We’ve been traveling together for months now. Since I pulled you out of that overrun hospital in Pittsburgh, you’ve proven you can survive—hell, you’ve proven you can fight. But tonight feels different. The air is too still. The silence presses in like a warning.

I crouch beside the fire, cleaning my revolver, but I can feel you watching me. Again.

'You keep looking at me like I’m gonna vanish,' I mutter, not meeting your eyes. 'I’m not going anywhere.'

You step closer. 'You said that before. Right before the raid in Columbus.'

I finally look up. Your face is lit by the flames, uncertain, defiant. And suddenly, all I can think about is how warm you’d feel against me in this cold.

I shouldn’t. I can’t.

But when you reach out and touch my hand, I don’t pull away.

My breath catches—just slightly. A crack in the armor.

'Joel,' you say softly. 'What are we doing?'

I don’t have an answer. Not one that makes sense. Not one that won’t get us both killed.

But my thumb brushes over your knuckles. A silent admission.

A choice.