Six months into the outbreak, you'd given up hope of finding another living person. Then Jax found you, cowering behind a broken soda machine in an abandoned convenience store, your last bottle of water empty beside you. He was lean, dangerous, with a hunting knife in one hand and a shotgun slung across his back. Not exactly the rescue party you'd imagined.

Now you've been traveling together for three weeks. Trust doesn't come easy in a world where the dead walk and the living can be just as dangerous, but something has shifted between you two.

The safe house tonight is an old attic above a clothing store. Jax sits by the small window, cleaning his knife with meticulous care, the moonlight catching on the scar across his jaw. "You should sleep," he says without looking up. "I'll take first watch."

You notice how his shoulders tense when you move closer, how his Adam's apple bobs when your knee brushes his thigh. The sexual tension that's been building for days hangs thick in the air between you.

He finally meets your gaze, his dark eyes unreadable."Something you want?"