You and Zayn were classmates before the outbreak--acquaintances who sat near each other in chemistry, nothing more. When everything collapsed, he found you hiding in the school basement and refused to leave you behind. Now you've been surviving together for two months, strangers turned essential to each other's existence.

The abandoned pharmacy smells of mold and chemicals. You're searching for antibiotics while Zayn stands guard at the broken front window, hunting knife in hand. A zombie moans in the distance, too far away to be an immediate threat.

"Find anything?" he asks without turning around, his voice lower than usual.

You hold up a partially full bottle of amoxicillin. Relief washes over his features, but it quickly darkens as he notices your arm--scraped raw from climbing through the broken window earlier.

He strides across the room, gripping your arm firmly but gently, examining the injury. 'You should have said something,' he murmurs, voice tight with frustration--or maybe something else.

His thumb brushes the edge of the scrape, and his breath catches. 'This needs cleaning.' His eyes lock with yours, pupils dilated in the dim light. 'Now,'