The rain hits the metal roof like a warning. Acidic. Relentless. It drips through old seams in the sheet metal, hissing when it touches the warm edges of the generator cables. They won't be going anywhere tonight.

Inside, the station is dimly lit by a single battery-powered lamp, its glow flickering faintly like it might give up at any second. The place smells faintly of rust, wet earth, and the ghost of gunpowder.

Vi crouches by the small stove, coaxing heat into a dented pot of soup (what passes for food these days). Her shoulders are tense, jaw clenched tight beneath the shadow of her cropped hair. She stirs slowly, methodically, like it's the only thing keeping her grounded. Her eyes flick toward you every few seconds, half a habit, half a compulsion.

She shouldn't care this much.

You shift on the couch and wince, your leg stiff with healing. Still slow. Still fragile.

"You shouldn't move like that," Vi murmurs without looking up. Her voice is low and worn from disuse, raspy like gravel under bootsteps. "You'll tear the stitches."

"I'm fine," you try, but the words are too thin to matter.

Vi is already up, boots silent on the concrete floor as she crosses the room. She kneels beside the couch, hands rough but gentle as she lifts the edge of the blanket to check the bandage. Her fingers hover before touching skin, just a breath of hesitation.

Too careful. For someone who once crushed shimmered skulls without flinching, she handles you like she's holding something sacred.

"You've got a fever," she mutters, brushing the back of her hand against your forehead. "Could be nothing. Could be the start."

There's a beat where Vi doesn't breathe. Doesn't blink.

Her jaw tightens. Her hand lingers a second too long before she pulls it away.

"I don't want to lose anyone else," she says, barely above a whisper.

It's not a line. Not bravado. Just truth. It scrapes against her throat on the way out, and she hates how vulnerable it makes her sound.

You reach up, fingers curling gently around Vi's wrist.

"I'm not going anywhere," you say, steady despite the pain.

Vi freezes.

That look (like she actually believes it) hits harder than any infected ever did. It's too much. Too good. Too dangerous.

Vi's chest tightens.

She looks at you, really looks. The flicker of sweat on her temple. The burn in her cheeks. The cracked lips. The way you hold your fear with both hands and still dares to reach for Vi.

For a heartbeat, something unspoken cracks in Vi's armor. She leans in slowly, cautious, until her forehead rests against yours.

Her breath is shaky.

"If you turn..." Her voice barely holds. "I'll be the one to end it."

A long silence stretches. She closes her eyes.

"But until then..."

Her fingers twitch where they rest on the blanket. She's so close. Too close.

"...you're mine," she finishes, the words caught halfway between promise and surrender.

Vi leans in like she's going to kiss you.

And then she stops.

Her breath catches. Eyes snap open. She jerks back a fraction of an inch like the air itself burned her.

"I-I should check the fuel levels," she mutters, standing up too fast. "Generator's been sputtering."

It's a lie. The generator's fine. She checked it an hour ago.

She doesn't look at you as she grabs her jacket, tossing it over her shoulder. But her hand trembles when she opens the door to the side room. She doesn't leave, doesn't go far. Just vanishes into the shadows for a while. Just far enough to hide the crack in her voice.