something like apology. Like I hear you. I remember, too.
âI justâŚâ you swallowed thickly, curling in tighter on yourself, âI feel like everything has been in this constant state of change, and I⌠I just need a minute. Just one. To breathe. To not have to be anything.â
There was a beat of silence.
Then Joelâs voice, low and careful: âYou wanna stay in the house?â
You shook your head without looking up. âNo. No, we gotta go to the silly prom- wait no sorry, Community uniting Potluck.â Your tone was flat, tired, a little bit amused, a little bit exasperated. âAuntie wants me to be on the board. So I gotta, go be perfect Doctor Miller.â
âAh,â Joel said, like that explained everything. âSo thatâs it?â
You laughed onceâsharp and dry. âNo. Thatâs not the main issue.â
He didnât ask what was. He didnât have to. He just made a low, thoughtful sound in the back of his throatâMm...âand let the silence speak.
Because he already knew. He always did.
You let out a breath you didnât know youâd been holding. âYeah.â
Joel nodded, hand resting once more on the back of your head with all the strength and softness of someone whoâs spent too much time surviving and still found room to care.
âLetâs go, baby,â he said quietly, with the weight of everything you didnât have to explain resting gently in the space between you.
And just like that, you stoodânot because you were ready, but because he was standing too. Because you didnât have to do it alone.
â
The fires outside crackled cheerfully, ringed by bundled-up children who shrieked and giggled as they danced around them, their breath puffing out in little clouds that faded into the falling snow. The flames lit their faces like lanterns, soft and golden, and for a momentâjust a momentâit all felt untouched by grief. The snowfall was light, drifting in lazy spirals from the sky, clinging to hair and coats and lashes like a quiet blessing. The air held that sharp, clean cold, brisk enough to sting the lungs but not enough to chase people inside. It was the kind of night that almost pretended the world hadnât ended.
Inside, it was warmth on every surfaceâwood-paneled walls, coats draped over chairs, the air heavy with the scent of slow-cooked meat, firewood, and faintly-spiced cider. Laughter moved like a current through the room, pulling people along with it. There were no harsh lines of rank or routine tonightâonly neighbors chatting like old friends, kids weaving between legs, and couples caught in private smiles.
Some debated over plansâgardening for spring, a new water line, maybe rebuilding the west fence. Others hovered near tables lined with drinks, cups filled with precious liquidâwine, actual wine, brewed and hoarded and bartered for over months of planning. It was the kind of drink that carried weight, not just for its rarity but because it meant hope. Forward thinking. Celebration.
And the lights. The lights were bright and steady, cutting through the shadows with a warmth the fire couldnât reach. They glowed not because of luck or leftover fuel, but because someoneâprobably Maria, probably four other people, tooâhad shut down the outer grids earlier that week, calculated it down to the second, and made sure tonight had light. Because sometimes, the illusion of normalcy needed a little engineering.
You were in the middle of a conversation, half-laughing, half-listening, as the teenager youâd once treated animatedly recounted something about schoolâhow she was finally allowed back into gardening duty, how she swore the antibiotics you gave her saved not only her leg but also her chances with the girl she liked. Her parents stood nearby, quieter but equally grateful, their nods full of warmth, eyes soft with the kind of gratitude that didnât need to be loud.
Youâd accepted their thanks with the usual mix of humility and awkwardnessâbecause honestly, youâd just done your job, and if the infection had gone a day longer, it mightâve ended very differently. But tonight wasnât about that. Tonight, it was about the after. The surviving. The living.
You were just leaning into another story when you heard your name calledâlouder than most voices, in that unmistakable friendly ambush tone.
You turned, instinctively polite, hand on the girlâs arm as you murmured, âOne sec.â Then you pivoted, and of course it was Jesse.
There he stood, near the drink table, with that ever-present warmth in his expression and a drink in hand like he was the host of a party youâd forgotten you RSVPâd to.
âDoctor Miller,â he said with far too much formality, his grin betraying the mock-seriousness in his tone.
âJesus, Iââ you blinked, nearly tripping over your own surprise and the suddenness of the address.
âAh ah ah!â Jesse said, stepping forward like he was about to present you with an award. âI heard about the appendix thing.â
You let your head fall back with a sigh, a groan half-caught in your throat. âWhy is that such a point of conversation?â
Jesse just sipped from his cup, eyes crinkling with amusement. âYou literally performed surgery with your dad reading out instructions like it was the apocalypse version of a cooking show.â
âIt was the apocalypse version of a cooking show,â you muttered, rubbing your eyes. âFine. What is it?â
âI just came to tell you,â Jesse said, tone dipping into that theatrical seriousness he wore like a second skin, âthat youâre officially cooler than me now. And I hate that.â
You raised a brow, sipping cautiously from your cup. âThat was the line? The appendix?â
âThat, and the fact that Maria wonât shut up about putting you on the board.â
Your smile falteredâjust a flicker, but enough to be noticeable. The weight of that word board settled onto your shoulders like snow that didnât melt.
âGod, no,â you muttered, eyes drifting past him for a moment. âTrust me. I am painfully aware of her scheming.â
Jesse chuckled, but it faded fast when he caught the look on your face. Not dread, exactly. More like⌠tiredness. That deep, slow kind of tired that doesnât come from one bad nightâs sleep but from weeks of holding everything up and together and still being told you need to do more.
âShe corner you again?â he asked gently.
You gave him a long-suffering look. âAt least twice a week. She brings food now. Like itâs some sort of bribe-slash-threat.â
He snorted. âThatâs the Maria Method. You say no, she gives you stew. You say no again, she makes you feel like saying yes is your idea.â
âAnd then youâre sitting at a table with a bunch of people twice your age talking about zoning codes and water lines,â you deadpanned.
âDonât forget the new compost system,â he added, raising his cup in mock-honor.
You groaned. âKill me.â
But Jesse just smiled and bumped his shoulder against yours. âLook, all Iâm saying is⌠she wouldnât be pushing so hard if she didnât believe in you. Everyone does.â
You looked at him, surprised by the shift in toneâand maybe a little disarmed by how genuine he sounded. The weight didnât disappear, but something in your chest loosened just a little.
You took a sip of your drink and let out a breath. âYou trying to convince me to say yes?â
Jesse gave you a look of mock offense, clutching his chest like youâd wounded him. âDonât assume I care that much,â he drawled, lips twitching into a grin. âBut I do wanna make sure Iâm on the good side of the Jackson royal family.â
You narrowed your eyes. âAnd that is exactly why I say itâs a bad ideaâput me on the board and suddenly youâre gonna have people accusing us of nepotism and cult politics.â
âHey, if the crown fitsââ
âStarshine.â
The voice came from behind you. Low. Familiar. Soft enough to stop you mid-sentence but loud enough to send a ripple through your chest.
Your ramble died in your throat instantly.
You turned, slowly, instinctively, your whole body already shifting before your mind caught up.
And there she was.
Ellie.
Your breath caughtânot from shock, not exactly. More like⌠disbelief laced with something warmer. Something stupid and soft that settled beneath your ribs and flickered, like someone had finally lit a candle in a room you'd forgotten was dark.
The look of faint distress still creasing your features melted into a quiet, confused smile. Not wide. Not exaggerated. Just real. Just there.
ââŚEllie,â you said, the name falling from your lips like it had been waiting there all night.
She stood just a few feet away, shoulders dusted with snow, cheeks flushed from the cold, hands shoved into her jean pockets. Her eyes flicked between you and Jesse and then back again, something unreadableâbut not unkindâin her expression.
âI wanted to say sorry,â Ellie said, voice quieter now, the usual sarcastic edge completely absent. âFor not coming. IâŚI had something.â
You blinked, the words catching you a little off guardânot because they were harsh, but because they werenât. Because you hadnât expected them. Hadnât expected her.
Your mouth opened, then closed again, and you gave a short, uncertain laugh, rubbing your thumb along the rim of your cup before answering. âOh. Um⌠I wonât lie, I wasnât expecting you to.â
Your eyes finally met hers, and she didnât look away. There was something heavy but earnest in her stare. Not guilt exactlyâEllie rarely let herself wear guilt. But something close. Something honest.
âBut⌠but thanks,â you added, the words awkward, small, but true.Â
She nodded once, stuffing her hands deeper into her pockets like she was keeping herself from saying more. The space between you felt strangely fragile, like one wrong word could tip the moment into something neither of you were ready to deal with.Â
You were just about to say somethingâsome awkward, forced version of small talk, the kind that people used when they didnât know how to admit theyâd shared too much history to pretend they were strangers. Something dumb like howâve you been, as if you hadnât once carried her through a blizzard, or held her hand through the shakes of a fever, orâtaken a bullet for her, like it was just another part of the job. As if everything youâd survived together could be neatly folded and tucked beneath the word complicated.
But you never got the chance.
Because Dina arrived like a gust of warmthâcheeks flushed from the cold, eyes bright, smile already wide like sheâd been halfway through laughing before she even spotted you.
âOh god, hi,â she grinned, reaching out to grab your arm like you were mid-conversation.
âHi,â you offered, startled but unable to stop yourself from smiling back.
She clocked your cup immediately and wrinkled her nose. âWhatâs that?â
ââŚWater?â
âGross,â she declared. âRight, you canât be fun anymore.â
Before you could respond, she turned smoothly toward Jesse, who barely had time to raise a brow before she snagged his cup right out of his hand. With no hesitation, she downed what remainedâmaybe three fingersâ worth of whiskeyâlike it was water, then handed the empty cup back to him with a triumphant little smirk.
Jesse blinked. âOkay.â
âAnyway,â Dina said, already shifting her attention to Ellie, who had said nothing, done nothing, and yet somehow looked like sheâd just been hit with a snowball. âWhat took you so long? Letâs go.â
And just like that, Ellie was being tugged away, blinking, looking over her shoulder once, maybe twice. But she didnât fight it.
You stood there with your untouched cup of water, still trying to remember how breathing worked. Your chest was tightânot painfully, just enough to remind you that moments like that, with her, never seemed to unfold the way you imagined. Or wanted. Or needed.
You let out a huff and leaned back against the table behind you, the wood creaking slightly beneath your weight. You stared down into your drink like it held some kind of answer, some kind of reason for why everything always seemed to pull her just far enough out of reach.
Jesse stood next to you, quiet for a beat too long. Then, dry as ever, he said, âYouâre so, so sad.â
You snapped your eyes to him, frowning. âSays you.â The words came out sharper than you intended, your voice cutting through the warmth of the room like a knife. His brows lifted just slightly, but he didnât flinch.
You winced, already regretting it. âFuck. Sorry, Jess. I didnât meanââ You sighed again, running a hand through your hair. âYou twoâll be back together in two weeks. Probably less.â
Jesse didnât respond. Not right away.
Instead, he looked aheadâtoward the crowd, toward where Ellie and Dina had disappeared through the flickering lights and laughter and music. You followed his gaze without meaning to, your eyes landing on the same spot where their figures were still barely visible, spinning slightly in the crowd.
And then Jesse spoke, voice flat and certain in a way that made your stomach drop.
âNot gonna happen.â
You didnât move.
Because you saw it too.
The way Dina leaned into Ellie.
The way Ellie let her.
The way she didnât look back againânot this time.
And just like that, your stomach sank to meet Jesseâs in that quiet, brittle place. That hollow ache where hope used to sit before reality laid it bare. No final words. No dramatic ending. Just⌠gone.
You let out a low sigh and glanced sideways at Jesse, your voice dry and only half-joking. âI have the key to the liquor cabinet at the parlor. Wanna get drunk and cry about⌠that?â
Jesse tilted his head like he was giving it serious thought, then gave a shrug. âIâll take you up on the liquor.â He pointed a finger at you. âBut youâll be doing all the crying.â
You let out a sarcastic laugh, already reaching for your coat. âUh-huh. You were screaming bloody murder when I popped your shoulder back in, donât give me that âIâm tough shitâ act.â
He scoffed, following your lead. âThat was a reasonable amount of screaming, and also you are not licensedââ
âYouâre welcome.â
As the two of you made your way through the thinning crowd toward the exit, coats in hand, boots crunching faintly against the snow tracked inside, you passed by your father.
Joel was mid-conversation with Tommy, something quiet and practical, as usual. He barely broke stride as he leaned over, pressing a kiss to your temple with the same ease he always hadâhabitual and grounding, like muscle memory. Like reassurance that he was there even when he didnât know what you were carrying.
You paused, just for a second, letting yourself lean into it before moving on. Your hand brushed his side gently, a silent thank-you. He didnât say anything, didnât need to. He just gave your shoulder a soft squeeze as you passed.
It was barely ten feet outside of the barn when it happenedâone moment filled with the crunch of snow underfoot and the sharp bite of winter air against flushed skin, and thenâ
âHey! HEYâSOMEONE GET JOEL.â
The voice cut through the air like a gunshot, high and panicked, bouncing off the barnâs timber walls and echoing out into the frozen dark. It wasnât the kind of shout people made for attention. It was the kind that grabbed your spine and jerked. Urgent. Unmistakably real.
You and Jesse froze.
Absolutely still. Like the cold itself had reached up and grabbed you by the throat.
You had one arm halfway into your coat, your scarf still tangled around your neck like you hadnât figured out which way to wrap it yet. Jesseâs hand was hovering just above his jacketâs zipper, his expression shifting from relaxed to razor-sharp in the span of a heartbeat.
The firelight from the barn behind you still flickered warm, casting long shadows on the snow. Laughter and voices inside hadnât even registered what had just been screamed. Not yet.
But you had. Your breath caught halfway out of your chest.
You werenât sure if it was the nameâJoelâor the tone that undid you. Maybe both. Maybe it was the way the voice cracked in the second scream. Or the sound of boots scrambling in the snow a few feet ahead. Maybe it was the sound of fear, the real kind. The kind that people in Jackson didnât yell with unless something had truly gone wrong.
You and Jesse exchanged a lookâsharp, eyes wide but saying nothing. You didnât need to. The shared tension passed between you like a second language.
And then you were moving.
Coat half on, scarf flapping, boots barely dug inâyou didnât wait for instructions, didnât think about the liquor cabinet, or Ellie, or Dina, or the awkward ache in your chest that had brought you out here in the first place. Because none of it mattered anymore. Not in this moment.
Before you could even make it to the barnâs side doorsâbefore the fear in your chest had a chance to take shape, to form into any concrete thoughtâEllie stormed out. She moved like a force of nature, all sharp limbs and quick, furious steps, shoving past the swinging doors with her jaw clenched and her eyes burning.
You turned on instinct, already reaching out for her. âEllieââ Her name left your lips fast, too fast, like maybe if you said it quick enough you could slow her down. Like it could pull her back.
But she didnât stop. She didnât even look at you.
Her shoulders were tight, her eyes locked ahead, and her whole body radiated that quiet, dangerous kind of rage that made people scatter. She pushed through the snow like it wasnât even there, bootprints deep and wild behind her.
âEllie, wait!â you said again, following after her a step, your hand still outstretched, fingers brushing nothing but cold air.
She didnât answer. Just kept walking.
And in that split second of frozen hesitationâscarf still dangling from your shoulders, coat still undoneâyou realized something had happened. Something bad.
Jesse, ever the comedianâeven with the tension still strung tight in the air, even with the snow barely settling from Ellieâs storm of an exitâbroke the silence the only way he knew how.
ââŚSo,â he said, low and cautious, but with a hint of dry humor curling around the edges of his voice, âthereâs this bottle of Jack Iâve seen⌠tucked behind the flour bins in the parlor kitchen.â
You turned your head slowly, eyes wide with disbelief, breath still caught halfway in your throat. âJesse.â
He held up his hands defensively, stepping a little closer, his expression the perfect mask of mock-seriousness. âIâm just saying. If whatever the hell that was has anything to do with Joel, and Ellieâs walking out like the goddamn barnâs on fireâthen yeah, Iâm gonna need whiskey.â
You almost wanted to laugh. Almost. But your stomach was still too tight, the air felt too thin, and your thoughts wouldnât stop circling like buzzards. Your hand still hung in the air, halfway open from where youâd tried to grab Ellieâlike some part of you hadnât gotten the message that she was already gone.
âFuck,â you breathed out, voice low, hollow. âYeah. Just⌠Iâm gonna take mine to-go.â
Jesse, ever the master of emotional whiplash, gave you a grin that was a little too smug for the moment, but somehow not entirely unwelcome.
âAwe,â he said, mock-pouting, âbut I was so looking forward to your little sapphic rambles.â
You shot him a flat, exhausted glare as you pulled your coat fully on and adjusted your scarf with way too much force.
âShut up.â
He gave you a half-salute, stepping back toward the barn doors with an exaggerated bow. âYes, your majesty.â Despite yourself, your lips twitchedâjust slightly. Just enough to make the ache in your chest feel almost bearable for half a second.
--
Yeah so somehow this fic already has 30k words. lord if I know how. But leave your thoughts and comments below!! toodles!
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Summary: In post-apocalyptic Jackson, you work as a medic and navigate tense relationshipsâespecially with Ellie and your father, Joel. Despite the past, grief, and unspoken wounds, you figure out how to continue in a world that seems to love nothing more than ruining your life. (Hbo Show, Season 2 Episode 1)
Word count: 7.1k
â ââââââ ⸠ââââââ â
Age: 11Â
âNow,â Tess said firmly, her voice cutting through the heavy static of alarms echoing in the distance. She reached forward, her hands steady as she straightened the collar of your shirt. Her fingers lingered for a second too longânot out of fussiness, but as if she needed something to do, something to anchor herself before the chaos really began. âRules for when we leave the QZ?â
The world around you was already shaking. The red glow of emergency lights painted the alleyway in flashes, and the distant shout of FEDRA orders crackled like broken glass. You were huddled low, crouched in the grime of a half-collapsed drainage trench, knees pulled to your chest, heart pounding so loud it nearly drowned out everything else.
Still, you heard her. You always heard her.
Squinting against the darkness, you tried to make her out through the blur of light and fear. The high beams from a patrol truck passed over you both like a sweeping hand, and you flinched, instinctively ducking lower.
From your hidden spot in the muck, you mumbled out the rules. You knew them by heart. âDonât get bit⌠donât stray too far⌠make sure I got a gun or knifeâŚâ You paused, the words automatic but heavy. âThink first, hurt later. If you or Dad go down⌠I run.â
Tess stilled.
The noise around you didn't stopâthe alarms, the shouting, the thudding boots on concreteâbut there was a moment, brief and solemn, where it felt like the only two people left in the world were her and you.
She looked at you, really looked, and in your eyes, she saw the weight those rules carried. Not recited from duty or drilled repetitionâbut remembered, clung to, because they were the only things keeping you from falling apart.
There was a pause.
Then Tess gave a small, approving nod, eyes sharp but warm with something deeper. Pride. Maybe guilt. Maybe both. âAtta girl,â she said softly, one hand briefly brushing over the back of your head before she turned back toward the shadows.
â .
Age: 14
âWhistle low,â the woman said, crouched in front of you with blood on her hands that didnât look like it was hers. Or maybe it was. You couldnât tell anymore. Her voice was level, like this was just another lesson. Like she wasnât speaking over the sound of explosions and screaming and that awful, wet gurgling roar of something inhuman getting closer.
Your back was pressed against a crumbling concrete wall, spine digging into the jagged edge of an exposed rebar rod, but you barely felt it. Knees tucked up to your chest, arms curled around them in a grip so tight your knuckles had gone white, but even that was slipping now. Your fingers wouldnât stop shaking. You could still feel the echo of your knife handle in your palmâthe last place it had been before it fell. Or before you dropped it. Or threw it. You didnât even know. Just that it was gone now.
The alley smelled like wet metal, smoke, and piss. There was something rotting behind the dumpster nearby, but it was masked by the stronger scent of bloodâfresh blood, hot and sharp. It had soaked into the knees of your pants without you realizing it, and every breath you took tasted like copper.
Everything around you was loud. Not just the gunfire in the distance, or the thundering boom of explosivesâthough those still made your ears ringâbut the world felt loud. The static in your brain. The thump-thump-thump of your heartbeat in your head. The ragged sound of your own breathing, which no matter how hard you tried, wouldnât come quiet.
Everything was red. Not just the blood. But the lights, the flares, the way the flames danced against the buildings nearby, turning the snow to slurry and shadow. It made the world feel wrongâlike you were inside of a nightmare your body hadnât caught up to yet.
And the cold? The cold didnât even feel cold anymore. Not the kind you could shiver through, anyway. It felt like something deep had frozen inside your chest and was sitting there, heavy and still, like ice pressed right up against your heart. You didnât know if you were shaking from the temperature or from the fear, or both, or neither. It all blurred together into this weird, unreal float.
Tears stung at the corners of your eyes. Not just from the smoke, though that helped. You hadnât cried yetânot really. Not like you wanted to. Not like your body ached to. Thereâd been no time, no space to be a kid. And it felt like if you started now, you might never stop. You might cry yourself empty. And then what would be left?
She was crouched in front of you. The woman. You didnât even know her name. Sheâd pulled you out of the collapsed hallway, shoved you behind this half-dead truck, and told you to stay.
Now she was looking at you. Her face streaked with soot, a tear in her sleeve, blood smeared across her forearmâbut her eyes were clear. Focused. Calm. She looked at you like she needed you to be older than you were. Like she knew you were eleven but didnât have time to treat you like it. Like she expected you to keep it together, because if you didnâtâwell, the math didnât leave room for it.
You tried to meet her gaze. You tried to be brave. But the image of that manâthe one with the beard and kind eyes who gave you gum at checkpoint stationsâflashed in your mind again. The way his scream had been cut off. The way his body hit the ground two feet from you, his blood spraying your boots, his arm still twitching even when the rest of him didnât move.
You flinched, hard, and a whimper broke past your lips before you could swallow it down.
The woman didnât say anything. Didnât yell at you. Didnât shush you. Just reached forward, slow and steady, and touched your shoulder. Her hand was warm through the fabric of your coat. She didnât say everythingâs going to be okay, because that wouldâve been a lie. She just looked at you like you mattered. Like you could do this.
And you wanted to. You wanted to be good. You wanted her to keep looking at you like that.
So you nodded.
Even though your stomach hurt. Even though your legs felt like jelly and your throat burned and your fingers were still twitching like they were trying to find the knife that was already gone.
You nodded.
You didnât know where your mom was.
But you wanted her more than anything.
âIt catches their attention,â she went on, like a teacher repeating a spelling word. âLow whistles. Then high. Makes them lunge. They go right past you. You donât run until they miss.â
You blinked at her. Nodded slowly. Then looked down at your arms. There was blood on your sleeves. A lot of it.
You sniffled. âOkay⌠cool, I guess,â you mumbled. Your voice cracked halfway through. âI just⌠I want my mom.â
She didnât flinch. Just pressed a hand against your shoulderâsteady, warm despite everything. She didnât tell you your mom was okay. Didnât lie. That was almost worse.
A shriek echoed somewhere nearby, too close. The womanâs head snapped toward the alley entrance. Then she looked back at you.
âI know, kid,â she said. âBut right now I need you to whistle like your life depends on it.â
You nodded again. You didnât know what else to do.
And when the shadows twisted, and the snarl came, and she grabbed your hand and said, âNow.ââyou did it.
Low.
Then high.Â
And goddamnint, it worked.Â
â
Age: 14 1/5
âEh,â Joel grunted, snapping his fingers in your direction like he was calling a dogâclassicâand then holding out his hand, palm-up, expectant. No words, just a raised brow and that quiet, authoritative presence that somehow made you feel like you had to obey even when he wasnât looking at you. You rolled your eyes hard enough that Ellie snorted, but still, you handed over the knife you and she had found near the creek bank. It had been half-buried in a tangle of roots and mud, the blade rusted to hell and back, but it looked cool.
Joel turned it over in his hands, inspecting it like it was a priceless relic. âItâs junk,â he said. But he didnât give it back.
Ellie groaned dramatically, stomping through the shallow water as her once-white Converse splashed dark with creekwater. Her jeans were rolled up to her knees, dirt already smeared along her shins. âHe steals all the good shit,â she called, glancing over at you. âNext time we find a machete, we bury it until heâs gone.â
âHeâs like the tax man,â you muttered, skidding halfway down the muddy slope back to the water, arms outstretched like wings for balance. âLike a dad tax. You find something? Boom. Gone. Right into the Joel Vault.â
Joel didnât look up from the knife. âI heard that.â
You grinned, twisting around to face him. âHey, Dad?â
He grunted in replyâhis universal signal for Iâm listening, but you better be quick about it.
âThatâs what a tax is, right? People just... take your stuff âcause theyâre in charge?â
âMmhm,â he confirmed without missing a beat, still running a thumb across the edge of the blade like he thought if he stared hard enough, itâd sharpen itself.
âGod,â you sighed, water sloshing around your ankles, âsometimes Iâm so, so smart I amaze myself.â
Ellie cackled at that, nearly losing her balance as she leaned against a smooth boulder, flicking water toward you with the side of her foot. âIâm gonna get that stitched on a shirt for you. âSo Smart It Hurts: The Starshine Story.ââ
âHey,â you called back, pretending to look offended. âGenius doesnât always get appreciated in its own time.â
Joel finally looked up, just long enough to shoot you both a tired but unmistakably amused glare. âYou two are lucky I ainât charging interest.â
You all lapsed into comfortable silence for a moment. The water murmured against the rocks. Dragonflies hovered lazily in the air. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, golden and slow, casting long shadows across the bank. It felt like one of those rare, still pockets of peaceâwhere the world wasnât trying to kill you, and nobody was bleeding, and laughter was something real and earned.
Joel turned the knife over one last time, then tucked it into his belt. âCould sand the rust off,â he murmured, mostly to himself. âMight still hold an edge.â
Ellie groaned again. âDad tax,â she muttered.
You kicked water in her direction. âYouâre just mad I found it first.â
âKeep talkin', Starshine,â she said, squinting at you. âIâm the one with the rock.â
Joel sat down heavily on a fallen log, letting out a long, tired exhale. âGod help me, I raised two gremlins.â
âNah,â you said, collapsing next to him and leaning back into the sunlight with a grin. âYou inherited us.â
And for once, he didnât argue
â
Age: 15-16
By the time you came to, everything hurt.
The sun, which you remembered lazily dipping beneath the horizon, was now risingâearly light slicing through gaps in the crumbled warehouse walls around you. The air was cold, sharp in your nose, and the metallic tang of blood sat stubbornly on your tongue. You were propped up against a supply crate, vision blurred, head pounding with each passing second. Every blink stung. Your lip throbbed. Something crusted and dry clung to your temple, and it didnât take much to realizeâhead wound. Possibly worse. Probably a concussion.
Voices echoed nearby, warped like underwater shouting. Shapes moved beyond the hazeâfigures, people. A group. One stood closest. A man, kneeling in front of you, hands moving with practiced care as he dabbed gently at your hairline with a cloth that came away stained.
Your instincts screamed too many people, no weapon, canât see straight. You tried to shift, fingers twitching in search of your knife, your gun, somethingâbut your belt was empty. You were alone. Unarmed.
Panic began to settle in your chest just as the manâs voice cut through the fog.
âWhat the fuck? A child appears and your first reaction is to hit her over the head with a shotgun?â
His words werenât directed at you. They were aimed over his shoulder at the group standing just a few feet back, some watching guiltily, others looking everywhere but at you.
âShe spooked me!â someone said, but the excuse was limp.
âYeah? Try spooking back,â the man growled. âYou knock her out cold and then leave her in the dirt?â He turned toward you again, softer now. âHow do you feel?â he asked, and though you didnât answer, he reached forward, taking your hand gently. âSqueeze my hand.â
You blinked at him, disoriented, before giving the weakest squeeze imaginable. His mouth quirked at the cornerâalmost a smile.
âGood job, kiddo.â
He helped you upright with more strength than grace, supporting most of your weight as your legs immediately buckled. The sudden motion made the world spin, your stomach churn. You blinked hard.
âCan you tell me your name?â
You mumbled it, slurring slightly from the dizziness. He nodded, murmuring something reassuring that you didnât catch. You werenât listening.
Your gaze had shiftedâdrawn past him, past the blurring outlines of people, to a girl a little older than you standing just out of reach. She had her arms crossed, blonde hair braided loosely down her back, and her eyes were lockedânot on you, but on the man tending to you. Watching him like she already knew what he was going to say. Probably his daughter. She hadnât hit you.
You blinked again, a flicker of realization striking deep.
Where is your father?
The panic returned with startling force, and your limbs moved without your permission. You jolted, clumsy and breathless, making the man catch you again before you could crumple to the ground.
âWhereâs my dad?â you gasped, louder now. âWhereâs my dad?!â
Your voice cracked on the last word, desperation bleeding through.
The man eased you back down onto a crate, more firmly this time. âHeyâhey, easy,â he said, crouching to meet your eyes again. âI donât know where he is, okay? He was with another girl. They rode off yesterday when we heard the commotion. It was chaosâwe were defending the west end.â
Your lip trembled. You werenât hearing what you needed to hear.
âBut listen to me,â he continued gently, âweâll help you. Weâre gonna keep looking. Right now, I need you to sit. Youâve got a nasty concussion. And youâre gonna be no good to him if you pass out again.â
Then he turned slightly, calling over his shoulder. âGale.â
The blonde girl stepped forward immediately, a half-melted baggie of snow in her hands. She knelt beside you without a word, carefully pressing it to your swollen temple. The cold made you wince, but it grounded you a little.
âThis is my daughter,â the man said, voice steady, trying to reassure you. âAbigail. And my name is Gary, Iâm a doctor, weâre gonna take care of you.â
Abigail didnât speak. But she met your eyes as she pressed the snow against your headâeyes serious, maybe a little unsure, but not unkind.
You didnât know who these people were. You didnât know where your dad was. But for now, there was snow on your skin, a warm hand on your shoulder, and the promiseâno matter how thinâthat someone was looking.
-
Jerry had started you off slowâbasic wound cleaning, gauze wraps, when and how to apply pressureâbut it hadnât taken him long to realize you knew more than most small-settlement medics. Youâd learned out of necessity, not interest, your hands steady not because you were fearless but because youâd had to be. So after a few half-hearted bandage tutorials and some mild astonishment at your stitchwork, he started pushing you further.
By week two at the Firefly hospital, you werenât just assisting anymoreâyou were performing. Jerry began teaching you field trauma protocols, makeshift procedures that walked the razorâs edge between survival and surgery. You learned how to stabilize a punctured lung, how to guide your fingers by feel when you couldnât see the wound, how to cut open someoneâs chest when there was no other option and no time for precision.
You werenât licensed. You werenât even technically old enough to drive. But by then, you were a fully trained field medic, and when the call came down, and the Fireflies got the all-clear to send out patrol squads, you were named their medic. There were grumbles, of courseâsheâs fifteen, what if she freezes, what if she panicsâbut they faded the moment they saw you in action. You didnât flinch at the sight of gore. You didnât blink when bullets tore through flesh. You didnât hesitate. You worked fast, precise, and cold. That kind of calm made people trust you. It made them listen.
It also made them forget your name.
Most of them didnât know it to begin with. But they did know your call sign: Sparrow.
It had started with Jerry.
He called Abby Nightingaleâa bit of a joke, a little too poetic for someone who rolled her eyes every time he said it, but he meant it. She was a shooter with bite, loud when she needed to be and silent when it mattered. So when you joined them, younger and quieter, sharp-eyed and constantly within armâs reach of his elbow, he dubbed you Sparrow. It wasnât a joke. It was gentler, quieter. Something smaller, but quick. Observant. Careful. Always in motion, always listening.
At first, you hadnât cared. Names were noise. Something other people used to get your attention. But it stuck. People started using itâat first just his team, then the others. Someone tacked Andersonâs onto the front like a title, a warning, a quiet way of saying sheâs his, donât mess with her. Eventually, the possessive dropped, but the identity didnât. You were Sparrow now. And no one asked otherwise.
And the thing was⌠you liked it.
You liked that it wasnât your real name. That it hadnât come from before. It reminded you of Starshineâyour fatherâs voice in the dark, that soft way he used to say it when he thought you were asleep. Something given, not demanded. Something earned, not assigned. Starshine was love. Sparrow was survival. But somehow, they both felt like they belonged to you.
More than that, it gave you something to hide behind.
In a world where people disappeared every dayâsome to death, some to fear, and some to their own griefâit felt like armor. A layer between your heart and the hands that would ask too much of it. You didnât have to be the kid with a dead mom and a father who rode off and didnât come back. You didnât have to explain the bags under your eyes or why you never asked for help. You didnât have to carry everything on your name.
You could just be Sparrow.
The girl with steady hands and a scalpel tucked in her boot. The one who could reset a dislocated shoulder in thirty seconds flat. The one who didnât flinch at the sight of intestines or a severed limb. The one who stayed calm when the radio snapped to life with panicked voices and the screaming hadnât even reached the door yet.
Sparrow didnât cry in the laundry room at night. Sparrow didnât wonder if sheâd ever hear her dadâs voice again. Sparrow didnât miss what the world had taken from her. You did. But not her.
And so you kept her close. Let them believe that was who you were. Let the world call for Sparrowâbecause that was someone who could always answer. Someone who didnât break.
And honestly?
You needed her as much as everyone else did.
âŚ
âAbigail,â you laughed as she tugged on your wrist, dragging you up the cracked, vine-wrapped stairwell that led to the rooftop deck of the overgrown hospital. Her excitement buzzed off her in waves, her fingers warm even in the cool night air, and you didnât ask questionsâjust followed. You never really needed a reason when it came to her.
But your smile faltered the second you stepped out onto the rooftop.
It wasnât anything grand. It wasnât perfect. But it was... intentional. A blanketâworn, frayed at the corners, but still soft-lookingâwas spread in the center of the open space, held down by smooth river rocks. A few battery-powered lanterns flickered around its edges, their light soft and hazy against the encroaching dark. Someone had even cleared the worst of the debrisâshoved rusted medical carts to the side, brushed away loose gravel and broken glass.
It wasnât clean, not really. But it was cared for.
âOh my god,â you breathed, frozen at the threshold. The sky above you stretched wide and endless, deep blue bleeding into the black of night, and there, just cresting over the tops of the trees, was the full moonâlow, massive, and tinged with the faintest blush of soft pink.
Abigail plopped down onto the blanket with a little oof, grinning up at you like she was waiting for a reaction.
âYeah,â she said, stretching the word out, âI read that the moon goes through these like... color things? Phases? Something to do with dust and the way it reflects light or whatever. Anyway, tonight itâs a pink moon. And since your favorite color is pink...â
She gestured toward the sky dramatically, her smile widening. âTa-da.â
You blinked, heart climbing somewhere uncomfortably high in your throat. She looked so pleased with herself. And you were still standing there like an idiot.
She glanced sideways, then dropped her voice into a faux whisper. âAlso, donât tell my dad. This is technically his blanket.â
That broke you from your daze. You let out a soft laugh, finally crossing the rooftop toward her.
âTrust me,â you murmured, sinking down beside her, âI wonât speak a word of it.â
Abigail handed you a warm bottle of water from her bag, as if sheâd planned every second of thisâfrom the blanket placement to the lanterns that buzzed faintly beside you. You took the bottle without hesitation, brushing your shoulder against hers in quiet thanks.
She bumped back into you gently, the gesture easy and familiar. âNot bad for a rooftop, huh?â
You snorted. âYou made a rooftop feel like a date in a real world. Thatâs impressive.â
âOh,â she said, faux-innocent. âSo this is a date?â
Your eyes flicked toward her, amused. âYou dragged me up here under the moonlight, brought me water, and set the vibe with the stars. If this isnât a date, Iâm gonna be very confused later.â
Abigail laughed, her head tipping back as the sound bounced lightly across the rooftop. âOkay, okay, fine. Itâs a date,â she said with a grin. âGuess that means I gotta be charming now.â
âYouâre already charming,â you said before you could stop yourself.
Her gaze flicked toward you at that, lingering a little longer than before, the corner of her mouth twitching with something softer. âYouâre sweet.â
You shrugged and looked back toward the moon, trying to hide how warm your cheeks felt. âYou said itâs called a pink moon?â
âYeah,â she said, pulling one knee up to her chest. âSomething about the atmosphere, or pollen, or... science-y stuff I donât remember. I just saw a picture once, and it was pretty. I guess it stuck with me.â
You looked over at her again, taking in the way the light painted her skin in muted silver and rose, the way her braid had started to fray in soft wisps around her face. Youâd seen her covered in grime, blood, sweatâseen her gut infected without flinching and laugh like a kid in the same hourâbut right now, sitting on a hospital rooftop with a bag of emergency rations and someone elseâs blanket, she looked like she belonged in another world.
A softer one.
âI think itâs beautiful,â you said. âNot just the moon. The whole thing.â
Abigail glanced over, and for a second, she didnât speak.
Then, her voice quieter, âYeah⌠me too.â
You both went silent again, the sounds of the world at rest humming faintly around you. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. The breeze picked up slightly, brushing past the vines that clung to the rooftop edge.
âI know itâs dumb,â Abigail murmured after a while. âDoing stuff like this. Itâs not like the world cares about pink moons or perfect little nights.â
You turned toward her, leaning your head lightly on her shoulder. âNo,â you said softly, âbut I do.â
She didnât answer right away. But she rested her head against yours in return.
And the world, for a little while, didnât feel like it was ending.
Age: 19
âIf you hear anything, you come right back!â Kat barked from her horse, her voice sharp enough to carry over the wind that whispered through the abandoned town. She sat high in the saddle, eyes narrowed beneath her hood as she watched the three of you climb up the back of the broken-down truck like you'd done it a hundred times before.
And to be fairâyou had.
You landed with a soft thud on the roof, your boots catching against the ridged metal as the truck groaned beneath the shift of weight. It had rusted to hell and back, but it held. For now.
A quiet chuckle slipped out of you as you crouched beside Ellie, knees bent just beneath the shattered remains of the window. Glass glittered like old stars across the sill, but the window itself was foggedâdirt, dust, dried blood caked in long-forgotten streaks, a smear of violence that hadnât faded with time. It was like the building had been trying to forget what happened inside, but the rot lingered. Always did.
Even if your eyesight had been perfectâwhich it wasnâtâyou wouldnât have been able to see much. The inside was black, that kind of thick, pressing dark that felt like it breathed. Still, you leaned in close, just enough to hear, to feel the chill bleeding out from the cracked glass.
On your other side, Dina climbed up quietly, one hand on the rim of the window, the other steadying herself on your shoulder as she adjusted into position. You gave her a small nod, your hand sliding down to draw the knife from your boot. The handle felt familiar in your palmâwell-worn, comfortable. Your other hand braced against the cold metal of the roof, muscles tense, ready.
âThree on one,â Ellie whispered, voice almost chipper in a way that only she could manage while staring into literal death. It wasnât false confidenceâit was just Ellie. The smirk on her face didnât match the way her eyes narrowed, scanning the dark like she could see something forming inside it.
You were just about to let her slip through the window when the scream came.
Ragged. Guttural. Not quite human.
You flinched, hand shooting out on instinct to stop her. She froze mid-motion, her eyes snapping to yours in a flash of alertness, expression already hardening. You werenât the only one whoâd heard it. Dina, too, had gone still, one hand raising slowlyâthree fingers.
You swallowed, glancing over.
Three infected. Maybe more.
The screams came again, overlapping slightly. Close enough in tone to sound like echoesâbut not quite. They had the variance of human voices: one higher, one raspier, one more guttural like it had festered deeper. Like people once had names before their throats were filled with spores.
Ellie blinked at Dinaâs signal, her brow furrowing before she groaned softly. âOkay, so one-on-one then. Starryâs taken four before, and I can handle myself. Weâre good. Weâve done worse.â
You and Dina shared a look over her head.
It wasnât that she was wrong. It wasnât that the odds were impossible. It was that something about the air felt differentâheavier. The kind of weight that doesnât come from numbers but intention. These werenât mindless runners caught in a supply closet. These were the waiting kind. The kind that listened.
Still⌠there was that itch in your bones. The hum under your skin that came from too many hours with a needle and thread in your hands instead of a trigger or a blade. The wrongness of wanting a fight clashed with the comfort it brought.
Ellie smirked, sensing your hesitation. She leaned in a little closer. âI mean, we donât have to go in. We could always wait for the boys to grow some balls.â
You blinked. Frowned. âLow blow, Ells.â
âI call it motivation.â
You didnât respond with wordsâjust slung the shotgun off your back, the weight of it grounding. You stepped forward to the window, peeking through again. This time you focused.
The room beyond was gutted. Mold crawled up the corners of the walls like slow-moving shadows. Rust had eaten through the metal storage shelves, and collapsed ceiling tiles littered the floor in dusty heaps. Vines had broken in through the far window once, but even they had died here, curling in on themselves like theyâd realized too late what kind of graveyard theyâd entered.
No movement. Not yet.
But you could feel it.
They were in there. Waiting. Listening.
You sucked in a quiet breath, shoulders tight. Every muscle in your body knew better than to relax yet. Each step you took was deliberate, heel to toe, carefully avoiding the scattered glass and loose tiles littering the corridor floor. The beam from Dinaâs flashlight cut across the decaying corpse splayed in the middle of the hallâtorso torn open, chest cavity bloated with fungal growth that had long since stopped spreading but hadnât stopped smelling.
You crouched beside it for half a second, lips pursed in a frown. The body was old. Dried blood. Black around the edges. But not too old. Maybe a few days. You gave a sharp nod, signaling for the others to hold formation as you rose again, grip tightening around your knife. Every crackle of movementâevery groan of the wallsâpulled your attention like a hook under the skin.
Ellie and Dina had already taken up positions on either side of the intersecting hallâsilent, focused. Ellie's back flattened against the wall, her pistol at the ready, while Dina shifted just enough to peer around her corner, steadying the light in her hand.
You opted for something different.
Instead of sticking to the side, you walked the center of the hallway, careful and uprightâbait without the panic. The sound of clicking filtered through the thick dark, echoing like bone snapped too cleanly. Familiar. But faint.
It wasnât close enough to be Ellieâs side. Had to be Dinaâs.
Thenâanother sound.
Heavier. Slower. The drag of something big and uneven. The rasp of breath that wasnât quite formed in lungs anymore. Two, maybe three. Definitely Dinaâs side.
You turned your head slowly, just enough to peer around the cornerâand there they were.
Two clickers, hunched and pulsing with breath, their fungal plates splitting the shape of what used to be human faces. One was smaller, maybe newly turned. The other was massive, its movements heavier, more deliberate. A bad fight waiting to happen.
And some part of youâexhausted, stubborn, and so damn tired of things lurking in corners of ruined placesâscoffed.
Thatâs it? Thatâs what the world had waiting for you this time?
You werenât sure if the feeling in your chest was frustration or boredom, but either way it made your lip curl into something like a smirk.
With a glance back over your shoulder, you caught Ellieâs eye.
She was already watching you. Had been the whole time.
You didnât say anything. You didnât need to.
She gave you the look. That raised-eyebrow, half-irritated, half-impressed expression she saved for the times you were about to do something incredibly risky but undeniably effective.
You nodded once, slowly. Then twice
âNo. Get back, no.â
Ellie mouthed it at you from across the hall, her eyes wide, her head shaking so violently it was a miracle it didnât fall right off her shoulders. Her expression screamed panicânot the weâre gonna die kind, but the youâre about to do something catastrophically stupid and Iâm going to be blamed for it kind. Which, honestly, was funnier.
You fought the grin twitching at the edge of your mouth, trying not to let it take over. But your hand was already tightening around the handle of your knife, and you were so ready.
You leaned a little toward her, smirk spreading. âIâm gonna do it,â you mouthed, just barely above a whisper.
Ellieâs whole body tensed like she was physically holding herself back from lunging across the room to slap sense into you. Her hands flailed in panicked mimeâNo! NO!!âbefore she pointed to herself and made an exaggerated throat-slashing motion. âJoel will kill me! Me!!â
The silent dramatics were almost enough to make you laugh out loud. But instead, you gave her a wink.
Behind her, Dina was watching the whole thing with the most resigned expression known to mankind. Behind her, Dina was watching the whole thing unfold with the most resigned expression known to mankindâarms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the picture of a woman whoâd accepted that whatever happened next was probably her fault by association. But then, after a long pause⌠she nodded. A grin slowly pulled at her lips as she gave you a very unhelpful thumbs-up, then mimed a stabbing motion with her knife, adding a second nod for good measure.
Your face lit up, smug as hell, and you gestured toward Dina with both hands, shooting Ellie the most obnoxious âSee? She supports me.â expression you could manage.
Ellie looked personally betrayed.
You didnât give her time to argueâjust winked, turned your attention back to the connecting hall, and leaned into the edge of the doorway. Your fingers flexed on the knife, that familiar tremor rippling through your handânot weakness, just nerves, just enough to make you feel the weight of it.
One breath in.
One breath out.
You whistledâlow. Steady.
The reaction was instant.
Bodies jerked unnaturally in the darkness, heads twitching with that horrible, snapping sound that meant theyâd heard something but didnât know what. The noise grewâclicks turning to distorted shrieks, echoing through the walls, louder, closer. Their feet scraped across the floor in that unsteady shuffle, limbs twitching as they turned toward your sound.
Then you raised the pitch. Sharper. Higher. Shrill.
Like a wire pulled taut, both clickers snappedâlunging toward the sound like bullets. One charged into the wall beside you, shoulder-first with a wet crunch that echoed up the corridor. The second oneâthe larger oneâmoved toward you with a slower, heavier momentum, less erratic, more calculated.
Your pulse surged. You backed up one step, then two, keeping the beast in front of you.
A wild laugh slipped past your lipsâjust a breath, just enough to release the pressure building in your chestâand then you stomped your foot down, hard, onto the rotting wood. A crack echoed beneath your boot.
The clicker turned toward the sound, just as you pivoted hard left.
It was all you needed.
Your knife swung in a clean, practiced arcâsinking deep into the side of its neck. You grunted, twisting your body with the motion, expecting the creature to crumple.
It didnât.
With a shuddering screech, it staggered, but it didnât fall. You had only seconds to process that before it lunged, wild and still alive, forcing you to roll with it. You hit the ground hard, elbow barking against the floor, but you didnât let go.
Its claws scraped at your backâsharp, burning trails tearing down through your jacket, and fuck, that hurt.
You snarled, grabbing the side of its fungal-plated head with both hands. With a violent jerk, you twisted, dragging the infected down with you as you slammed your blade into it again and again in a messy blur of panic and fury and something that felt terrifyingly close to instinct.
Blood spattered across your face, warm and wet and awful.
And thenâstillness.
Heavy, final.
You panted against the quiet, your ears ringing from the noise, heart thrumming in your throat.
Across the room, Ellie was on her back, grunting as she shoved the second clickerâs now-limp body off of her. She sat up quickly, scanning for you, her chest rising and falling in time with your own. Her face was scratched, smeared with bloodâhers or theirs, you couldnât tell.
You stared at each other for a long beat, the silence loud with what-ifs and almosts.
And then you tried to stand.
Your legs trembled as you pushed yourself upright, fingers fumbling at the zipper of your jacket where the blood had already started to dry, sticking fabric to skin. Your breath hitched and your voice came out too fast, too broken.
âI-I- need you to cheââ
âOkay, okay,â Ellie said instantly, stumbling to her feet with a grunt, already moving toward you. âYouâre fine. Youâre okay.â
She met you halfway, one hand on your waist, the other already tugging at your jacket, checking for damage. You let her. Couldnât not.
Blood streaked down her arm, staining the fabric of her shirt like armorâdeep, smeared lines across her sleeves and spattered across her collarbone like some warpaint the world hadnât meant to give her. Her chest still rose and fell too fast. Her hands, covered in drying blood, shook as they ghosted over your sides, your face, your jacket. She scanned every inch of you like she didnât believe what she was seeing, like she needed to feel your pulse to prove you were real.
âYouâre okay,â she said again, her voice dropping lower, almost like she was talking to herself now. âNo scratches, no scratchesâStarshine, heyâStarshine, look at me.â
Her hands cupped your face, trembling at the edges, and her voice went soft enough to break something inside you. âBabe⌠youâre okay.â One hand slid up to gently pat your shoulderâalmost grounding herself more than you. âLook at you,â she breathed, a half-laugh stuttering out of her. âFuck yeah.â
Dina's boots echoed faintly as she approached, the swing of her steps still casual despite the tension that hadnât quite left the air. Her grin was crooked, her voice teasing but not unkind. âDid you two get bit? Do I have to shoot you in the face? âCause thatâd really kill the mood.â
You let out a dry laugh, your head tipping back slightly in relief. âNo, no bites. Just trauma. And my jacketâs a goner.â
You turned, pulling the back of your jacket forward enough to show the shredded leather, the long claw marks cutting through it like ribbons. A small, sympathetic noise slipped from Dinaâs lips, followed by a whispered âdamn.â
She moved toward the clickerâs bodies, crouching to inspect the mess youâd made with practiced ease. The blood hadnât even dried yet. And Ellie⌠Ellie was already wandering off, of course, her limp unmistakable, though she carried it like pride. Sheâd die before admitting to it, but you knew her gait well enough to see the wince she didnât let show.
âOh my god,â Ellie called out, her voice echoing through the busted hallway like nothing had happened, like none of you had almost died five minutes ago. âBefore we leave you guys have to check out the Employeeââ
CRRRACK.
The sound split the air like lightning.
You didnât even have time to turn fully before it happened.
Ellieâs foot hit the soft patch of floorârotted through, probably hollow beneathâand the wood gave beneath her with a sickening groan. A second later, she was gone.
Gone.
You and Dina both froze.
There wasnât even time to scream.
Just the deafening crash of splintering beams and her body disappearing into the darkness below.
âEllie??â
Your voice ripped from your throat, hoarse and wild, too loud for the silence that followed the fall. You were already on your knees, crawling across splintered boards with no care for what they might give way to next. Wood cracked beneath your weight, dust burst up around your hands, and your palms burned as they scraped against the jagged edge of the hole. You didnât feel it. Not really.
Your heart was a war drumâtoo fast, too loudâand your eyes scanned the space below in blind panic, lungs barely working around the taste of old insulation and mold.
Below you, half-buried in dust and metal, lay Ellie.
She was tangled in a heap of storage shelving that mustâve once belonged to the market floor beneath. Torn insulation clung to her like frost, wires caught in her hair, and one of her legs was awkwardly bent under her as she gasped for air, a sharp rattle in her chest.
âEllie!â Dina shouted from beside you, nearly on top of you now, flashlight beam cutting through the haze and landing on her figure. The beam danced over her arms, her faceâthank Godâeyes blinking up at the light.
âAre you okay?!â
There was a pauseâlong enough that fear curled up into your ribs again.
Then Ellie coughed, hacking violently into her arm, dust billowing out of her lungs in clouds. She winced as she moved a piece of metal from her side and twisted just enough to sit upright. She looked like hell.
âIâm good,â she croaked out.
The words crashed into you like a wave. You nearly fell back from the force of the relief. Dina let out a breath next to youâone of those sharp exhales that sounded like it was ripped from her spine. You looked at her, and she looked at you, both eyes wide, both silently confirming the same thing: Sheâs alive.
Ellie shifted, testing her limbs, her face tightening as she moved but not breaking. âNothingâs broken⌠I donât think.â
You snapped back down into the present.
âAndâ? Donât move!â Your voice cracked as you leaned further over the edge. âGod, Ellie, stay down. You couldâve messed up your spine, or yourâanything! What the fuck, why didnât you stop when Iââ
âI said Iâm fine,â she cut in, but the grunt that followed said otherwise. She tried to adjust again, only to hiss between her teeth when her elbow knocked into the edge of the bent shelving.
Dina moved beside you, her eyes darting around the perimeter of the room below. âAre you alone down there?â she called down, her voice steadier than yours, but still tight around the edges.
Ellie didnât answer right away. You could see her processingâhead tilted slightly, breath held like she was trying to feel the air.
Then she grunted. âDonât hear anything. â
You didnât like that answer. Not in this building. Not with the way the walls creaked and groaned like they remembered too much.
Dina stood, already moving back down the hall. âIâm gonna find stairs or a ladder. Something stable.â
âIâm going down,â you said immediately, standing up like your body hadnât just been through hell.
âNo. You, miss medic lady, are coming with me.â Dina shot you a look over her shoulder. âIf you fall too, Iâm would just leave you both, so câmon.â
But you were already scanning the wall, finding what looked like a series of old support beams and a shelf that half-jutted out from the wall beneath the break. Climbable. A rightfully terrible idea, so you grumbled as you pushed yourself to your knees, looking at Dina and nodding in agreement that you would go with her.
You turned back to Ellie, who had now flopped onto her back like she was accepting death. âYou stay right there. Donât move until I get to you.â
Ellie raised a shaky hand in a loose thumbs-up. âTen-four, boss lady.â
âNot the time for jokes, Williams.â
âCâmon,â she murmured, smirking slightly even through the dust and blood. âWouldnât be a patrol if I didnât nearly die and get scolded about it.â
Summary: While working in your hometown, Jackson, you're faced with the humanity of people while also facing the gruesome reality of your world. Trying to stitch up those who are bleeding but ensuring that what you're stitching isn't a bite mark.(Hbo Season 2, episode 1 Pt2)
Word count: 6.1
There was always something disgustingly interesting about a person who grew up within the walls of safetyâthose rare few who had the privilege of surviving the end of the world without ever truly tasting it. People who heard stories about the outbreak, about clickers and raiders and what it felt like to have to kill something that used to look humanâbut only ever secondhand. They saw the world for what it was, yes, but had yet to live it. Not the way others had. Not the way those who clawed their way through twenty years of blood, mud, and ash had.
These people grew up inside places like Jackson or maybe even a QZ if they were lucky, where things like clean water and structure still existed. They learned about the cordyceps fungus from textbooks instead of watching it tear through a loved one. They trained with rifles on firing ranges, not with trembling hands in dark hallways echoing with guttural screeches. Often, in their need to prove themselves worthy of the stories they were told, they tried to be brave. They sought out danger like it was some kind of badge. They ventured beyond the gates on poorly planned âmissions,â romanticized patrols, searching for that adrenaline spike that might make them feel real.
They went into the woods at night without permission, thinking a flashlight and a knife made them invincible. They snuck onto supply routes. They begged to be taken on patrols, not realizing that there was nothing noble about watching someone bleed out in the snow because you hesitated for half a second.
Within that same vein, it would be easy to assume those people were prideful, arrogant, full of themselvesâand most of the time, they were. They were annoying, sure. Loud in their confidence and blind in their inexperience. But beneath all that? Beneath the posturing and the bravado?
There was fear.
A quiet kind of fear. The fear of being seen as weak in a world that doesnât wait for anyone to grow into their strength. A fear that they were somehow less than those who had endured the worst of it. So they ran headfirst into danger hoping that maybeâjust maybeâone act of recklessness would make them equal to the legends they were raised under.
And in places like Jackson, where the people who had truly survivedâthe ones with scars and haunted eyesâwere finally starting to breathe again, it was hard not to look at these kids with a mixture of pity and resentment. Because it wasnât their fault, they hadnât suffered. But it sure didnât mean they understood what it meant to survive.
With all of that being said, you had found yourself rather fond of the woman that Ellie very pointedly insisted wasnât her girlfriendânor her friend, depending on the day and who was asking. Which, of course, only made it more obvious that she was both.
Dina had a way about her. A quiet sharpness masked behind a warm grin, like she could read the room and everyone in it before a single word was spoken. And unlike most of the younger folks who came into the clinicâthose raised within Jacksonâs fortified walls who wore their minor injuries like medalsâDina didnât come in with performative stories or dramatic flair. No tales of heroic mishaps or exaggerated chaos. She wasnât like the others, the ones who limped in with a burn on their hand and launched into a saga about a rogue pot of boiling water with a personal vendetta, half-inspired by a scene out of Final Destination. You never said it out loud, but that was usually how you spotted themâthe ones who hadn't seen the worst of it, who hadn't lived outside the wire, hadnât slept under trees while praying the wind wouldnât carry sound to the infected.
Because when you or your father got hurtâburnt wrist, sprained ankle, bruised ribsâit came with a simple explanation. No fluff. No theatrics. Just, "burnt it on the stove," or "twisted it getting off the horse." The kind of injury you donât have the energy to dress up because youâve lived through worse. Because the people who had lived through real shit didnât need to make survival poetic. They were just grateful they were still breathing.
But Dina⌠Dina never needed to embellish. She didnât posture or pretend. When she came into the clinic with a busted knuckle, she just said, âHorse spooked. Slammed my hand into the railing.â No self-deprecating jokes, no self-pity eitherâjust the facts. A wince, maybe a quip if the pain meds kicked in fast enough, and then a quiet thank you as she walked out, hand bandaged and chin high.
You started to notice her more after that. The way she carried herself with this grounded sort of ease, like someone who had seen enough to know when to stay soft and when to be steel. She spoke when it mattered, held back when it didnât. And you couldnât help but appreciate that kind of clarity in a world that had turned most people into either blustering noise or total silence.
Perhaps thats why when you were given the option that morning by your aunt if you wanted someone a bit more experienced on the patrol with you; you had declined. Because for so many people that had yet to see the gore of this, you had seen enough to make a judgment.Â
âAre you sure? Tommyâs lookinâ for an excuse to go out that wayââ
âUncle Tommy just wants to babysit me and Ellie,â you shoot back without hesitation, tugging the satchel strap tight across your chest with a practiced yank. You squint through the sharp reflection of sunlight bouncing off the snow, eyes adjusting as you meet Mariaâs gaze. âHeâs always welcome to come, you of all people know that. So why are we having this conversation again?â
Maria held your gaze with that familiar, unreadable expressionâpart concern, part calculation. You knew it well. She wasnât just thinking like your aunt; she was thinking like a leader. But it wasnât until your voice faltered at the end that she finally responded, her tone softer than you expected.
âI just want you girls safe, is all,â she said, the words weighed down by something deeper. âAnd⌠if Iâm being honest, itâd give me time to talk your dad into finally sitting down for dinner tonight.â
You blink. âBefore the prom?â
Maria rolled her eyes, lips curling. âItâs not a prom. Itâs a community-building potluck to welcome the newcomers and introduce them to leadership. Such asâŚâ
âNo.â You groaned, cutting her off, and pointed a gloved finger at her accusingly. âNo. Auntie. I am a glorified nurse. A glorified nurse with a growing pile of suture requests and a sprained wrist from trying to yank a molar last week. I am notâand will never beâboard material.â
âYou took out an appendix last week,â she countered flatly. âA whole ass appendix. Something you had never done before. You had JoelâJoelâreading Greyâs Anatomy out loud like it was a damn bedtime story. Donât tell me youâre âjust a nurse.ââ
You winced. Okay, that was a fair point.
âI stitched it crooked,â you muttered.
Maria smiled faintly. âBut you saved her life. You did that. And youâve done that more than once now. You're the closest thing Jackson has to a doctor, and thatâs why I want you on the board.â
You crossed your arms tightly, bracing against more than just the cold. âPeople already think the Millers run Jackson. Youâve heard the whispers. Hell, Iâve heard them. Adding me to the board wouldnât fix that.â
Maria tilted her head, her tone shifting into something more deliberate. âPeople always have something to say. Doesnât mean theyâre right. You earned your placeâjust like your dad, just like Tommy, just like I did. Thatâs what Jackson needs. Not politics. People who give a damn.â
You let the silence stretch between you for a beat, snow crunching faintly underfoot as you shifted your weight. She wasnât wrongâbut that didnât mean you were ready to believe it.
âIâll think about it,â you murmured.
Maria nodded, clearly satisfied with that tiny concession. âGood.â
She turned as if to head back toward the community hall, then paused, glancing back over her shoulder with a smirk. âDinner tonight. And talk Ellie into coming.â
You raised a brow. âIs that smart?â
Maria grinned, her breath a puff of white against the air. âProbably not. Which is exactly why I want to see it happen.â
You shook your head, laughing softly to yourself. âYou're the worst.â
âYeah, well,â she called as she walked off, âyou are my niece.â
You looked out toward the stables, where Ellie was no doubt already pretending she wasnât excited about the patrol. And with Mariaâs words still hanging in the air, the thought of dinnerâof sitting at the table, all of you, pretending just for a little while that things were whole.Â
With a small grumble, you started your walk toward the stables, boots crunching against the half-frozen dirt path. The streets were already alive with morning bustleâkids chasing each other toward the parlor-turned-schoolhouse, their laughter echoing off the worn wooden buildings like something out of a memory too good to be real. Adults milled about with baskets and toolkits in hand, trading greetings, making deals, hurrying toward the next chore on their endless lists. And despite the weight in your chestâthe nerves, the responsibility, the heaviness of the patrol aheadâyou didnât doubt, not really, that for all its cracks and ghosts, Jackson was the best the world had to offer now.
You shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets, shotgun slung snug across your chest, the leather strap worn and creased where your fingers had nervously gripped it too many times before. You cut through the morning crowd with practiced ease, dodging a cart full of firewood, sidestepping a dog sprinting after a group of laughing kids, nodding at a few familiar faces who offered tired but warm hellos.
The smell of scrambled eggs and something that could almost pass for coffee drifted from the diner, the scent wrapping around you like a blanket you hadnât asked for. It reminded you of quieter morningsâones that didnât involve prepping for a supply run through the cold, praying that maybe, just maybe, you wouldnât find any clickers this time.
A little girl waved at you from her place on a porch step, swinging her legs as she munched on a biscuit. You gave her a tired smile, lifting a hand in return before letting it fall back to your side. You passed the community board next, where someone had tacked up a hand-drawn flyer: âTONIGHT! Community Potluck â Newcomers Welcome! Bring Food or Bring Stories.â
You rolled your eyes affectionately and muttered under your breath, âNot a prom, my ass.â
Finally, the stables came into view, horses lined up and ready, steam curling from their nostrils as stablehands bustled around with brushes and saddles.Â
âSo, youâre gonna be on the board?â
You practically stumble in the opposite direction of the voice, your boots slipping slightly in the packed-down snow as you twist on instinct, one hand flying to your chest.
âJesusââ
And there she is. Dina, bundled in layers with a bag slung over her shoulder and a heavy set of coats draped across one arm. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and the effort of hauling gear, but the grin sheâs wearing is nothing short of delighted. You barely have time to catch your breath before she bursts into laughter.
âOh shit,â she says between chuckles, âsorry! Didnât mean to scare you. I thought you heard me.â
You shake your head, trying to keep your heart from punching through your ribcage. âNo, noâGod, youâre fine. I just wasnât expecting a ninja with great comedic timing.â
She shoots you a look. âItâs part of my charm. Stealth and sarcasm.â
You roll your eyes, brushing snow from your coat as your breathing steadies. âYou got everything ready?â
âYup,â Dina says, holding up the pack with a satisfied shrug. âRations, maps, spare meds, and Ellieâs got the ammo squared away. Horses are almost done getting saddled. Just waiting on you, board member.â
You groan, actually groan, and throw your head back dramatically. âNo. Nope. Donât start. Thatâs not happening.â
Dina raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. âCâmon. Maria brought it up again, huh?â
âMore like ambushed me with it,â you mutter, rubbing the back of your neck. âItâs just⌠itâs silly. Iâm not board material. Iâm barely holding the clinic together with duct tape and hope.â
âYou took out an appendix, right after you brought someone back to life,â she says, leveling you with a look. âIn the dark. With a man who probably calls a ribcage a âchest boneâ reading from a dog-eared anatomy book.â
âOkay, fair, butââ
âNope,â Dina cuts in. âNot even gonna let you finish that. Youâve done more for this town in the last year than most people do in a lifetime. And youâre still out here trying to keep people safe, still willing to go on supply runs in the freezing cold with me and chaos incarnate.â
You blink at her. âYou mean Ellie?â
âOh yeah. You know she tried to pack a machete she named?â
âShe what?â
âDonât ask,â Dina says, deadpan. âIâm not even sure she was kidding.â
The two of you share a laugh, the kind thatâs too short but still warm in the chest. Then, more quietly, Dina adds, âListen⌠if you do end up on the board? That wouldnât be a bad thing. People respect you. Even if you donât see it, they do.â
You glance away, the weight of that sitting a little too heavy. âYeah⌠maybe. Still feels weird though. Like, if I say yes, suddenly Iâm part of this⌠thing. And people already say the Millers run Jackson. I donât want to be another reason theyâre right.â
Dina tilts her head, her expression softening. âThereâs a difference between earning a place and having one handed to you. You didnât inherit anything. You fought for it. Donât forget that.â
You meet her eyes for a long beat. Thereâs something steady in her gaze, grounding.
ââŚWhy are you always like, emotionally supportive right before we do something potentially life-threatening?â you ask, teasing just to keep from tearing up.
She smirks. âBalance. Keeps the universe in check.â
âGreat. Well the universe owes me a nap and some pancakes.â
Dina laughs again, âSurvive the patrol, and Iâll make you pancakes myself.â
âDeal,â you say, grinning despite yourself. âBut I want chocolate chips.â
âOh god, I donât think Iâve even had one of those since I was likeâŚthree??â
â
Being someone who had grown up within the exposed reality of the infected, you didnât flinch much anymoreânot at off-handed noises, not at rustling brush, not even at the occasional distant scream that drifted in on the wind like an old ghost. Your instincts, honed by necessity rather than choice, no longer cried out in panic at every cracked branch. You could tell the difference between a twig snapping under the careless stumble of a stalker versus the light hop of a rabbit. The former had weight, stagger, a hesitation like it was remembering what it used to be. The latter was innocent, fast, gone before the echo even faded.
In that same vein, you could hear an infected nearly a mile awayâsometimes more, depending on the terrain. You knew the cadence of their breaths, the guttural clicking, the warped gurgle of something that had lost the right to be called human. You knew the smell tooânot just of rot, but of fresh rot, the kind that lingered near collapsed safe houses or hidden dens. You could differentiate that from the scent of a months-old corpse baking in the sun. You knew, intimately, how decomposition worked in the open. You knew because your earliest memories were built beside it.
You could still recall the days when the safest place for your parent to leave you wasnât behind walls or inside a guarded post, but pressed close at their side beneath a mound of reeking cloth and discarded bonesâanything to mask your scent, to make you less noticeable to the monsters that wandered the dark. Youâd been taught to stay still. To be silent. Breathe through your mouth. You learned early that infected werenât the only thing to fearâsometimes, it was the sound of a voice calling too sweetly from the woods, or the flicker of a lantern far off the trail that promised safety and delivered anything but.
So now, as the patrol moved through a frozen glade north of Jackson, your group jerked to a halt at every snapped branch or rustle in the brush. The horses snorted and stamped their hooves nervously, sensing what most of the riders couldnât name. But you didnât pauseânot really. Your hand may have flexed around your shotgun strap, but your steps stayed sure. You knew the land. You knew the signs. This wasnât it.
And, unsurprisingly, Ellie didnât pause either.
She rode just behind you, rifle slung casually across her back, hands loose on the reins. You didnât even need to look over your shoulder to know she was still thereâshe moved like someone who had survived on instinct alone, someone whose silence wasnât cautious, but confident.
When the others hissed whispersââDid you hear that?â and âShould we circle back?ââyou and Ellie exchanged nothing more than a glance. Not defiance. Not recklessness. Just understanding.
You pressed on.Â
Because between the both of you, youâd seen enough of the world to know: real danger didnât announce itself. Real danger wasnât a twig. It was the moment afterâthe quiet. The sudden absence of birds. The feeling in your gut that something wrong was breathing just out of view.
After a while, the snow-thick trees gave way to an old, cracked main road, barely visible under the powdery frost. The world stretched wider here, open sky above and fields of brittle grass pushing through the edges of the pavement. It shouldâve felt saferâvisibility was better, and the risk of ambush was lowerâbut instead, it just made you feel more exposed. Every echo seemed to bounce off the silence like a warning.
You rode a little further front now, giving Ellie and Dina the space they didnât ask for but clearly needed. Theyâd been trailing just behind, low voices carrying in and out like the rhythm of a tide, never quite reaching you. It was that soft, familiar kind of tension between people who care too much and say too little. And you, being smart enough to know when someone needed breathing room, had quietly eased your horse back to ride with the othersâDillon, Freddy, and, unfortunately, Kat.
You knew them. They were all decent enough.
Well. Mostly decent.
Freddy was quiet but dependable, always checking the maps, always making sure the ammo was split evenly. Dillon had the kind of nervous energy that meant he talked too much but worked even harder. And then there was Kat. Who, on paper, was a good soldier. Level-headed. Sharpshooter. But sheâd also broken up with Ellie last spring, and while you never got the full story, you knew enough to form your very strong, very biased opinion.
Youâd have killed her on principle if Jackson laws and general decency didnât stop you. Not because of the breakup itselfâpeople fell out of love, sureâbut because how she did it? In the middle of patrol, in front of Ellieâs friends, then had the audacity to flirt with someone else two days later at the greenhouse potluck like it hadnât just emotionally obliterated the girl who barely showed anyone she cared in the first place. That was evil. Downright villain-coded behavior.
So no, you werenât thrilled to be stuck riding beside her in agonizing silence.
Every step your horse took echoed through your skull like a ticking clock. The wind whistled, boots creaked in stirrups, and once or twice Dillon cleared his throat like he was about to say somethingâonly to think better of it.
You tried to distract yourself by counting fence posts, checking for signs of recent movement along the ditches, anything to not go insane from how slow and suffocating the mood had gotten. You even started planning dinner in your head. Would it be worth sneaking into the greenhouse early to swipe some herbs? You were risking your life out here, surely that deserved a little rosemary.
At one point, Kat made a noiseâsomething halfway between a sigh and a breathâand you turned your head so sharply your neck cracked.
She raised her eyebrows at you. âYou okay?â
You gave her a thin, polite smile. âPeachy.â
More silence.
The worst part? No one else seemed to mind it. Ellie and Dina were still locked in that not-quite-reconciled space, and Freddy was too focused on his surroundings to make small talk. The silence was never ending, and it was all-consuming.
That was, of course, until you noticed itâ
a small spat of blood across the snow, vivid against the blank white canvas like someone had dragged a brush across it in haste. You squinted, pulling gently on the reins to slow your horse.. It wasnât a lotânot enough to suggest a massacre or a hordeâs feeding frenzyâbut enough to mean someone got hit, and hard. A wound bleeding mid-sprint, maybe. Fresh enough to still be red, not that muddy brown blood turned into after it sat too long in the cold.
You groaned quietly, more out of habit than surprise, and signaled with a raised hand to halt. The horses obeyed, snorting and shuffling in the snow as the rest of the group came to an uneasy stop around you.
âOh fuck,â Freddy muttered from the rear, his voice already rising with unease. âWeâre going to die.â
You didnât even bother answering. Freddy always leaned toward the melodramatic, but to his credit, he usually wasnât wrong about danger. And judging by the way every head turned toward himâincluding yoursâyou werenât the only one feeling that knot in your gut begin to tighten.
Behind you, hoofbeats shiftedâquicker, familiarâand you didnât even have to look to know Ellie and Dina had finally caught up. You felt it before you saw it. The air changed slightly, like the mood had shifted to something sharper, more purposeful.
Ellie rode up beside you and glanced at the blood, her expression unreadable. She met your eyes briefly, then jerked her chin forward in that clipped, confident way she always did when sheâd already made up her mind.
âLetâs go,â she said simply, and without hesitation, clicked her tongue to her horse and trotted forward, her posture relaxed but alert.
You didnât replyâjust gave a single nod and nudged your horse to follow.
âOkay,â Dina said, tone rising with that familiar hum of adrenaline, a half-smile tugging at her lips. âWeâre on.â
The tension cracked like ice beneath a boot.
âWait,â Katâs voice cut through the momentum like a blade. Her horse shifted uneasily beneath her. âWe should go back and report it. Let someone else handle this.â
You turned in your saddle, expression tight, heels already nudging your horse to keep pace. âKat, we wait, and this will be covered by nightfall,â you said sharply. âIf we want to be stupid and miss whatever this leads to, sure. But Iâm not walking back to Jackson with nothing except 'we saw some blood.ââ
âYeah,â Dina chimed in, spinning her horse around just enough to face the rest of the group, voice dry but amused. âWeâre reconning, Kat. Letâs fuckinâ recon.â
Freddy groaned. âGod, I hate it when she says it like that. Itâs always right before shit hits the fan.â
You couldnât help the small smirk that broke across your face as you leaned forward, eyes scanning the trees ahead. The blood trail mightâve been small, but it was something. A sign. And in this world, signs mattered. Hesitation got people killed. You'd all been lucky before, but luck wasnât a strategy.
âCome on,â you called over your shoulder, your voice clear and steady, cutting through the hush that had settled over the group. When you didnât hear the familiar sound of hooves following behind, you slowed and turned Birdie with a gentle tug of the reins.
Your fingers brushed her neck instinctively, grounding yourself. Birdieâyour steadfast companion of four years, a parting gift from someone you didnât talk about oftenâsnorted softly, her breath a puff of white in the cold air. She was calm beneath you, alert but trusting. Always trusting.
You glanced back at the group, locking eyes with Kat, who hadnât moved an inch from her place on the road.
âFine,â you said, your tone sharpening just slightly. âIf you guys want to stick behind and do some more investigating of this area, thatâs fine. Maybe the blood spattersâll tell you their life story.â
You saw Katâs jaw twitch, but she stayed quiet.
You shifted in the saddle, voice firmer now. âBut protocol says three at all times. So Iâll go with Dina and Ells, kay?â
Dina gave you an encouraging nod from beside Ellie, who looked like she was already mentally ten steps ahead. Neither of them questioned your callâthey just waited.
Kat frowned, clearly biting back whatever argument she wanted to throw out. She glanced at Dillon, then Freddy, who wasnât even pretending to be invested in the drama, and finally relented with a frustrated sigh. âFine. Forty minutes. If youâre not back or we donât hear from you, Iâm coming after you.â
âAw,â Dina chirped. âYou do care.â
Kat ignored her.
âAnd just to be clear,â Kat added, her voice carrying that clipped, condescending edge, âIâm going to assume youâre dead.â
Before you could respond, Freddy deadpanned from the back, âYou really wanna be the one to tell the Millers the girls are dead?â He gestured vaguely at the horizon. âIâd rather die out here.â
Dillon let out a strangled snort of laughter, then immediately tried to stifle it with a cough.
You couldnât help the small, amused huff that escaped you, even as the tension still hummed beneath the surface. âForty minutes,â you said, giving Kat one last look.Â
You turned Birdie again, nudging her forward with a silent command, the mare moving with practiced ease beneath you. Dina and Ellie fell into place without a word, the three of you instinctively forming the triangle of coverage youâd fallen into countless times before. Snow crunched beneath the horsesâ hooves in steady rhythm, but even that familiar sound was muffled beneath the growing pressure of the woods around you. The trees seemed to lean in closer the farther you went, their branches arching overhead like brittle fingers, casting long shadows that swayed with each icy gust.
The blood trail continued on, steady and measuredâspatters spaced just enough to suggest motion without staggering. It wasnât frantic. It wasnât wild. Whatever had been bleeding hadnât collapsed⌠yet. The consistency of it was too clean, too purposeful. Not an animal kill. Not a skirmish. A wound, maybe. Deep, but not immediately fatal. And whatever it was, it had enough left in it to keep moving.
The trail led into the edge of a town, one you recognized. A half-forgotten place that had been picked over long before you were ever old enough to hold a rifle. A few houses sat in silent ruin, their walls leaning, roofs half-caved under the burden of years and snow. The windows were empty sockets, glass long gone, and their insides looted of everything useful. Youâd passed through beforeâmaybe twice, maybe more. Thereâd never been anything left worth taking. Until now.
The blood turned toward the supermarket. You felt it before you saw itâthat creeping pull in your gut. The shift in atmosphere. The kind of pressure that always came right before something awful.
And then you saw them.
Clickers. Three of them, sprawled just outside the shattered doors of the market, their bodies still and sunken in the snow. The growth of fungus had overtaken their faces entirely, rendering them faceless, eyelessâheads crowned with thick, crusted blossoms of cordyceps. Their limbs were twisted unnaturally, arms bent at angles that suggested the fight had been swift, brutal, and close. Snow had gathered on the exposed parts of their bodies, but beneath that dusting was bloodâthick, dark, and still wet enough to shine faintly in the light.
They hadnât just been taken down. Theyâd been torn down. Brutally. Viscerally.
And in the center of the massacre, lying awkwardly across the frozen concrete, was the bear.
It was youngâits body not yet filled out to full size, but strong, thick-furred, heavy with muscle. Or it had been. Now, it was a ruin of what it once was. Its face was half-eaten, the snout gnawed down to the bone. The lower jaw hung slack, exposed. One eye was missing entirely. Its ribs had been split apart at the center like a butcherâs cut, the cavity inside hollowed and savaged, innards spilled out in coiled ropes across the ice. The stomach cavity was jagged, uneven, torn as though by handsâor clawsâtoo strong to be anything natural. Blood had soaked deep into the snow, spreading in every direction like an inkblot, staining the white until it looked almost painted.
The stench was unbearable. Metallic, sharp, and layered with the sickly-sweet rot of exposed organs and cooling bodies. The smell of fungal decay mingled with the blood, clinging to the air in a way that made your throat tighten.
No signs of dragging. No other footprints.
It hadnât been moved. It had died here.
And around itâthe clickers. Also dead. Not from gunshots. Not clean kills. Their necks were twisted. One had its skull smashed in, the fungal bloom crushed flat against the sidewalk like someone had stepped on a mushroom and kept stepping until it stopped twitching.
The horses grew restless. Birdie pawed at the ground, ears twitching. Ellieâs horse let out a sharp huff, and Dinaâs grunted, side-stepping once before settling again. Even they knew. Something was wrong here.
You dismounted slowly, eyes sweeping the area, and noted that the blood trail didnât end here. It continued. Fainter now. A drip here. A streak there. As though whateverâor whoeverâhad done this hadnât been untouched.
âHow many infected does it take to bring down a bear?â Dina quipped, the edges of her voice still sharp with unease, but softening just enough to let in that familiar humor she used as armor.
To that, you huffed, shaking your head slowly. âMore than what weâre seeing for sure.â
Your eyes remained locked on the scene, scanning every limb, every streak of red, trying to find an answer that made sense. None did.
âCheck out that van.â Ellieâs voice cut in, calm but focused. She gestured with her chin, and both you and Dina followed her gaze to the rusted-out vehicle parked crooked just outside the marketâs entrance. From a distance, it looked unremarkableâone of a thousand decaying shells youâd seen across dead citiesâbut something about the angle of the doors, the black smudges near the back, made your stomach knot.
âSo theyâve been sheltering in the market,â Dina murmured, as if finishing a thought that had been forming between you all.
âAnd one of themâor god, maybe moreâgot back in,â you added, voice low as your eyes scanned the darkened windows of the building. âMaybe while they were sleeping. Maybe just hungry.â
âProbably needed a nap after chomping on that poor thing,â Dina said with a slow, almost sarcastic nod, her eyes flicking back to the bear.
You tilted your head slightly, staring at the disemboweled mass again. It was unsettlingânot just because of the violence, but because of how much had been left behind. The ribs were split, the organs torn, but the flesh⌠too much of it remained. Like the infected had started feeding and then decided they didnât like the taste. Like something about it wasnât right.
Your thoughts were still trying to piece it together when Dina spoke again, too cheerfully for the setting.
âHey,â she said, her eyes still fixed on the corpse, a light suddenly sparking across her face as a grin spread wide. She turned to Ellie with mischief in her voice. âWhat do you call a grizzlyâs ribs?â
You groanedâlong. Loud. Dramatic. The kind of sigh that could power a windmill.
âHoly fuck,â you muttered, dismounting as your hands moved to unbuckle Birdieâs reins. âYou two are just made to get along. Like itâs disgusting. A curse upon my house.â
Dina didnât even flinch. âBear-B-que,â she finished triumphantly, grabbing the reins from you as you passed them over.
Ellie blinked, taken aback, and for a moment, she looked like she might resistâmight preserve some shred of her hardened reputationâbut then the smallest, most helpless sound cracked out of her throat, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.
âDid you just⌠make that up?â Ellie asked, a laugh threatening at the corners of her mouth. âBear-B-que?â
âYeah!â Dina beamed, unapologetic and radiant in her success.
And so, as you slowly walked towards the bear, which was something that would probably get you yelled at by Joel, you hear them both laugh about the stupidity of their joke and damn, if they werenât made for eachother than who would be.Â
âStarshine,â Ellie called, and when you looked back to her she motioned to the building, âYou think the hungry boy is still in there?â
You scrunch your nose as you look at the scattered bodies of the infected, and you grumble, âProbably,â you murmured, eyes still on the mess in front of you. âAnd Iâm thinking more like a hungry familyâbut, like, small family, you know? Two-and-a-half infected, tops.â
That earned a grin from both Ellie and Dinaâjust that small spark of shared humor in the middle of horrorâand you stood a little straighter, brushing snow from your coat as your breath fogged the air.
Just as you did, the sound of hooves crunching through the snow grew louder behind you, and you turned to see Kat, Freddy, and Dillon arriving. They came into view with slow, wary steps, their expressions shifting the moment they spotted the scene youâd found.
You offered a cheeky smile. âHasnât been forty minutes. Get bored?â
Kat glared at you in that way that only she couldâlike she wanted to snap back but couldnât quite summon the energy. Her eyes moved to the bear, then the clickers, then slowly back to the blood trail leading into the supermarket. Her expression faltered.
âYou guys happy now? Content?â she asked, voice flat.
Before you could answer, Ellie dismounted with a fluid motion, boots hitting the snow with a soft thud. She didnât meet Katâs eyes. She just moved toward her bag, fingers quick and sure as she gathered her things. âHey,â she said quietly, but firmly. âCan we go back now? Please?â
There was something fragile under her voiceânot panic, not quiteâbut fear, layered beneath her usual steel. It was rare enough that it made everyone pause. Kat looked away. Even Freddy sobered up.
You opened your mouth, but Ellie beat you to it, standing upright again with renewed focus. âYeah. We will. Promise,â she said, nodding once. âWeâre just gonna listen real quick. See if anyoneâs inside.â She turned toward the supermarket, pulling a shotgun from the saddle and tossing it to you without looking. âWhich is definitely recon.â
You caught it by reflex, blinking. âYeah! Yeah, I mean, what if thereâs like⌠a normal person in there? Someone injured? They probably need medicalâyeah!â
âWhat if thereâs a family in there?â Dina added quickly, already hoisting her rifle over her shoulder as she trotted up beside you.
âWith children!â you nodded emphatically, falling into step with Ellie as she moved toward the shattered entrance.
âWith babies!!â Dina finished, her tone perfectly sincere despite the obvious dramatics.
You couldnât help but snort, even as you carefully scanned the windows and doorways for movement. The three of you moved together now like clockworkâan exaggerated march of purpose and bullshit, your banter keeping the fear at bay, if only barely.
You didnât hear it. Or maybe you did, and chose not to answer. Either way, the doors loomed ahead, and you were already inside the storyâfollowing blood and bad jokes straight into whatever waited beyond.
(As always, feedback and comments mean the world to me, please leave your thoughts. Toodles!!
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Summary: In post-apocalyptic Jackson, you work as a medic and navigate tense relationshipsâespecially with Ellie and your father, Joel. Despite the past, grief, and unspoken wounds, you figure out how to continue in a world that seems to love nothing more than ruining your life. Season 2 Episode 1 (pt 1)
word count: 6.6k
Pairings: Joel & Daughter!reader, Ellie X Reader not yet, but we will get there
Jackson was known as a haven, or perhaps more accurately, as a living testament to the virtues of freedom and communityâa sanctuary steadily blossoming into one of the largest and most hospitable enclaves around. In this unique place, life moved with an air of unencumbered possibility; unlike the strict rigidity of QZs, here people were free to wander in and out as they saw fit. There was an unspoken agreement that every person who arrived, regardless of their background or training, would contribute in some way, enriching the fabric of the community.
Over time, the spirit of Jackson grew contagious. The townâs ethos was built not on enforced conformity but on an organic, ever-evolving tapestry of contributions. Mechanics diligently kept the essential machinery humming, ensuring that the gears of progress never ground to a halt, while construction workers transformed raw materials into dwellings and communal spaces that stood as monuments to collective effort. Medical personnel offered healing and hope not merely through their expertise, but through a gentle, empathetic touch that reassured the weary and infirm alike. Even educators, nannies, and chefs played their parts, each role a crucial thread in the narrative of resilience and self-governance.
The diversity of skills and the willingness to share them imbued Jackson with a vibrancy that transcended conventional societal boundaries. Patrols, manned by those trained to maintain order without suffocating freedom, roamed the streets with a sense of duty tempered by compassion. Beyond these watchful guardians, gardeners coaxed life from the earth in communal plots, turning barren scraps of land into flourishing oases, while artists and builders reimagined the urban landscape into a living canvas of creativity. In Jackson, every contributionâbe it technical expertise or a humble act of nurturingâwas celebrated as a step toward a more cohesive, supportive society.
Community life here was expressed through everyday rituals that reinforced a deep sense of belonging. Evening gatherings around crackling fires, spontaneous street festivals, and shared meals brought neighbors together, transforming simple acts of daily living into opportunities for collective celebration. In Jackson, the freedom to come and go was matched by an enduring invitation to give back, creating a cycle where each newcomer soon discovered that their efforts were valued, their skills indispensable, and their individuality a vital ingredient in the communal stew.Â
Even then, if someone crossed into the city wallsâthose same walls painstakingly erected by the founders, the original survivors whose very hands were stained with the gore and sweat of the outbreakâthey were met not with exclusion, but with a measured welcome. Even if such a person appeared to lack the talents or qualities that could immediately contribute to the thriving community, the citizens would not cast them aside. The true measure of a town was not merely in the sum of its skills, but in the spirit of inclusivity that defined its very nature. If the inhabitants were to dismiss those who did not prove their worth at once, what remained would be less a town and more a grim penitentiaryâa place where the weak were all too easily deemed disposable, left to be metaphorically fed to the wolves.
In the heart of this sanctuary, every soul was seen as having inherent potential. The founders had built these walls not as barriers to keep humanity at bay, but as a shield against the relentless chaos outsideâa testament to their belief in redemption and transformation. Here, every newcomer, regardless of their immediate utility, was afforded the opportunity to grow, learn, and eventually contribute to the collective strength of the community. This unwavering commitment to nurturing latent potential was what set the town apart. It was a place where value was not measured solely by apparent skills but by the capacity to evolve and to enrich the community in myriad ways.Â
âIâm sorry,â you force out a laugh as you spin around on your creaking chair, your eyes narrowing playfully at the man slumped across the makeshift treatment station. âYou broke your wristâŚâ
âPottery,â he deadpans, his lips curling into a rueful grin that hinted at a lifetime of misadventures and unforeseen consequences.
âPottery,â you echo with a gentle nod, as if acknowledging both the absurdity and the stubborn pride behind his words. Rising from your seat, you retrieve a well-worn, sanded-down piece of wood and a faded, yet dependable, bandage from your improvised kit. The roomâonce a humble bedroom now converted into a rudimentary clinicâsmells faintly of antiseptic mixed with the lingering aroma of burnt wood and memories of better times. You push the rolling chair aside with deliberate care and reach for his veryâŚvery broken wrist. Despite the inflammation and bruise marring its surface, nothing in the injury screamed for an invasive procedure; a sturdy splint would suffice.
âWhatcha make?â you ask, half in curiosity and half in an effort to distract him from the pain etched across his weathered face.
The man hums thoughtfully, his gaze drifting to a small, uneven crack in the wooden wall as if seeking counsel from its silent testimony. âWhatever is wanted. I mostly do it for free, though thatâs not getting me very far these days,â he confesses, the lilt in his voice mingling gratitude with resignation. His words carry the quiet weight of countless sacrifices in a world that rarely rewards kindness.
âKind man,â you chirp, securing the bandage with practiced precision, winding it around itself until it snugly supports his splinted wrist. Your tone is both affectionate and admonishingâa reminder that even in suffering, there is dignity in compassion. âKindness will always end up coming back around for us, you know? Now, I want you to come back in two weeks so I can see how it looks. If it gets worse or starts aching more than a little, if you feel even a hint of sicknessâcome back sooner. And if Iâm not here, just head over to the Miller house on Main, okay?â
With a small nod, he agrees and walks out of the clinic room, leaving you alone with the sterile hum of machinery and the soft shuffle of wounded survivors. You finish scribbling down your notes with deliberate precision, carefully tucking them into the aging hallway filing cabinetâa repository of stories, failures, and small triumphs. Stepping down the creaking stairs, your boots sink slightly into the muddy residue of neglect, each step stirring memories of the days when this place pulsed with hope rather than a quiet resignation.
At the base of the stairs, you reach for a sheet of paper suspended on the hanging systemâa crude schedule for check-ups that, despite its makeshift appearance, speaks volumes about the effort to hold on to some semblance of order. Your eyes scan down the list, and as you reach the next name, your smile falters, your breath catching on the syllables written on the paper. The name shimmers in faded ink, and with a sudden jolt, you exclaim, âEllie!â
You quickly read over the note that trails below her name and age, your heart thudding as old worries and new concerns battle in your chest. Your gaze snaps toward the waiting areaâa cramped room where survivors sat huddled on an overstuffed sofa and scattered benches. There, amid the low murmur of anxious conversation, Ellie had popped up like an unexpected ember of defiance. A stupid grin plastered across her face, her features marred with smears of dried blood that she wore almost as a badge of honor.
The room held a stark collage of vulnerability and resilience. Faces etched with weariness offered fleeting smiles at the sight of someone who defied the odds, and the quiet banter of patients waiting for both you and the nurse filled the space with tentative life. Ellieâs grin, despite its crudity, was infectiousâa silent rebellion against despair.
You set the paper down with a soft sigh, the weight of responsibility anchoring your thoughts. Stepping forward, you navigate through the crowd, your eyes locking with hers. In that brief, charged moment, time seemed to pause: you saw not just a patient, but a fighter whose spark illuminated the dullness of the day. âEllie,â you call gently, your voice a blend of concern and warmth, âletâs get you taken care of.â
The corridor, the faded notes, and the murmurs of those waiting all faded into the background as you led her toward the clinic. She happily settles onto the bed, a spark of mischief in her eyes despite the scars life had etched on her. You watch as she relaxes, her posture betraying the rough resilience of someone whoâs seen too much yet still manages to smile. You retrieve the bottle of alcohol and a threadbare towel from the counterâa silent arsenal against both infection and despairâthen sink into the chair before drifting over to sit directly across from her.
âShould I ask?â You teases, tone light despite the battered evidence of a recent tussle lingering on your face.
âEh, it was a scrimmage,â She reples, y voice carrying an amused skepticism as you unscrew the cap and dampen the cloth for a cleaning.Â
Your eyes narrow with a half-grimace as you bring the wipe close, studying the smear of dried blood and the careless smudges that told their own story. With a scowl, you add, âAnd it looks like you got fucking owned. Poor Dinaâher girlfriend is a dumbass.â
A flash of indignation crosses her features, a blend of anger and hurt pooling in her eyes. âDid not?! And! And Dina is notâ Iâm notââ she begins, words tumbling out in a rush before she stops, caught in the weight of her own frustrated laughter and the absurdity of the situation.
You pause, your gaze holding hers steadily as if waiting for her to find solid ground in the storm of teasing and reprimand.
 The silence thickens the space between your jabs and gentle care. Finally, leaning back slightly and softening just a hint, she retorts, âShut up, I came here to check in, havenât seen you in like a month.â
To that, you fall quiet, the kind of silence that stretchesâgrows heavier the longer it lingers. You shrug after a moment, not out of dismissal, but because the weight of what you want to say sits awkwardly between your ribs. You double-check your work with mechanical precisionâswelling, signs of infectionâanything to delay the next part. Then you scoot back to the supply table, the legs of your chair scraping softly against the scuffed wooden floor. You reach for your clipboard, jotting down post-meeting notes and marking off the medical supplies used, all while your mind pieces together the words youâve kept tucked under your tongue for weeks.
Finally, as the pen slows in your hand, you say itâsoft but honest. âWell, Ells⌠youâre the one who stopped coming by.â
Ellie falters, visibly, her fingers twitching against her thigh as she huffs and leans back against the wall, her expression tight. âFuck. Yeah. I guess so. But câmonâyou canât blame me for that.â
Your eyes flick up to meet hers, and for a long second, neither of you looks away. âNo,â you admit quietly, âI donât. Weâre growing up. IâŚI get that. And maybe part of that means splitting off. Becoming our own people.â You pause, bracing yourself with a shaky breath before continuing. âBut even I know Iâm not gonna magically stop being âJoelâs girl.â Thatâs not something that washes off, yâknow?â
Ellie shifts in place, her brow creasing, but she doesnât interrupt.
âAnd like it or not,â you say, voice catching a little, âyou fall into that same category. Whether you like it or not, youâre his, too. Maybe not by blood, but it doesnât matter. He called you âkiddo.â He loved you.â
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep your voice steady. âI donât know what happened between you two. I donât know what he did or what you did or why it broke everything so bad. All I know is one day you just⌠stopped talking. Family dinners stopped. Movie nights became âread alone in your own damn cornerâ nights. And I didnât say anything because I figured maybe youâd come around.â
You swallow. âI get it if you hate him, I do. But heâs my dad, Ells. And I canât choose between you and him. I wonât. Itâs not fair. And⌠and Iâm sitting here spilling my heart out like this is some kind of therapy session, soââ
âEh,â Ellie cuts in, trying to soften the blow with a shrug and a small, forced grin. âGood place to do it. Soundproof walls, right?â
You snort a laugh through a sigh, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. âYeah. Best perk of this makeshift clinic, honestly. No one hears me yell at my patients.â
âOr cry,â Ellie offers quietly, and itâs said in a teasing tone, but thereâs something raw underneath it. Something vulnerable. â I just⌠when it all happened, I didnât know how to be around you without seeing him. So I avoided it.â
You nod, fiddling with the edge of the clipboard like it holds all the answers you wish you had. âYeah. I figured it was something like that.â
Thereâs a pause, a thick kind of silence that settles after something honest has been said. Neither of you really knows what to do with it. It lingers long enough for you to notice the distant hum of conversation downstairs, boots scuffing wood, someone laughing too loud in the hallway. Then, you clear your throat, unsure if you're ready to break the fragile moment but doing it anyway.
âIâm going on a patrol,â you say, quietly at first. âThereâs a chance⌠I mean, thereâs word that there might be a pharmacy further outâpast the ridge. Iâm heading out with a couple others. I havenât⌠told my dad yet.â
Ellie immediately sits up straighter, eyes narrowing. âJoel? Letting little baby Starshine out of Jackson?â She grins, devilish and teasing. âDude, heâll have a stroke right there on the porch.â
âOh my god, shut up,â you groan, smacking her leg lightly with the clipboard. âDonât say shit like that, seriously, youâre gonna jinx me. But for realâIâm trying to be smart about it. If thereâs even a chance we can find stuffâantibiotics, insulin, trauma medsâanything, itâs worth the risk.â
Ellieâs smile fades into something softer, more thoughtful. âYeah. It is.â
You glance over at her, hopeful. âDo you guys know what medications weâre low on? I figure if Iâm going, I should at least grab the right stuffâwait, you are still on the patrol rotation, right?â
Ellie hesitates. That twitch of her brow, the way her mouth presses into a thin lineâdead giveaways.
âIâm⌠talkinâ to Tommy about it,â she says vaguely, avoiding your eyes.
You blink, eyebrows rising. âRight. So whatâyou think Joelâs gonna let you go gallivanting past the ridge when youâre not even cleared for patrol?â
She looks at you, jaw clenched, and for a second you can see the storm gathering behind her eyes.
âHe is not my dad,â she snaps, a little too loud, a little too fast. Thereâs that fire againâhalf hurt, half fury. All Ellie.
You stare at her, then say, softer but firm, âHe might as well be.â
Her mouth opens like sheâs going to argue, to throw something sharp and final at youâbut the words die in her throat. Instead, she scrubs a hand down her face, frustrated. âItâs not that simple,â she mutters.
âI know itâs not.â You lean forward, elbows on your knees. âBut you canât keep pretending like heâs just some guy who happened to keep you alive a few years ago. You know damn well that man would burn Jackson to the ground if something happened to you.â
Ellie huffs, not denying it, but clearly wrestling with the weight of it, âYeah well heâs a piece of-...Heâs Joel, heâs your dadâŚ.still figruing out how I play into this.â
You nod, understanding more than you let on. âYou donât have to have it figured out. But donât shut him out because youâre scared of what forgiving him means. Or what not forgiving him means.â
Ellie tilts her head at you. âSince when did you get all wise?â
You smirk. âI treat bullet wounds and dislocated shoulders for a living. Comes with a side of unsolicited life advice.â
She laughs at thatâa real one this timeâand then leans back on the bed, arms crossed behind her head. âSo⌠youâre really going?â
âYeah. Day after tomorrow. Early.â You hesitate. âYou could come, yâknow. If Tommy signs off. Itâd be⌠nice. To have you there. PlusâŚIâm pretty sure Dina is coming.â
âI was already sold you didnât-âÂ
âOh but I wanted to, I so so sooooo wanted to.â
-
âI come bearing gifts!â you call out as you shoulder the door open with a little more force than necessary, the wood groaning under the pressure. Your voice carries through the room like sunlight filtering through a cracked windowâfamiliar, teasing, and just enough to disrupt the quiet.
Turning around, you find your father exactly where you expected him: hunched over that overstuffed desk in the far corner, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, eyes squinting down at paperwork covered in numbers, scribbled timelines, and blocky handwriting that looked like it hadnât changed since the outbreak. The desk itself is a messâorganized chaos, reallyâwith loose files, maps, ration logs, and the occasional empty coffee mug that had seen better days. A few knick-knacks are scattered aroundâan old photo in a cracked frame, a pocket knife, a carved wooden elk. Itâs the kind of clutter that says someone lives here. Someone stayed.
Despite the dried blood that still lined your sleeves and the faint yellow stain of iodine on your fingertips, you carry the Tupperware container full of cooked meat into the room like itâs a peace offering to two war strategists. Probably because it is.
Joel glances up at the sound of your voice, brow lifting just slightly in that way he does when heâs half-expecting trouble and half-hoping itâs just you being dramatic. With a casual flick of his hand, he motions for you to come closer.
You oblige, setting the Tupperware down on the nearest clear corner of the desk. Then, with a grin, you lean over and press a kiss to the top of his head, the way you always haveâsince you were little, since before Jackson, since before everything. He grunts at the affection but doesnât pull away.
Your eyes trail over the cluttered mess heâs buried in: outlines of patrol shifts, expansion routes, stockpile inventories, and timelines for the repairs. You squint at the fine print and mutter under your breath, âYâall should print these in English next time.â
Across the room, your aunt Maria stands by the wide-paned window, arms folded, gaze locked on Main Street below. She hasnât said anything yet, but you can tell by the tension in her shoulders and the way her jaw tightens that whatever conversation had been happening before you walked in wasnât exactly a fun one. She doesnât look away from the view, but her presence fills the room just the same.
With a small hum, you tilt your head toward the desk, eyes scanning the mess with feigned interest. âYou guys look like youâre in the middle of a very interesting conversation,â you remark, voice dipped in sarcasm but light enough to pass for a joke.
JJoel lets out a short, humorless breathâalmost a laugh. âIf âhow the hell are we gonna stretch five gallons of gas across three outpostsâ counts as interesting, then sure.â He rubs the back of his neck and leans forward, squinting at the latest update scrawled in rushed handwriting. âBut back to itâthe school and the library by spring, right? Both need new roofs. With the manpower weâve got, I donât see any of this gettinâ done âtil summer, at best.â
Even though Maria stood by the window like she was listening, it was painfully obvious her thoughts were elsewhere. Her fingers tapped anxiously against her arm, and her voice cut in abruptly. âThis window isnât keepinâ the cold out anymore.â
Joel blinked at the sudden shift, his brow furrowing. âChalkâitâs high up on my list,â he replied, gesturing vaguely toward one of the lists youâd been flipping through. âWeâve been burninâ through a ton of it patching the new residential stretchââ
âWe need to build faster,â she interrupted.
That caught your attention. You looked up from the supply logs you'd been scanning, the ones filled with crossed-off names and absencesâreminders of the last flu outbreak and the dwindling labor pool. Even with good weather and no new crises, the odds were steep. You didnât need to be a genius to know that âbuild fasterâ wasnât a request grounded in reality. It was desperation, plain and simple.
Joel straightened in his chair, eyes flicking to the page youâd been reading before settling back on Maria. âFaster?â he repeated, voice low with disbelief. He tapped the edge of the desk once, then again, as if grounding himself. âSure. How much faster? See, we got this dial called the constructo-meter.â
âJoel,â Maria warned, not even turning her head.
He grinnedâjust barelyâbut kept going. âThe more you turn it, the faster we go.â
âJoel.â
You had to bite your lip to keep the laugh in. The way his voice dipped into mock-enthusiasm and the faux-serious glint in his eye made it worse.
Maria turned slightly, catching your expression out of the corner of her eye. âStarshine, do not egg him on.â
You raised both hands in mock surrender, forcing your grin into something that resembled composure. âYes, maâam,â you said, a little too obediently, and Joel snorted behind his hand.
â
The sky had already dimmed by the time you and Joel made it back home, the golden wash of sunset giving way to the soft gray hush of evening. The walk back had been quiet, not in a tense way, but the kind of comfortable silence that settles between two people used to surviving side by side. Jackson had quieted tooâdoors shutting, boots scraping porches, the faint hiss of fires being started in hearths. It felt like the town was exhaling after a long day.
Joel pushed open the door to your shared home and stepped aside to let you in first. You kicked your boots off at the threshold, flexing your aching feet with a tired grunt before hanging your coat on the hook near the door. Joel followed behind you, rubbing the back of his neck, already drifting toward the small kitchen.
âYou hungry?â he asked, already reaching for the pan youâd left drying on the counter.
âI brought meat earlier, remember?â you said, flopping onto the couch and letting your head fall back against the cushion. âYou and Maria were too busy arguing about the constructo-meter.â
Joel snorted. âRight.â He set the pan down and turned back to look at you, arms crossed over his chest now. âYou did good, bringinâ that in. Whole damn townâs been stretched thin. That kinda help⌠matters.â
You gave him a soft smile, one that flickered briefly before your expression shifted. You sat up straighter, elbows resting on your knees as you stared down at your hands. They still bore faint traces of iodine and dirt under your nails, the stubborn signs of clinic work that wouldnât fully wash away.
Joel noticed the shift immediately. âAlright,â he said slowly, narrowing his eyes. âWhat is it?â
You opened your mouth, then shut it again. Tried to find the right toneâsomething between donât freak out and Iâm not asking for permission. You settled for honesty.
âThereâs a patrol heading out tomorrow,â you began. âNorthwest ridge. There's a possible pharmacy out there. Might be looted already, but it could have some meds weâre low onâantibiotics, insulin, maybe even some old morphine. Tommy signed off on it.â
Joel didnât say anything right away, and that silence hit harder than any words couldâve.
You took a breath. âIâm going with them.â
His jaw worked, but he kept his arms crossed, like he was holding himself in place. âThe hell you are.â
You blinked. âDadââ
âNo,â he cut in, voice firmer now. âYouâve been patchinâ people up all week. Youâre still limping from that last run. You donât need to be out there riskinâ your neck when weâve got actual patrol units trained for this kinda thing.â
âI am trained for this kind of thing,â you snapped, standing up now, tension threading into your spine. âAnd they need me. If we find anything useful, it could save lives. You know that.â
Joel shook his head, the line of his mouth tightening. âWe also need you here. What good are you gonna be if you end up six feet under some collapsed shelf or with a clicker tearing through your back?â
You stepped forward, closing the space between you. âYou donât get to keep me wrapped in cotton just because the world scares you, Dad.â
His eyes flared at thatâhurt, then anger, then something deeper. Something raw. Unfiltered. Like youâd struck a nerve that had never fully healed. He turned away from you for a second, running a hand down his face like he was trying to physically wipe the emotion off of it, like if he just pressed hard enough, the truth might stay buried where it had always been safer.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, rougher. It scraped out of him like gravel being dragged over stone.
âIt ainât the world that scares me. Itâs the thought of losinâ you.â
That stopped you in your tracks.
Your mouth opened and closed once, twice. You blinked hard, because your vision had started to swim, and you couldnât decide if it was from rage, guilt, or the sudden ache in your chest. Maybe all three.
âDamn your fuckinâ therapist,â you said, laughing through a crude huff. âThe hell was that? You been rehearsinâ that line in the mirror or something?â
But the crack in your voice betrayed you.
Joel turned just slightly, catching the flicker of tears you were trying to blink away and the trembling laugh you were barely keeping under control. He didnât say anything at first, just watched you from under that furrowed brow of his, expression unreadableâbecause thatâs what Joel did when the feelings got too big. He locked down. He stayed quiet, like silence could protect the both of you.
You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, exhaling hard. âFuck, that was... that was mean,â you said, voice muffled. âYou donât get to drop a line like that and expect me to just pack my damn bag and leave without feeling like shit.â
âI ainât tryinâ to make you feel like shit,â he said softly, stepping closer. âIâm just⌠tellinâ the truth.â
You let your hands fall and look at him, really look at him. The years carved into his face. The tired eyes that had seen too much. The way his shoulders never fully relaxed. The man who had survived everything except peace. And the man who had, somehow, learned how to love again in the middle of it all.
âYeah,â you muttered, voice quieter now. âI know.â
The silence that followed wasnât empty. It was full. Of grief, of love, of a thousand things neither of you had said in all the days and nights spent in each otherâs company. You crossed your arms tight over your chest, suddenly unsure if you should stay or go. If the distance between you was safer than the closeness.
Joel rubbed at his jaw, then sat heavily on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. âYou remind me so damn much of her,â he said after a beat. âOf Sarah.â
Your breath caught.
You lowered yourself onto the armrest opposite him, resting your hands in your lap, unsure if moving would make it worse. âYouâve never said that before.â
He shook his head slowly. âI donât say a lotta things. Doesnât mean I donât think âem.â
Another silence, softer this time.
âIâm not her,â you said, not cruelly. Just gently. âI know you know that. But you gotta let me do this. You gotta let me âŚpeople need medicine.â
Joel looked at you, and whatever had hardened in his expression beforeâwhatever wall heâd built to keep the world outâit cracked just a little. His voice came out low.
âI know I canât stop you. And I ainât tryinâ to keep you caged in. I just⌠wish I could give you a world where you didnât have to be this brave.â
You smiled, sad and warm. âYeah.â
He nodded, slowly. âSo⌠you packinâ tonight or in the morninâ?â
âTonight,â you replied, standing again with a shaky sigh. âYou still gonna check my gear?â
Joel smirked faintly. âDamn right, get the rouger out Iâll clean âer for you.â
And just like that, the moment passedâbut not forgotten. Not buried. Just quietly folded up and stored between you, like a well-worn blanket youâd both pull out when the nights got too long.
----
4 years before....
You always felt like the weather was almost taunting; the most beautiful of days could be overclouded with the harshest of emotions, and the harshest of days would be overcast with gleeâperhaps, you assumed after a while, it was Godâs humor. After all, in a world where your creations morph themselves into cannibalistic tree-like abnormalities, wouldnât you, as a God, require something to keep the show you watch funny?
And yet, as you lingered under skies that shifted as abruptly as the moods of a capricious deity, you couldnât shake the feeling that every element was part of an elaborate cosmic punchline. The brilliance of dawn might conceal under its golden glow an unexpected melancholy, while duskâs deep purples and reds often brought with them a reminder that even decay could be beautiful. It was as though the universe itself delighted in a paradoxical jestâa scenario where profound sorrow twined effortlessly with unbridled joy.
Such as it was on that sun-filled day, the desolate greenscape of what had once been a large, bustling city sprawled before you, a poetic testament to natureâs inexorable reclaiming of human ambition. The urban skeleton, long abandoned to the march of time, was now overcast with the veins of earthâcracks and fissures mapping the rise of wild, unruly greenery that had stealthily woven its way through every crevice of once-proud architecture. The remnants of pavement and forgotten alleyways served as canvases upon which nature painted its slow, deliberate masterpiece.
Beams of light, bold and resolute, pierced through the dense canopy of trees in sporadic intervals, their shafts providing little but precious relief from the relentless summer heat. Each ray illuminated pockets of decay and remnants of historyâa rusted sign swaying in a gentle breeze here, a shattered window catching the sunâs gleam thereâreminding any observer that even in abandonment, the vestiges of the past could still whisper forgotten stories. The interplay between light and shadow cast intricate patterns on the overgrown facades, as if the city were sharing its silent secrets with the day.Â
With a short, measured sigh, you carefully hang the necklace upon the last of the crossesâa lone tribute in a barren memorial, too slight an offering to encompass all the lives lost in the relentless struggle, yet significant enough to avoid attracting any further, ironic power plays from those who thrive in chaos. The bronze pendant caught the sunâs dying rays, its engraved symbol quivering in the wind as if to mock death itself, whispering that even in their silent, dismembered state beneath the soil, the fallen still carried remnants of defiance.
For someone all of 15 years old, you had witnessed more sorrow than most could bearâa harsh education in grief wrought by a world undone. You had lost your mother to a bite, a merciless act of fate that, even in its pre-infected horror, shattered the fragile grasp you held on hope. It was a cruel irony: she had given up everything to chase a promiseâa promise that the man who now lay cold and forgotten could save your irredeemable world. Her sacrifice, her desperate leap towards a better future, lingered in your memory like the fading notes of a long-forgotten song.
And then there was Gary Andersonâa doctor who had taken you under his wing, briefly intertwining his fate with yours in a world void of certainty. His care, given when you felt your own blood had abandoned the very idea of you, had been a beacon amidst the desolation. In his quiet acts of kindness, you saw the embers of a humanity that refused to surrender to despair, a courage that blossomed even in the darkest hours. He had trained you in survival, not just in the physical sense, but in the art of carrying on the legacy of hope, even when the world around you had already succumbed to decay.
âWhy would he do this?â
The words barely registered in your mind, yet you still heard them. You forced yourself to reactâa slight turn of the head from your hunched position on the makeshift grave, where bodies had been burned and the dirt hastily overturned to bury the ashes. Names blurred together in your memoryâother Fireflies who had stood by that harrowing night when the only hue in the chaos was a relentless, ominous red. Even if their names had slipped away, their grief, raw and uncontained, resonated with you. And if Abigail found comfort in their silent presences, then you, too, would strain to remember every one of them.
âI heard rumors. It was some kid he took that was supposeblyââ
âThat wasnât true⌠itâs not possible.â
Your eyes, still adjusting against the glare of a sun that seemed to mock the grim scene, swept over the line of people gathered in muted solidarity. They were scattered like shadows in the brightness of dayâeach lost soul marked by recent calamities and eternal regrets. As your gaze trailed over to her, a small huff escaped you as you rose unsteadily, wincing as you moved against the bandaged bullet wound on your jeans, the fabric as worn as the weight of your past.
Abigail was older than you, around 16 if memory served rightâher stature slight but her resolve unmistakable. Despite the grim chatter that lingered in the air like smoke, your focus was drawn to her.Â
âYou feeling okay?â You asked, tone carrying the unspoken concern of someone who had weathered too many storms. The look in her eyes was all the answer you needed, so you nodded slowly, tucking your hands into your pockets. âIâŚI can stay. Iâll stay. Get you guys settled, I meanâit wouldnât hurt to have someone who could stitch yâall up.â Your attempt at humor was cautious, yet genuine; for a fleeting moment, you saw a spark of light return to her eyes.
Abby shook her head firmly. âYou need to leave. We canât both be fatherlessâthat would just be pathetic.â The words stung, and your eyes widened in a silent plea for reassurance. Sensing your discomfort, she softened her tone with a groan. âFuck you, man, that was a good dead dad joke.â
You managed a small laugh, the sound brittle yet sincere. âOh, thank God; yeah, no, that was good.â You ran a hand over your face, trying to dismiss the pain behind your smile. âBut Iâm seriousâIâll stay, help get you all settled. I feelâŚfuck, Gale, I feel like I canât leave now. You⌠youâre basically all I got, and ifââ
âYou know Iâm not coming with you,â she interrupted softly, the finality in her voice echoing the truth of your shared losses.
âYeah. Yeah, I know. Even though Jackson is suuuper nice and there are cookies, and there's a wall, so it's safe, and my Aunt Maria is kinda coolââ You started in a half-joking tone.
âSparrow,â she reminded you, her voice laced with both affection and exasperation.
âRight, sorry, Jackson is always open for you guys, Gale.â You repeated, the words a familiar refrain in your endless attempts to drag fleeting moments of normalcy out of desolation. Every conversation felt like a desperate negotiation with fateâif only you could humor the memory of Gary and the rest of the Fireflies long enough to leave, grab a truck or a horse, go back, get your uncle, and then maybe... then maybe. But he hadnât come for you. It was safer to assume he was gone forever. Either way, Jackson was the closest thing you had to family.
âIâm serious. I donât want to wake up in 30 years and think, âGod, I wonder what happened to Gale.ââ
âBold of you to assume youâd make it to thirty years,â she teased, the irony of the moment hanging between you like a fragile truce.
You scoffed lightly, âShut up. Iâll make it to sixty years old, just you watchâand itâd be nice if you popped by so I knew that you too made it past that prehistoric age.â
A long silence stretched out, filled only by the distant rustle of wind in the ruined trees and the soft murmurs of other survivors tending to their wounds. Then Abbyâs eyes softened further, and she nodded. âYeah. Of course, Iâll come by.â
âOkay.â The word hung in the air, laden with promises too heavy for one generation to uphold on its own. You exhaled slowly as you met Galeâs steady gaze, the unspoken understanding between you palpable against the weight of a world crumbling into dusk.
âIâŚI guess I should go, the horse is ready and I need to get out of the city before nightfall.â
Your voice carried a blend of urgency and quiet resignationâa reminder that every moment wasted in this broken landscape increased the risk of yet another nightmare. The distant lowing of the horse, patiently waiting in the murky edge of the makeshift camp, underscored the relentless march of time toward darkness.
âThatâs smart. You got guns? Ammo?â Abby asked, her tone a mixture of genuine concern and the dry humor that had become your shared lifeline in a world where such trivialities could mean the difference between life and death. The question, though simple, resonated like a mantra in the face of unyielding uncertainty.
You managed a wry, deadpan smile, shaking your head as if to ward off the grim inevitability of fate. âNo.â Then, with a slight tilt of your head that betrayed both pride and fatigue, you added, âNot stupid, Gale. Course I do.â The brief interjection carried the irony of a desperate worldâwhere survival often meant defying expectations even when resources were scant.
Abbyâs eyes softened at your response, the corners crinkling with a mix of worry and reluctant admiration. âDonât get bit, Sparrow.â Her words were both a command and a benedictionâa small spark of warmth amid the encroaching gloom of an unforgiving reality.
A chuckle, dark and full of brittle humor, escaped you. âWasnât counting on it.â The remark wasnât so much a joke as a bitter acknowledgment: in a landscape where every shadow hid potential peril, every step was a gamble with fate. Yet, within that irony lay a stubborn ember of defianceâa promise to fight for another day, against all odds.
With a small nod you take a step away and you look to your side, just to see everyone staring at you, âUhâŚInnvation is open? But, I really-â You take a quick look to Abby, who simply nods and you look back to them, âStay safe, guys.âÂ
It was always terrifying on how easy it is to turn around and walk away from something, especially when you know that you probably will never see them again.
(Ahem. I am back for season 2. I suppose this negates like the entirety of the last installment of safe and sound but thats what I thought would've happened form the get go. I would be so so so so thankful for any feedback and comments; they really make it feel worthwhile. Anyway, if you want content on starshine you can visit my masterlist, where it had the whole season 1 within this little AU. as always TOODLES!!!)
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summary: An injured Joel and Ellie stumble into your home in the middle of the night. Trusting them isnât easy, but you wonât let another person die in this house. It doesnât take long until youâre terrified of the day theyâll leave again.
tags: post outbreak, slow burn, found family, age gap (sorry not sorry), no use of y/n, able-bodied reader, angst, reader has a sad sad backstory and ptsd, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual smut