Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Day 365

A year.

A whole year since the world collapsed. Since the cities fell, since the streets ran red, since the screams became the soundtrack of survival.

It had started like any other day. The sun had risen over a world that still made sense. People had gone to work, to school, to the grocery store. They had kissed their loved ones goodbye, made weekend plans, worried about bills and deadlines—blissfully unaware that by nightfall, none of it would matter.

The first sign had been the screams at a local police station. A call gone wrong. Officers rushing to respond, only to become the next victims. Then it spread. Like wildfire. Like something unstoppable.

Louis Tomlinson had been in his classroom, teaching a group of fourth graders about fractions when the emergency alarm went off. He had followed protocol, locking the door, pulling the blinds, trying to keep the kids calm—just like they had drilled for an active shooter situation. But this wasn't that. This wasn't anything they had prepared for. He had heard the pounding on the doors first. The gurgling, inhuman growls. And then the screams of teachers and students being torn apart. His kids had cried, begged him to do something. And he had tried. But when one of those...things crashed through the window, the choice was made for him. He barely remembered running, only the guilt that still clung to him every night. He should have done more. He should have—

Harry Styles had been at the shooting range. A rookie. Still learning. His gun felt foreign in his hands back then. When the call came in—a domestic violence dispute—he hadn't expected much. But when he arrived, the scene was already something from a nightmare. A man lay bleeding, his wife hunched over him, biting into his flesh like a rabid animal. Harry had shouted, gun raised, but she didn't stop. Didn't even flinch. And when the man's body twitched—when he moved, lifeless eyes flicking open and teeth snapping at the air—Harry had fired his first shot. His hands had been shaking. He missed the first time. He hadn't missed the second.

Niall Horan and Zayn Malik had been wrapping up a strength training class when they heard the first screams outside. They had stepped onto the street, confused, watching as chaos unfolded around them. A car sped through an intersection, slamming into a pole. Niall had run forward to help, but when he reached the window, what he saw had frozen him in place. A woman, her face covered in blood, gnawed at the seatbelt as her own children clawed at the glass with pale, lifeless fingers. It had taken Zayn yanking him back, shouting at him to move, for them to run.

Liam Payne had been reporting live when it happened. One minute, he was explaining the strange unrest to a camera, trying to stay professional, and the next—his cameraman was screaming, tackled to the ground by a man who had no business being alive. Liam had run. Not because he was a coward, but because there was nothing else he could do.

That night, the highways were gridlocked. Families packed into their cars, desperate to flee. People fought over space, over supplies, over the right to survive. The five of them hadn't known each other before, but somehow, fate—or maybe just bad luck—had thrown them into the same stretch of road, stuck with hundreds of others, going nowhere fast.

Harry had been the first to suggest getting off the road.

"We're sitting ducks here," he had said, scanning the growing panic around them. "If we stay, we die."

No one argued.

They had gathered what they could—food from abandoned cars, weapons from wreckage, whatever supplies they could find—and left the highway behind. They weren't alone. A woman with a baby. A handful of terrified children. A few others who had nothing left to lose.

They found shelter in an old farmhouse just outside the city. It wasn't much, but it was safe—for a while.

That first night, they barely spoke. The sounds of the city dying—gunfire, screams, the howls of the infected—filled the silence.

That was a year ago.

Now, the cities are nothing but graveyards. The roads are warzones of rusted cars and dried blood. The infected still roam, hungrier than ever. And the group?

They're still here.

Still fighting.

Still surviving.

Chapter Text

Even after a whole year of this, Louis had never been one for supply runs.

It wasn't that he was weak. He had gotten stronger—Zayn had made sure of that. The first few months, when Louis barely knew how to hold a knife properly, Zayn had taken it upon himself to train him. Nothing fancy, nothing unnecessary. Just the basics: how to fight, how to kill, how to survive. He and Niall had kept up a routine, not just for themselves, but for everyone in their group. Even the children.

Louis hated that part the most.

These kids—kids who should be worrying about homework and scraped knees—were learning how to stab an infected in the head, how to shoot a gun if they had to, how to survive on nothing but scraps and instinct. Childhood was something of the past. Innocence had been replaced by survival. And it wasn't fair.

So, Louis had done what he could.

While Zayn and Niall made sure the kids could fight, Louis made sure they could still be kids. He had gathered old notebooks and scraps of paper, piecing together makeshift lessons in English and math. He knew, deep down, that they might never need those skills. But it was something to hold onto. Something normal in a world that had lost all sense of the word.

Liam had offered to watch his back on supply runs more than once, but Louis always refused. He had never seen himself as a fighter, not like the others. He was useful here, with the kids. And if that meant he didn't have to see what was out there, then all the better.

But today was different.

Louis wasn't sure why, but something inside him told him to go. Maybe it was the guilt—the nagging voice that told him he wasn't doing enough. Maybe it was the restlessness, the feeling of being trapped inside while everyone else risked their lives. Maybe it was just a need to prove to himself that he could.

So before the group left, Louis went to Harry.

Harry was kneeling by his pack, double-checking his weapons. His movements were efficient, practiced—he had become so much more than the nervous rookie he had been a year ago. Now, he was a leader.

"I want to go," Louis said, his voice firm despite the way his heart pounded in his chest.

Harry didn't even look up. "No, you don't."

"I do."

Harry sighed, shoving a knife into his belt before finally meeting Louis' gaze. "You'll just slow us down."

Louis clenched his jaw. "I want to be useful."

"You are useful," Harry countered. "With the kids. They need you."

Louis shook his head. "They need food. And supplies. And if I don't start pulling my weight out there, what happens when—" He stopped himself before he could say it. What happens when we don't make it back?

Harry studied him for a long moment. His green eyes, always sharp, always assessing, flicked over Louis' face like he was searching for something. A reason to say no. A reason to tell him to stay back.

But finally, he exhaled, reached into his bag, and pulled out a gun.

"Take it."

Louis hesitated.

Harry's expression hardened. "You want to come, then you need to be ready to use it."

Louis took the gun, the weight of it unfamiliar and heavy in his grip.

Harry nodded. "Stay close to me. And if I tell you to run, you run."

Louis swallowed hard. "Okay."

Harry didn't say anything else. He just grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked toward the others.

Louis took a shaky breath and followed.

He had no idea what he was walking into. But for the first time in a long time, he felt like he had to.

The truck rattled and groaned as it rolled over uneven pavement, the suspension barely holding together. The roads had seen better days—hell, the world had seen better days—but they didn't have much choice. The truck had been one of the few things Harry had managed to "borrow" from the police station before it was completely overrun. That was how they had gotten most of their weapons, too—rifles, pistols, even a few tactical knives. At first, it had felt wrong, taking supplies meant for law enforcement, but now? Now, it was just survival.

Harry sat in the front passenger seat, rifle resting across his lap, his fingers tapping absently against the barrel. He had stopped thinking about what happened to the higher-ups at the station months ago. The sheriffs, the veteran officers—the ones who should have had answers, who should have been leading—were gone. Maybe they were dead. Maybe they turned. Either way, they weren't here, and Harry had no choice but to step up.

Jackson, one of the other officers—another rookie like Harry had been—drove with careful precision, his knuckles white against the wheel. In the back, Louis sat squeezed between Zayn and one of the newer survivors, an older man named Marcus. The air was tense, heavy with anticipation. They had done this plenty of times before, but for Louis, this was the first.

Zayn turned slightly, nudging Louis in the ribs with an elbow before grabbing his pistol. "Alright, lesson time," he muttered. "You don't want to be fumbling with this thing if shit goes sideways."

Louis nodded, hands only shaking slightly as he took the gun.

Zayn demonstrated with his own. "This is the mag release," he said, pressing a button on the side. The magazine dropped into his palm with a click. "You need to check it every now and then. No point in pulling the trigger if you're empty."

Louis copied him, pressing the release on his own gun. The mag slid out, heavier than he expected, and he glanced up at Zayn for approval.

Zayn smirked. "Good. Now put it back. Firm push, make sure it clicks into place."

Louis obeyed, locking the magazine in.

"Safety's here," Zayn continued, pointing to a small switch. "Keep it on until you're ready to shoot. You do not want to accidentally fire and give away our location."

Louis swallowed hard and nodded.

In the front, Harry was going over the plan.

"There's a town just a few miles out," he said, voice carrying over the low hum of the engine. "Houses still intact. We haven't seen any signs of looters, which is rare, so we're hoping to get in, grab supplies, and get out fast."

"That's what worries me," Jackson muttered, eyes fixed on the road. "A whole year, and it hasn't been raided? Feels like a trap."

"Or maybe people were too scared to go near it," Zayn suggested.

Harry nodded. "Either way, we're not taking chances. We go in pairs. No one wanders off alone. If we get overwhelmed, we get back to the truck and leave, no hero shit."

He turned slightly in his seat, meeting Louis' gaze. "Louis stays with me." His voice left no room for argument.

Louis shifted under the attention, nodding stiffly.

Harry's expression softened just a fraction. "You'll be fine. Just don't panic. Be confident. The infected... I swear they can smell fear."

Louis huffed out a nervous laugh. "Great. I reek of it."

Zayn clapped him on the back. "Then let's hope you smell like gunpowder by the end of the day."

The truck rolled to a stop on the outskirts of the town, engine idling as everyone took one last deep breath. The houses stood eerily silent, untouched by time, their windows dark and empty like hollow eyes.

Harry checked his rifle. "Alright. Let's move."

Louis tightened his grip on the gun and followed.

The silence was deafening.

Jackson, Zayn, and Marcus broke off toward the houses, their weapons raised, eyes scanning every shadow. Louis walked beside Harry, his grip tight around the gun, his knuckles white. His heart pounded in his chest so loudly he was sure it would attract something.

The air was thick with the stench of rot. Even after a year of this, Louis had never gotten used to it. It clung to his nostrils, made his stomach turn. It was the smell of death, of something unnatural. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore it, trying to focus on keeping his hands from shaking.

Jackson kept glancing around, shifting his weight uneasily. "I don't like this," he muttered.

Harry sighed. "We're fine."

"We don't know that," Jackson shot back. "A town this untouched? It's either crawling with the dead or something worse."

Harry didn't respond. He just nodded toward a small gas station ahead, then pointed at the row of houses lining the street. "Check those. Louis and I will take the station."

Zayn gave a two-fingered salute before heading off with Jackson and Marcus.

Louis exhaled, forcing himself to focus.

Harry took the lead, approaching the gas station with slow, measured steps. The building was intact—windows unbroken, the door still standing. That wasn't a good sign. If looters had been through here, there'd be shattered glass, doors hanging open. But this place looked untouched.

Harry reached out, testing the handle. Locked.

He motioned for Louis to stay back, then lifted his rifle and knocked lightly on the glass, just once. Tap. Tap.

Louis frowned. "What are you doing?" he whispered.

"Baiting," Harry murmured. "They're drawn to noise. If there's anything inside, it'll come to us instead of surprising us later."

Louis rolled his eyes. "I'm not stupid, Harry. I know that much."

Harry smirked, then motioned for Louis to be ready. After a moment, when no movement came from inside, he stepped back and kicked the door hard. The lock snapped, and the door swung open with a creak.

The smell hit them first.

It was thick and putrid, the unmistakable scent of old blood and decay. Louis gagged, pulling the collar of his shirt over his nose. The interior was dim, shelves still lined with snacks and supplies covered in a thin layer of dust. It almost looked normal—almost.

Harry stepped in first, moving with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. His rifle was raised, his eyes sharp, scanning every aisle. Louis followed, his hands clammy around the grip of his gun.

"Stay close," Harry whispered.

Louis nodded, creeping past a toppled-over display of magazines. Their footsteps were the only sound in the empty store, each one making Louis' pulse quicken.

They moved deeper inside.

A cooler near the back was open, its contents long since spoiled. A shelf had been knocked over, cans spilled across the tile. It looked ransacked, but not completely emptied. There was still some stuff here.

Harry gestured toward a row of shelves. "You check there, I'll clear the back room."

Louis hesitated but nodded.

He moved carefully, scanning for anything useful. Some bottled water, a few cans of food—mostly expired but maybe salvageable. He crouched down, reaching for a package of energy bars when—

A sound.

A shuffling.

A breath that wasn't his.

His blood turned to ice.

Slowly, he turned his head, eyes widening as he saw movement between the shelves. A figure. A grotesque, twisted thing. The infected had once been a man—his clothes were tattered, his skin grayish and sagging. His mouth hung open, blood smeared across his chin, and his milky, lifeless eyes locked onto Louis.

Louis barely had time to react before it lunged.

"Shit!" Louis stumbled back, knocking into the shelf behind him. Supplies clattered to the ground as the infected came at him with unnatural speed.

His gun—his gun—

Louis fumbled to raise it, but the thing was too close. It slammed into him, sending him crashing against the metal shelves. He grunted as pain jolted through his back. Hands—cold, clawing hands—grabbed at him, fingers digging into his jacket.

It snarled, its breath reeking of death.

Louis shoved back with all his strength, managing to push the thing just enough to stop its teeth from reaching his throat. But it was strong—stronger than he expected. His muscles burned as he struggled against it, the infected thrashing, snapping, desperate to sink its rotting teeth into him.

"Harry!"

The moment his voice rang out, a deafening gunshot followed.

The infected's head snapped back as a bullet tore through its skull. The body jerked once before going limp, slumping to the floor in a grotesque heap.

Louis stood there, chest heaving, eyes locked on the corpse at his feet. His hands were still raised, trembling. His breath came in sharp gasps.

A hand gripped his shoulder.

"Hey," Harry's voice was steady, grounding. "You okay?"

Louis forced himself to breathe. He turned, meeting Harry's gaze—those sharp green eyes scanning him for injuries. He wasn't hurt, not physically, but his whole body felt like it had been electrocuted.

"I—I had it," Louis muttered, though it didn't sound convincing.

Harry arched a brow. "Yeah? 'Cause it looked like it had you."

Louis scowled, shoving his shaking gun back into his waistband. His heart was still hammering.

Harry gave him a once-over, then sighed. "You did good, though."

Louis blinked. "What?"

"You didn't freeze," Harry said simply. "You fought back. That's more than most people do their first time."

Louis swallowed, exhaling shakily. "Yeah. Well. I almost pissed myself, so."

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. "We all do, at first."

There was something reassuring about that—about the fact that even Harry, who seemed like he had it all figured out, had been just as terrified once.

Louis nodded, finally pulling himself together.

Harry glanced at the corpse. "Let's hurry up. More might've heard that shot."

Louis didn't argue.

He just followed, gun in hand, pulse still pounding, but maybe—just maybe—a little steadier than before.

Louis tried to focus on gathering supplies rather than the corpse still sprawled on the floor, its lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling.

He crouched down, stuffing a few canned goods into the duffle bag—beans, soup, anything that didn't look too spoiled. Harry was rummaging through the shelves behind the counter, grabbing medicine bottles, bandages, anything remotely useful.

As Louis moved toward another aisle, his eyes landed on a dusty rack of small toys and trinkets. His fingers hovered over a box of worn-out crayons, some toy cars, a stuffed rabbit missing an ear.

He picked up the rabbit, running a thumb over its tattered fur. It wasn't much, but the kids back at camp didn't have much of anything. Even something as small as this might mean the world to them.

He shoved it into the bag along with the rest of the supplies.

When he turned back toward Harry, he was staring down at the floor near the back entrance, his expression unreadable.

Louis stepped closer. "What?"

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose. "Back room."

Louis followed his gaze to the half-open door leading to what must've been a storage area. The light inside was dim, but even from where he stood, Louis could see the dried pools of blood on the concrete floor. The stench of death was overwhelming, heavier than what they had smelled in the main store.

Louis hesitated. "What happened?"

Harry's jaw tightened. "Owners locked up before this all got bad. Guess they decided they weren't gonna make it." He shifted his rifle over his shoulder. "Looks like they tried to go out on their own terms."

Louis frowned, waiting for Harry to continue.

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his curls. "Thing is... they didn't get the job done right. No headshot. So they turned on each other."

A chill ran down Louis' spine.

He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering toward the door. He didn't need to see inside to picture it—the people who once owned this place, who once stood behind the register, maybe even smiled at customers, turning into monsters together after failing to die as humans.

A bitter taste rose in his throat.

"They tried to escape this world, and ended up stuck in it as something worse," Louis muttered.

Harry didn't respond right away, just gave a slow nod before slinging the duffle bag over his shoulder. "Come on. We should check in with the others."

Louis didn't argue. He followed Harry toward the door, stepping over the broken glass and debris scattered across the floor. As they stepped outside, the early evening air hit him, cool but thick with the ever-present smell of rot.

The street was still quiet, eerily so.

Louis glanced around, scanning for any movement as they made their way toward the houses where the others were looting. His grip tightened around his gun, his body still humming with the adrenaline from before.

As they neared one of the houses, Louis spotted Jackson standing outside, rifle raised, keeping watch while Zayn and Marcus worked inside.

Jackson turned when he saw them approach. "Find anything good?"

"Some food, medicine," Harry answered. "A few things for the kids."

Jackson grunted in approval. "This house had some supplies. Not much, but better than nothing."

Louis' eyes flickered to the broken front door. It looked like it had been forced open, whether by looters or something else. The window beside it was shattered, dried blood smeared along the frame.

A pit formed in his stomach.

Harry must've noticed, because he nudged Louis' arm. "Stay close," he murmured. "Don't let your guard down."

Louis nodded, gripping his gun a little tighter as they stepped inside.

The house was dark, the air stale. The living room was a mess—furniture overturned, papers and belongings scattered everywhere.

Zayn was digging through kitchen cabinets while Marcus searched a hallway closet. Both of them glanced up when Harry and Louis entered.

"Good timing," Zayn said. "We were just about to check upstairs."

Louis hesitated. "Is... anyone here?"

Zayn shook his head. "No bodies, no infected. Just looks like whoever lived here left in a hurry."

That didn't make Louis feel much better. The silence in this town was starting to feel suffocating, like they were walking through a graveyard where the dead just hadn't made their presence known yet.

Harry jerked his chin toward the staircase. "I'll check the bedrooms. Louis, you're with me."

Louis nodded, falling into step behind Harry as they climbed the stairs. Each creak beneath their feet sent a spike of unease through Louis' chest.

The upstairs hallway was just as wrecked as the rest of the house. Doors hung open, drawers pulled out, clothes strewn across the floor. A family had lived here once. Maybe kids, too, judging by the small shoes Louis spotted near a bedroom door.

Harry checked one room, then another. Nothing but empty furniture and the echoes of a life left behind.

Then, at the end of the hall, a door was shut.

Harry glanced at Louis, then nodded toward it.

Louis swallowed hard, gripping his gun as Harry slowly reached for the handle.

The door creaked open.

The room was small—a child's bedroom. The walls were covered in faded drawings, a small twin bed pushed against the far wall. A stuffed bear sat on the floor, untouched by the chaos.

And in the corner, slumped against the wall, was a body.

Louis sucked in a sharp breath.

It was a woman. Or at least, it had been. Her skin was pale, her body unnaturally still. A gun lay in her lap, her fingers still curled around the grip.

Harry crouched down, pressing two fingers to her temple. After a moment, he exhaled. "She's not turned."

Louis blinked. "She—she did it right?"

Harry nodded. "Headshot. She didn't come back."

Louis stared, his throat tightening. This woman had made the choice that the gas station owners had failed to. She had decided she wasn't going to become one of them.

His eyes flickered to the walls again. The drawings. The small shoes by the door.

"She had a kid," Louis whispered.

Harry was silent for a long moment before standing up. "We should go."

Louis forced himself to look away.

They left the room, the air heavier than before.

By the time they made it back outside, the others were finishing up. They had gathered what they could, loading the supplies into the truck.

The sun was starting to set, casting long shadows over the ruined town.

As Louis climbed into the truck beside Harry, he couldn't shake the thoughts running through his head—the gas station, the woman in the bedroom, the echoes of people who had chosen not to fight.

Louis had never thought about it before—about making that choice. About giving up.

But now, after what he'd seen today... he understood why some people did.

He just wasn't sure if he ever could.

The warmth of the fire flickered against the darkening sky, casting long shadows over the base. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and whatever meager food the group had managed to scavenge for dinner. Laughter and quiet conversations mixed with the crackling flames, a moment of normalcy in a world that had long forgotten what that meant.

Louis, however, wasn't by the fire.

He lingered outside his makeshift classroom, the small stuffed rabbit still clutched in his hands. His fingers traced over its worn fabric, the missing ear, the faded stitching. Inside, the children were settling down for the night, curling into blankets and whispering to one another in the dim candlelight. The sight of them—alive, safe, still clinging to a semblance of childhood—was the only thing that brought Louis any peace these days.

He exhaled slowly, his grip on the toy tightening.

From the firepit, Harry had been watching him.

Louis hadn't noticed at first, too lost in his own thoughts, but then there was the familiar sound of boots on dirt, the steady approach of someone who had long since learned how to move quietly.

"You did good today," Harry said, his voice low but steady.

Louis glanced up, startled from his thoughts. Harry stood beside him now, arms crossed, his usual guarded expression softened just slightly.

Louis huffed a quiet laugh. "I barely did anything."

"You didn't freeze," Harry countered. "Didn't run. That's something."

Louis shifted on his feet, rubbing his thumb over the toy's soft fur. He wasn't sure why he felt so unsettled, why his chest felt heavy in a way it hadn't in a while.

Harry studied him for a moment, then added, "I'd like you to come on more runs."

Louis scoffed lightly, shaking his head. "I'd just slow you down."

Harry nudged him with his elbow. "Better to try than to never do it at all."

Louis fell silent. He wanted to argue, to deflect with sarcasm or some half-hearted joke, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he just stood there, staring down at the toy in his hands, his grip almost trembling.

Harry's eyes flickered to the rabbit. "That for the kids?"

Louis nodded. "Yeah."

Harry smiled faintly. "You're good with them."

That did it.

Louis hadn't realized the tears had started until one slipped down his cheek, warm and unbidden.

He quickly swiped at it, as if that would stop the flood threatening to break loose. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath.

Harry straightened slightly, concern flashing across his face. "Hey," he said softly. "What's wrong?"

Louis shook his head, inhaling sharply. "I had sisters," he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to continue. "Quite a few of them."

Harry didn't say anything, just waited.

Louis swallowed the lump in his throat. "I watched them turn," he admitted. "All except for Lottie. I don't know where she is."

The silence between them stretched, heavy and thick.

Harry didn't press, didn't try to say something meaningless like I'm sorry—he just listened, letting Louis speak at his own pace.

Louis let out a hollow laugh. "People think I'm so protective over the kids because I was a teacher. But it's not just that. It's them. My sisters." He exhaled sharply. "They were like my kids, in a way. I practically raised them." His voice wavered, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "And now they're gone."

Harry was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached out, resting a hand on Louis' shoulder. It was warm, steady.

Louis didn't realize how much he needed that small gesture until it happened.

"They're not all gone," Harry said quietly.

Louis blinked, looking at him.

"You're still here," Harry continued, his voice softer than Louis had ever heard it. "And these kids? They have you."

Louis inhaled shakily, gripping the toy a little tighter.

Chapter Text

The morning air was thick with the scent of damp earth and sweat, the sounds of hammering and the murmur of voices filling the base. Mornings were never easy, not in this world, not when survival depended on constant work.

Most of the men were at the perimeter, reinforcing the wall that had become their best defense. It wasn't much—scrap metal, wooden planks, anything they could scavenge—but it was better than nothing. A few months ago, the idea of a wall had been tossed around after a particularly bad night. They had lost people. Good people. The infected had slipped in unnoticed, and by the time the alarm was raised, it was too late. That night had changed everything.

Now, Harry was at the center of it all, directing the construction with the kind of quiet authority he had grown into over the past year. He wasn't just the rookie officer anymore—he was their leader, whether he liked it or not. Niall and Zayn worked beside him, lifting panels, hammering nails, reinforcing weak spots. They worked tirelessly, muscles straining, their hands calloused from months of survival.

Across the base, away from the heavy labor and the scent of sweat and steel, Louis knelt in the dirt.

He was surrounded by a handful of children, their small hands grasping at wheat stalks, their dirt-covered fingers digging into the earth. The small crop fields they had managed to grow were one of their most important assets. Hunting and scavenging could only last so long—learning to grow their own food was the only real future they had.

"Why do we even need to do this?" Darcy asked, her dark eyes flickering up to Louis. She was about ten, with long tangled hair that Louis often helped braid when she let him.

Louis wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, shifting his grip on the bundle of wheat in his hands. "Because," he said, voice gentle but firm, "we don't have grocery stores anymore. We can't just walk in and grab food off the shelves. If we want to eat, we have to grow it ourselves."

Darcy frowned, glancing down at the plants in front of her. "It's stupid," she muttered.

Louis smirked. "It's survival."

Darcy huffed, but she didn't argue further. She just kept pulling the wheat from the soil, her small fingers clumsy but determined.

Louis watched her for a moment, feeling a familiar pang in his chest.

Darcy reminded him of his sisters. Not just in the way she looked, but in the way she clung to him when she was scared, the way she sought his approval, the way she always acted tougher than she really was. Louis had taken her under his wing from the moment she arrived at the base, a scared little girl with no one left.

He had lost his own sisters. He wasn't going to lose her too.

"Good," Louis said, nodding at her work. "See? You're a natural."

Darcy rolled her eyes but didn't hide the small, proud smile tugging at her lips.

Across the field, Liam was sorting through their supplies, making an inventory of what they had left. He wasn't the best at physical labor, but his organizational skills had become invaluable. He knew exactly what they had, what they needed, and how long they could last.

Despite everything, they were managing.

For now.

Louis dusted off his hands, stretching his sore back as he watched the children gather the last of the wheat. Darcy trotted up beside him, wiping sweat from her brow.

"Are we done?" she asked.

Louis ruffled her hair. "Yeah, we're done. Go on, wash up before lunch."

Darcy grinned and sprinted off toward the small communal area where the others were beginning to gather.

Louis exhaled, rubbing his hands over his face before turning toward the wall, where Harry and the others were finishing up for the day.

He wandered over, watching as Harry leaned against a stack of wooden planks, wiping at the dirt smudged across his cheek. His curls were damp with sweat, his shirt clinging to his frame, his expression tired but satisfied.

Louis tilted his head. "You actually look like you know what you're doing."

Harry smirked, tossing his rag at Louis. "And you actually looked like you belonged in that garden."

Louis caught the rag, rolling his eyes but smiling nonetheless. "I did belong there."

Harry nodded toward the field. "The kids need that, you know. Some kind of normal."

Louis hummed in agreement. "We all do."

They stood there for a moment, the weight of the day settling over them.

Eventually, Harry broke the silence. "Walk with me?"

Louis hesitated but then nodded, falling into step beside him as they made their way toward the outskirts of the base.

The air was cooler now, the sky painted in shades of orange and pink. It would be dark soon.

They didn't speak for a while, but the silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It was familiar. Easy.

Finally, Louis broke it. "We can't keep doing this forever."

Harry glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

Louis gestured vaguely at the base. "This. Just... surviving. Running. Hiding. Building walls and hoping they hold." He shook his head. "It's not enough."

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I know."

Louis turned to face him. "Then what are we gonna do about it?"

Harry met his gaze, something unreadable in his expression. For the first time in a long while, he didn't have an answer.

Louis made his way back toward the communal fire, where most of the group had gathered to eat. The chill of fall was settling in, and the shorter days made everything feel more urgent. The nights were growing colder, forcing them to layer up in whatever warm clothes they had scavenged over the past year. They couldn't afford to waste fuel on unnecessary fires, so the main pit in the center of the base was where most people huddled as the sun dipped below the horizon.

He grabbed a portion of their rations—some dried meat and a handful of nuts—before settling down beside Liam, who was already halfway through his meal. The fire crackled between them, casting flickering shadows across their tired faces.

Liam glanced over at him, chewing thoughtfully before speaking. "How'd the run go yesterday?"

Louis hesitated for half a second, then took a bite before answering. "Almost got bit."

Liam stopped mid-chew, his eyes widening in alarm. "You what?" His voice wasn't loud, but there was an unmistakable edge of concern in it.

Louis shrugged, trying to seem unbothered. "I'm fine, obviously. Had Harry with me."

Liam gave him a look, one that made Louis smirk before the inevitable teasing came. "Oh, had Harry with you, did you? Your knight in shining armor?"

Louis rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

"I'm just saying," Liam continued, grinning, "you always seem to be just fine when Harry's around."

"It's called survival," Louis shot back, shaking his head but unable to stop the small smile that tugged at his lips. "I'd rather be with someone who actually knows what they're doing."

Liam hummed knowingly, popping another piece of dried meat into his mouth. "Sure, sure."

The thing was, Louis and Harry had a complicated friendship. They weren't particularly close, not in the way he and Liam were, or even the way Harry was with Niall and Zayn. They didn't seek each other out during the day, didn't talk about personal things or spend time together unless circumstances forced them to. Harry was the type who always had something to do, someone to train, a mission to focus on. He was one of the most capable people in the group, and that made him busy. Louis, on the other hand, spent most of his time with the kids, in a part of the base Harry rarely had reason to go near.

Still, every now and then, when the fire burned low and most people had gone to sleep, they'd find themselves sitting across from each other, sharing quiet conversations in the dark. They weren't best friends, but there was an understanding between them, something neither of them really acknowledged out loud.

Liam nudged him lightly with his elbow, snapping Louis out of his thoughts. "So, you thinking about going on more runs?"

Louis nodded, finishing the last of his food. "Yeah. I need to get better at handling the infected."

Liam frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "You don't have to do that, you know. You already do plenty around here."

Louis sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "It's not about that. It's about the kids. I need to be better at protecting them. If something happens and we have to move, if we get attacked... I can't just sit back and rely on other people to do the hard part."

Liam studied him for a moment, then shook his head. "I just worry. If something happens to you, they'll be devastated."

Louis swallowed hard, feeling the weight of that truth settle on his chest. He knew it. He knew that if he died, the kids—especially Darcy—would feel it. But that was exactly why he had to do this.

"I'm doing this for them," he said quietly.

Liam sighed but didn't argue further.

The fire crackled between them, the sounds of quiet conversations and the occasional laugh drifting through the camp. The world had ended, but here, in their little corner of it, life still went on.

The darkness of night had fully settled in by the time the children were playing in the field. The orange glow of the fire cast long shadows over the makeshift camp, and a chill hung in the air. A few of the kids kicked a weathered soccer ball back and forth, their laughter light and carefree—something that had become a rare sound in this world. Every now and then, Louis would remind them to quiet down, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. It was hard to stop their giggling entirely, but they had learned the importance of silence in these moments. There was no telling who or what could be listening.

Louis was sitting at the fire, going over the drawings the kids had made earlier in the day. They had been working on something simple: what they remembered from their old lives, before the world fell apart. Pictures of family, of houses, of peaceful times. Louis felt a pang in his chest every time he saw one of those drawings, but he tried to keep it together. For them, for the kids, he had to stay strong. He flipped through their creations absently, lost in his thoughts when the silence outside the camp seemed to stretch on just a little too long. Harry and Zayn were stationed at opposite ends of the base on watch. Jackson had taken the third position, keeping an eye on the perimeter.

The night was unsettlingly quiet, the kind of silence that clung to you, making every rustle of the wind or distant snap of a branch seem magnified. Louis had learned to dread this silence. In the past, when things were still normal, quiet meant peace. Now, it meant danger.

It didn't take long for that quiet to be shattered.

The screams came first. High-pitched and panicked, the unmistakable sound of children in terror. Louis' heart stopped for a split second. His stomach turned, and he was already on his feet before he even realized what was happening. Screams. He could hear the terror in their voices, and it sent a wave of fear crashing over him. He was running now, toward the field, his pulse pounding in his ears.

What he saw when he reached the field would haunt him forever.

The infected were there, dozens of them—slathered in blood, their grotesque features twisted by the infection that had ravaged their minds. They were attacking the children, their sharp teeth sinking into soft flesh, their hands pulling and tearing at bodies. Louis' breath caught in his throat, his feet momentarily frozen in place. His mind screamed at him to move, to do something, but he was paralyzed by the sheer horror in front of him.

"Louis!" Niall's voice cut through the chaos. "There's a breach! Back wall, now!"

Louis didn't need any more encouragement. His body snapped into motion, adrenaline surging through him as he bolted toward the makeshift barricade. People were running to the wall, trying to fend off the infected that had broken through. It was madness. The children were scattered across the field, and every part of Louis' mind screamed at him to do something—anything—but his legs felt like lead.

It took him a moment to react, but then his gaze fell to the table near him, where a machete lay discarded. His hand shook as he grabbed it, the weight of the blade heavy in his palm. He ran back toward the field, desperation fueling his steps. He swung the machete wildly at the infected, not even aiming, just trying to hit anything. The sharp edge of the blade tore into the flesh of the infected, but it didn't feel like enough. It was never enough.

His eyes kept darting to the kids. He saw them—Darcy, one of the younger girls he had spent so much time with, one of the kids he had come to see as a sister—was lying on the ground, her small body covered in bites. His heart shattered as he ran toward her, pushing through the chaos.

"D-Darcy!" Louis shouted, his voice raw with panic.

He reached her side, his breath ragged as he knelt beside her. Her face was pale, her lips trembling, her small body shaking. Her eyes flickered with the kind of fear Louis had seen in the eyes of so many others who had turned. She was already changing. The infection was taking hold.

"Louis..." Darcy's voice was weak, barely above a whisper. Her eyes searched his, and for a moment, she looked so small, so vulnerable, just like a little girl who had no place in this world of monsters. "Did I do good?"

Louis choked on a sob, tears streaming down his face. He could feel the weight of the world pressing down on him. He didn't have the words, didn't have the strength to say anything. He just held her hand tightly, his voice breaking as he whispered, "You did amazing. You fought so hard, Darcy."

Her head lolled to the side, and Louis could feel her body growing colder, the life slowly draining from her. He kept telling her it was okay, that she was a hero, that she had done everything she could. But the truth was there, heavy and undeniable: she wasn't going to make it.

The infected were still tearing through the base, but Louis didn't care. He wasn't even aware of the chaos around him. His focus was solely on Darcy, his little sister.

Time seemed to stretch on forever, the sounds of the fight around him fading into the background as he held her close. He kept yelling for help, but deep down, he knew it was too late. He didn't have the strength to stop her from turning, to save her from becoming what they all feared.

And then, Harry was there.

Louis didn't even hear him approach, but suddenly, Harry was standing beside him, his face hard with the kind of determination Louis had seen before. He knew what had to be done. Louis didn't have to ask. They had all seen it happen before.

Louis looked at Harry, his eyes filled with the kind of raw pain that only someone who had lost so much could understand. He didn't want to do it. He couldn't.

Harry didn't wait for him to say anything. Without a word, he reached down, pulling the knife from Louis' belt. Louis' hand shook as he realized what was about to happen. He opened his mouth, wanting to stop him, to tell him that he couldn't, that he just couldn't do it. But Harry was faster.

With one swift motion, Harry plunged the knife into Darcy's head. The sound of it, the finality of it, sent a shock through Louis' entire body. His vision blurred, his chest constricting as he choked on a sob. But Harry didn't hesitate. He didn't look away. He didn't falter.

Louis couldn't breathe. He didn't know how to process what had just happened. He felt like he was drowning, the weight of it all crushing him. Darcy was gone, and there was nothing he could have done to stop it.

The base had been cleared. The infected had been killed. But the price had been steep. Louis sat there, holding Darcy's lifeless body, the pain too much to bear. And Harry, standing beside him, knew exactly what Louis needed: nothing at all. Just presence, just silence, just someone to hold the broken pieces together.

Louis couldn't bring himself to leave Darcy's body alone. His arms ached from carrying her, but it didn't matter. Every step toward the makeshift burial site felt like the earth beneath his feet was growing heavier, as though it, too, was mourning her loss. He made his way past the scattered remnants of the base, the area where the infected bodies had been piled together for burning. Normally, that was the protocol—burn the bodies, get rid of the evidence, so the infection wouldn't spread. But today, he couldn't do it. Not for Darcy. She was different. She was family.

Jackson didn't argue when Louis insisted on a grave for her, even if it meant a deviation from their usual routine. The harsh reality of this world had already stolen so much from them; they needed something to mark their losses, to give them closure, even in the smallest way. Darcy deserved it. Louis didn't care about the infection that would rot in their memories. He cared about Darcy, and that was all that mattered.

When Louis arrived at the spot, he was met with an almost eerie silence. The rest of the camp was still in motion, the usual sounds of the fire, the distant murmurs of people preparing for the next phase of their lives in this hellscape. But here, by the open ground, it was just him, Darcy's lifeless form in his arms, and the unforgiving weight of reality that pressed down on him.

He set her gently on the ground, staring at her face for a long moment. She still looked like herself, like the little girl she had been, before all of this. The air was sharp, biting at his skin, but Louis barely noticed. He had become numb to everything that wasn't Darcy. His fingers trembled as he took a shovel, sinking it into the earth. It was harder than he had expected—each movement of the shovel felt like a betrayal. The ground was harder than usual, and the deeper he dug, the more it felt like he was digging into his own heart.

Behind him, he could hear the quiet footsteps of Liam, who had stayed close by, offering what little support he could without speaking. There was no need for words; the weight of what was happening was felt in every breath, in every action. It was a ritual now, one they all had to follow when they lost someone. But this one, this burial, was different.

Harry had come by during the process, his silhouette appearing at the edge of the small clearing. He said nothing at first, just watched, as Louis dug into the earth with an intensity that spoke of his desperation, his need for this to be done right, for Darcy to be remembered the way she deserved. Harry didn't approach him. He just stayed back, arms crossed, watching quietly as Louis worked.

After a few moments, Harry had turned to Liam, his voice low and concerned. "How's he holding up?"

Liam glanced over at Louis, who was lost in his task, his movements slow but deliberate. "As well as can be expected," Liam replied, his voice tinged with concern. "I'm worried about him. Losing her hit him harder than anything else, I think. He's been a rock for those kids... I just... I don't know how much longer he can keep it all together."

Harry nodded, his face drawn, his usual composure strained. "He's been through so much already. It's hard to know what to do for him."

Liam watched as Louis finished digging, as he carefully lowered Darcy's body into the shallow grave. There was something about the way Louis moved now—faster, more determined, like he needed to close this chapter of his life as quickly as possible. But Liam knew that wasn't possible. There was no closing, not really. There was just surviving.

When Louis was finished, he stood up slowly, wiping dirt from his hands. His face was expressionless, but the red around his eyes—the way his shoulders slumped—told a different story. He had just buried someone he loved, and the weight of it was unbearable.

He turned to Harry and Liam, his gaze flat, his voice hard. "I'm done. Done being weak. I'm going out on the runs from now on. Doesn't matter what the reason is, I'll go. Even if it's not for supplies."

There was a beat of silence. Harry didn't protest, didn't tell him he was wrong. It was as if Harry understood. As if he knew that Louis couldn't keep staying in the background, watching others fight while he sat on the sidelines. Louis was a fighter, and this world had taken enough from him. He wasn't going to sit idly by and wait for his next loss.

Harry simply nodded. He didn't need to say anything. Louis wasn't asking for permission. He was telling them what he needed to do to survive.

Liam looked at Harry, his expression heavy with concern. He knew the weight of this decision. He had seen the way Louis had thrown himself into his role as a teacher, how he had become their protector, their rock. And now, he was determined to throw himself into something else: the chaos of the outside world. The runs. The constant danger.

But it was the only way Louis knew how to cope. He couldn't stay in one place, couldn't let himself become consumed by grief. Not again.

"Just... be careful, okay?" Liam said softly, though it was clear that the words didn't mean much anymore. The world they were living in wasn't about being careful. It was about surviving, no matter the cost.

Louis nodded, his jaw clenched tightly. He was already thinking ahead, already preparing himself for what came next. He had to do this. For himself, for Darcy, for the kids he had to protect.

"I'll be fine," Louis said quietly, though there was no real conviction in his voice. It was a lie. He wasn't fine. He would never be fine again. But he couldn't afford to be anything else. Not now. Not in this world.

And with that, Louis turned away, heading back toward the base, his mind already focused on the next run, the next mission, the next step in a world that had no place for mercy, no room for weakness. He had buried Darcy. Now, he had to bury everything else.

Chapter Text

Louis had spent the past few weeks submerged in the rhythm of relentless training, almost to the point of obsession. He hadn't realized when teaching the kids had stopped being his priority. Eleanor, a young girl who had stepped in to take over, had been doing well, but Louis had been distant. His mind was consumed with the need to become something else—something stronger, something that wouldn't break when it mattered most. Every spare moment was spent pushing his body to its limits: lifting weights, running, practicing with the gun. He was determined to never be weak again, determined to never stand by helplessly while someone he loved died.

Zayn had been his constant companion during this time, guiding him through the motions, correcting his form, pushing him harder. There were days when Louis wanted to stop, to collapse, but Zayn wouldn't allow it. Zayn had become a silent force in his life, not asking questions, not offering comfort, just pushing Louis toward something better, something tougher. Louis had a newfound respect for him—a respect that went beyond just the physical. Zayn had been through hell too, and he understood that, sometimes, survival meant becoming something you didn't want to be.

Louis' muscles had grown from the constant strain, his biceps now taut and defined. He didn't care about looking good; he cared about being capable. His mind, though, had turned numb, like a thick fog had descended over it, blocking out any unnecessary thoughts, any emotions that could drag him down. He wasn't allowing himself to feel anymore. Feelings made you weak, and weakness made you dead.

But despite the changes in his body, something in him had shifted. It wasn't just his muscles or his shooting skills that had been sharpened—it was his mind. Louis was no longer the teacher, no longer the one who spent his nights reading to the kids or patching up scraped knees. He was a weapon now, a tool of survival. And if he was being honest, it scared him a little.

There was a quiet murmur throughout the camp as people got ready for the next run. Harry had been out on a scouting trip earlier that day, and he had found a farmhouse a few miles away that seemed abandoned. They were going to loot it for supplies. It wasn't an easy run—no run ever was—but it was necessary.

Louis was sitting on a log near the edge of the base, running through the motions of his routine in his head. He could hear the rustling behind him as Zayn and Marcus discussed the plan with Jackson. They were good people, the best of what was left. They were a family, as close as anyone could be in a world like this. But Louis still felt distant. The others had their own ways of coping—some of them had lost more than he ever could imagine—but for Louis, it was training. It was pushing himself beyond what was comfortable, what was normal, until his mind and body were nothing but machines.

When Harry came over, Louis didn't look up immediately. He didn't need to be told what was happening. He already knew. But Harry's presence, that quiet authority, made Louis lift his gaze. There was an unreadable look in Harry's eyes, something that Louis couldn't quite place. Maybe it was concern, maybe something else. But whatever it was, Louis didn't care.

"Ready for this?" Harry asked, his voice steady but laced with an underlying weight.

Louis didn't answer right away. He just stared at Harry for a moment, taking in the other man's features, the determination in his stance, and the weariness in his eyes. Harry had always carried the weight of leadership, always had that air of someone who had to keep it together no matter what. And right now, as much as Louis hated to admit it, he was thankful for that. Because Harry wasn't broken. Not like he was.

Louis didn't feel like talking. He didn't feel like offering up anything. Instead, he reached for the gun strapped to his belt, flicked the safety off, and checked the magazine. The sound of the click echoed in the silence between them, sharp and final.

"Good," Harry said, nodding, though he still seemed to be studying Louis. "Let's get moving then."

Louis didn't respond. He didn't need to. His mind was already on the run, already pushing aside everything that wasn't survival. He rose to his feet and walked toward the others, his boots crunching against the dirt. The camp had fallen into a hush as everyone prepared, knowing that these runs were becoming increasingly dangerous, knowing that every trip could be their last.

As the group gathered, Louis fell in line with the others. Zayn, Jackson, and Marcus were already talking strategy—who would take point, who would cover the rear, who would scout the area. It was all standard procedure now. Every person had their role, their responsibility. Louis didn't question where he fit in anymore. He didn't need to. His role was clear: survive.

The tension in the air was palpable as the gates of the base were opened, and the group started moving. The sun was dipping low in the sky, casting long shadows across the cracked, desolate ground. The wind was cold, and it felt like a warning, like nature itself knew what was coming. The roads were eerily quiet, the only sound being the occasional rustle of wind and the crunch of their footsteps. They were heading toward the farmhouse, and despite the eerie calm, Louis couldn't shake the nagging feeling in his gut that something was wrong. It had been too quiet for too long.

Harry moved ahead, leading the group, as usual, but there was a tension in his posture. Even Jackson, usually the one to joke around, was quiet. Zayn and Marcus were scanning the area, their eyes sharp, alert. Louis kept his hand on his gun, his eyes darting around, searching for any sign of movement. The further they went, the more uneasy Louis became. The wind picked up, biting at his skin, and the silence seemed to press in on him, suffocating.

They reached the farmhouse just as the last light of day was disappearing behind the horizon. The house looked abandoned, its windows boarded up, its door slightly ajar. It looked like it had been untouched for months—maybe longer. It should have been a relief. But to Louis, it only felt like the calm before the storm.

"We'll split up," Harry instructed, his voice low and steady. "Check for supplies. Be thorough. But stay sharp. We don't know if it's completely safe."

Louis nodded, his body tense, his fingers tightening around the grip of his gun. He wasn't afraid, not exactly. But something was wrong. Something was always wrong. And no matter how many runs he went on, no matter how much he trained, he would never be prepared enough. Not for this world.

Louis moved toward the back of the farmhouse, his eyes flicking to every shadow, every movement, every creak in the structure. He wasn't the leader here—Harry was. But Louis couldn't shake the feeling that something was waiting for them.

Louis walked around the back of the farmhouse, the sounds of his boots crunching on the dry earth the only thing that broke the silence. The barn stood ahead of him, a dark, foreboding structure that seemed to swallow the light. He glanced over his shoulder at Harry, catching his attention.

"I'll check the barn," Louis called out, his voice low but clear. Harry gave him a quick nod, his eyes lingering on Louis for a moment longer than usual before he turned his gaze back to the house.

Louis didn't wait for a response. He was used to being on his own, especially after everything that had happened. Harry was always looking out for him, but lately, Louis had begun to feel the weight of being treated like someone to protect rather than someone who could hold his own. It was something that bothered him more than he cared to admit.

As he made his way toward the barn, the air grew colder, the smell of rotting animals assaulting his senses. He quickly pulled his bandana up over his nose and mouth, trying to filter out the stench that lingered in the air like an unwanted reminder of how far the world had fallen.

The barn was quiet. Too quiet. Louis felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he cautiously stepped inside, his hand instinctively resting on the grip of his gun. Every creak of the old wood beneath his feet seemed to echo in the empty space. His eyes scanned the dim interior, looking for any signs of life—or death.

Then, as he ventured further in, the rustling came. Soft at first, but growing louder. Louis froze, his heart skipping a beat. He turned slowly, eyes narrowing as he searched the shadows of the barn, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. The rustling grew more frantic, more intense. Louis tightened his grip on his weapon, fingers itching to pull the trigger, but something held him back.

Something didn't feel right.

Before he could react, the rustling grew into a sudden movement, and Louis barely had time to raise his gun before a figure lunged at him from the shadows. The speed of the attack caught him off guard, and his breath caught in his throat as the stranger knocked him to the ground, pinning him beneath their weight. His gun was knocked out of his hand, and for a moment, all he could do was struggle beneath the pressure of the stranger's body.

The person was fast—faster than any infected Louis had ever encountered. The speed, the force. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen. Louis fought back, trying to wriggle free, but the stranger was strong, too strong. His heart raced as he struggled to get air into his lungs. He could feel the cold metal of a knife pressing against his throat, its sharp edge grazing his skin.

He opened his mouth to shout, to call out for help, but before the words could leave his lips, his vision cleared just enough for him to see the stranger's face.

His blood went cold.

"Lottie?" Louis croaked, his voice barely a whisper, the name slipping from his lips before he could fully comprehend the situation. His heart thundered in his chest, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

The woman above him froze at the sound of her name, her eyes—blue, wide, filled with something Louis couldn't quite place—locked onto his. She was staring at him as though she hadn't seen him in years.

Lottie. His baby sister.

Her long, dyed blonde hair hung loosely around her face, her brown roots showing through, her skin a shade darker from the sun than he remembered. Her eyes—those eyes—were the same. The same eyes that used to look up at him with trust and love, eyes that used to shine with curiosity and innocence. But now they were filled with something else. Something darker.

For a long, painful moment, they both just stared at each other, the weight of the situation crashing over Louis like a tidal wave. He wanted to reach out, to pull her into his arms and hold her the way he used to when they were younger, but he couldn't. Not like this.

Lottie pulled the knife away slowly, her gaze never leaving his face. Louis's heart broke a little as he saw the hardened look in her eyes—the same look he had seen in others after the world had crumbled, after everything had changed.

Harry's voice broke through the stillness, sharp and commanding.

"Louis!" Harry yelled from the doorway, his gun raised and aimed at Lottie. Louis's heart skipped a beat, but he quickly held his hands up in a calming gesture.

"No, Harry! Don't!" Louis called out, his voice filled with a desperate urgency.

Harry froze, his gun still pointed at Lottie, but confusion and hesitation flickering in his eyes.

"Why?" Harry asked, his voice low but demanding. "Why shouldn't I shoot?"

Louis didn't answer immediately. He couldn't. His heart was racing, the emotions flooding through him, making it hard to think straight. All he could do was stare at Lottie, who had now released him and was standing a few feet away, still holding the knife loosely in her hand.

The months of loss and pain, the fear of never seeing her again, the confusion of seeing her now—alive, but so different—had all crashed into him at once.

"Because..." Louis's voice faltered as he swallowed hard. "Because this is my sister."

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Harry's eyes shifted from Louis to Lottie, then back to Louis, his grip on the gun loosening slightly, but his expression still filled with doubt. He lowered it slowly but didn't fully lower his guard.

"Lottie," Louis whispered, his voice breaking. "I... I thought you were..." He couldn't finish the sentence. The words were too much.

Lottie didn't speak at first. She just stood there, her knife still loosely held in her hand, staring at Louis like she didn't recognize him. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke.

"I'm not the same person I used to be, Louis," she said, her voice cold, distant. "And neither are you."

Her words stung, but Louis couldn't argue. He could see it now—the changes in her, in herself, in all of them. The world they had known was gone, and the people who had survived were no longer the same. But she was still his sister. And he couldn't give up on her, not now, not when he had already lost so much.

"Please," Louis whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Please don't be like this."

For a moment, Lottie didn't respond. Then, in a movement too quick for Louis to react to, she turned and vanished back into the shadows of the barn, her footsteps fading away into the distance.

Louis's heart hammered in his chest, the weight of the moment crashing down on him. Harry stepped forward cautiously, his hand resting on Louis's shoulder, but Louis didn't move. He just stood there, staring at the empty space where Lottie had been, feeling the world around him crumble once more.

Louis's breath was ragged as he pulled away from Harry's grip, panic and frustration clawing at his chest. His heart raced as he ran out of the barn, calling out for Lottie, his voice echoing into the cold air. His feet pounded against the dirt, but she was gone—vanished into the shadows, leaving him with nothing but the fading sound of her footsteps and the pit of despair in his stomach.

"Lottie!" he yelled again, his voice hoarse, desperate.

Harry was close behind, but Louis didn't care. The overwhelming mix of emotions inside him—relief, anger, confusion, and heartbreak—was too much. His mind was spiraling. He couldn't believe she was alive. He couldn't believe she was right there, staring at him with eyes that no longer recognized him. And then she left. She had disappeared as quickly as she came, leaving him with more questions than answers.

Harry rushed up behind him, grabbing Louis's shoulder and slapping a hand over his mouth, forcing Louis to halt.

"Louis, you're being too loud!" Harry hissed, his voice low but urgent. "You'll attract the infected. We need to stay quiet!"

Louis shoved Harry's hand away, frustration and anger rising up like a tidal wave. His eyes burned with tears he refused to shed, his whole body trembling.

"You have no idea how I feel!" Louis spat, his voice cracking. "I thought she was dead, Harry. I thought she was gone, with the rest of them. And now—now I see her again, and she just leaves."

His chest heaved as he spoke, the weight of his words crashing down on him. Lottie, his sister, the girl he had watched grow up, had been lost to him. He had mourned her, believed she was gone forever. And now, when he finally found her, she was a stranger. A stranger who didn't even want him, didn't even want to be found.

Harry stood there, his lips pressed into a thin line, eyes shadowed with understanding. But he didn't argue. He didn't try to say anything. He just watched as Louis's pain bled out in every word, every movement.

Louis's breath was still unsteady, his heart still racing, but Harry didn't say anything to stop him. They both stood there for a moment—Louis, shattered and searching for answers, and Harry, just waiting for the storm to pass.

It didn't.

The sound of distant gunshots echoed from the direction of the farmhouse, sharp and jarring. Louis froze, his head snapping toward the sound.

"Shit," Harry muttered, immediately springing into action. "We need to go, now."

Louis didn't need any further prompting. His legs were already moving, driven by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, his thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. He ran as fast as he could toward the farmhouse, Harry by his side, both of them pushing forward with every ounce of energy they had.

As they reached the farmhouse, the scene before them was chaos. The door was wide open, and infected were spilling out from every direction. The yard was littered with bodies—both infected and human. Louis's eyes locked onto Zayn, who was struggling to fight off two infected, his knife slipping from his grasp as he backed into the doorway.

"Zayn!" Louis shouted, but Zayn didn't hear him, his focus entirely on the infected closing in around him.

"Over here!" Harry yelled, pulling Louis toward the house.

Inside, the situation was worse. The air was thick with the acrid stench of sweat and blood, the sound of screams mixing with the growls of the infected. Jackson was pinned against the wall, one of the infected biting into his arm, while another one lunged toward him from the side. He was struggling, but his movements were sluggish, his strength waning.

"Jackson!" Harry yelled, rushing to his side. Louis followed, his eyes scanning the room for anything that could help. He reached for a crowbar on the floor, his grip tightening around the handle.

Zayn was barely standing, his back against the wall as he tried to fend off a group of infected that had cornered him. He was doing everything he could to hold them back, but there were too many. His face was pale, beads of sweat forming at his brow as he swung his weapon with all the strength he could muster.

Louis didn't hesitate. He rushed toward Zayn, using the crowbar to bash the infected in the side of the head, knocking them back long enough for Zayn to recover and push forward. The two of them moved in tandem, swinging their makeshift weapons with precision, knocking the infected out one by one.

But the infected kept coming, relentless and frenzied.

"Where's Marcus?" Louis shouted, his eyes scanning the chaos.

"I don't know!" Zayn snapped, his voice strained as he slashed at another infected with his knife. "I haven't seen him—"

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from above, followed by the distinct sound of footsteps. Louis's eyes shot up to the second floor, where a figure appeared at the top of the stairs, silhouetted by the faint light from the windows.

It was Marcus.

But he wasn't running down to help. He was holding a rifle, and from the look of it, he was aiming it straight at them.

"Marcus!" Louis yelled, his heart sinking. "What the hell are you doing?"

Marcus didn't answer. Instead, he fired the rifle, the shot ringing out loud and clear. Louis barely had time to duck, the bullet flying just inches above his head.

"Get down!" Harry shouted, pulling Louis to the ground as gunfire echoed around them.

Louis scrambled to cover, his heart pounding in his chest as the reality of the situation set in. They were fighting for their lives, and Marcus—someone they had trusted, someone Louis had once considered a friend—was now a threat.

The infected were closing in, the room growing more crowded by the second, and Louis's mind raced. He could hear Jackson struggling, his voice hoarse as he yelled for help. Zayn was still fighting, but his movements were growing slower, more desperate.

Marcus fired again, his aim too precise. This time, the bullet grazed Zayn's side, and he let out a strangled gasp, stumbling backward.

"Zayn!" Louis shouted, rushing to his side. He grabbed Zayn by the arm, pulling him toward cover.

"I'm fine," Zayn managed, though his face was pale, his grip weakening on his knife. "But we need to move. Now."

Louis didn't argue. He helped Zayn to his feet, just as Jackson managed to free himself from the infected, pushing them away with every ounce of strength he had. Harry, still on the ground with Louis, was trying to stay calm, trying to think.

"Get to the back," Harry barked, his voice low and steady. "We can't stay here. We need to get out, now."

Louis hesitated for only a second before he nodded, turning to Zayn and Jackson.

"Move!" he shouted, and the four of them bolted toward the back of the farmhouse, the sound of gunfire and screams echoing behind them.

As they made their way through the chaos, Louis could feel his chest tighten, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. This wasn't just about survival anymore. It was about trust, about the people they once thought they could count on. And now, they were losing it all.

The truck rumbled over the uneven road, the sound of the engine the only noise that filled the tense silence. Harry kept his eyes on the road, his hands tight on the wheel, and Louis stared out the window, trying to push the images of what had just happened out of his mind.

"Well?" Louis asked, his voice hoarse from the raw emotions swirling inside of him. "What the fuck was that, Harry?"

Harry scoffed, glancing briefly at Louis. "Marcus was new," he said, voice tight with frustration. "He was alone when we found him. You know, just some lone survivor looking for a way to fit in. I bet he's been working with your... stranger of a sister all along, planned this whole damn thing."

Louis shook his head in disbelief. "That doesn't sound like Lottie. She wouldn't do this. She can't," he muttered, his stomach twisting into knots at the thought.

Harry's expression darkened. "People change, Louis," he said coldly. "I'm not saying I know what happened, but you saw it yourself. People will do anything to survive in this world."

Louis swallowed hard, the words settling in his chest like stones. His sister—his Lottie—couldn't have changed that much. She couldn't have. But the fear that gnawed at him told him something else. Maybe she had. Maybe the world had already taken so much from them that even Lottie couldn't hold onto her humanity.

The truck hit another bump, snapping him out of his thoughts. He turned his head, his eyes falling on Jackson. Jackson, who was pale, drenched in sweat, and shaking.

Jackson had been bitten—everywhere. The infected had attacked too quickly, and there had been too many. It wasn't like before, when they could escape. This time, the infected had overwhelmed them. Jackson had fought valiantly, but they'd got to him. Now, he sat on the edge of the truck, his body trembling.

Louis's stomach churned as he looked at his friend. Jackson had been with them since the early days. He had been there when everything fell apart. And now, he was done.

"Jackson," Louis started, voice thick with emotion, "you don't have to—"

Jackson raised a hand, stopping him. "I'm gone, Louis," he said quietly, his voice surprisingly calm, though pain was evident in every word. "It's too late for me."

"No," Louis said, shaking his head desperately. "We can still—"

"Louis, please," Jackson interrupted, his face strained with effort. "It's too late. I'm already dead." He pulled his shirt down, revealing the deep bite mark on his collarbone, an infection already spreading, the skin around it turning a sickening shade of purple. "Just... let me go, alright? Let me finish it myself."

Louis was silent for a moment, the weight of the situation crushing him. Jackson had always been a fighter, a strong one. If he was saying it was over, then it was. Louis could see it in his eyes. He could see the acceptance in Jackson's face, the resigned finality of it.

"Jackson..." Louis started again, but his voice faltered. He didn't know what to say.

Jackson's breathing was shallow as he forced himself to his feet, his hand reaching for the back of the truck. "Just... let me go, Louis," he rasped. "This is the only way."

Louis's chest tightened, and he barely had time to react as Jackson jumped out of the truck. He tried to call out, but the words caught in his throat. His heart pounded as he reached for him, but it was too late. Jackson had already disappeared into the night.

Harry slammed on the brakes, the truck skidding to a halt. Louis's eyes darted to where Jackson had gone, but it was too dark to see. There was nothing left but the echoes of Jackson's final decision, the knowledge that they had just lost another person. Louis clenched his fists, the anger and grief rising within him like a tidal wave, but there was nothing he could do.

"Shit," Harry muttered, voice low as he took a deep breath. He didn't say anything else. There was nothing else to say.

Zayn, who had been holding pressure to his side where he'd been shot, let out a strained breath. He was pale, blood seeping through his fingers. "Let's get back to camp," Zayn said, his voice thick with pain. "I'll be fine... I just need the doctor."

Louis glanced over at him, seeing the severity of Zayn's wound. Zayn wasn't going to make it if they didn't act fast. The bullet had gone deep, and blood was still dripping steadily.

"I'll carry you," Louis said, his voice hoarse.

Zayn shook his head, wincing as he tried to sit up. "No need. Just... just get me to Clara."

Louis nodded, but his gaze lingered on his friend. He could feel the weight of everything crashing down on him. They were losing people. One by one.

By the time they reached camp, Louis was exhausted—physically and emotionally. He was running on fumes, his body stiff and sore, but his mind was worse. He couldn't shake the images of Jackson, of Lottie, of the chaos that had unfolded at the farmhouse. Everything was spinning, and he didn't know how much longer he could keep holding it all together.

They rushed Zayn to the small medical tent, where Clara, their only doctor, was already waiting. Niall appeared, his face pale as he saw the state of things. He followed closely behind, his eyes wide with concern.

"What the hell happened?" Niall demanded, his voice shaking slightly as he looked at the bloodied Zayn.

Harry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Marcus led us into a trap," he said, voice tight with anger. "And he shot Zayn."

Niall's eyes flickered to Zayn, taking in the wound. "Shot?!" he exclaimed, his voice rising. "How the hell did that happen?"

Zayn's hand trembled as he took a seat, still holding pressure on the wound. He looked up at Niall, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion and pain. "It's nothing," he said, trying to reassure him. "It's a bullet wound. I'll survive."

Clara moved quickly, already assessing the situation. "It's bad," she muttered under her breath as she grabbed medical supplies. "But I can save him. I can patch him up. But we need to work fast."

Louis stepped back, his chest heavy as he watched Zayn being taken care of. The weight of what had happened—what they had lost—settled over him like a crushing weight. His eyes flicked back to Harry, who stood quietly beside him, staring at the ground.

"How long until it all ends, Harry?" Louis whispered, his voice breaking. "How long until it's all gone?"

Harry didn't answer immediately. He just stood there, his expression hard and unreadable. Finally, he spoke, voice low. "I don't know, Louis. I don't know."

And that was the terrifying truth. No one knew how much longer they had. No one knew how much longer they could survive in this world, with all the pain and loss that came with it. All they could do was keep going, one day at a time.

Chapter Text

Zayn had been patched up, the bullet having made a clean exit, which was a small miracle considering everything else that had gone wrong. His breathing had evened out, his body still weak, but stable. Niall sat beside him, their hands intertwined, fingers gripping like a lifeline.

"You scared the shit out of me," Niall murmured, his voice shaking slightly. He exhaled harshly, like he was trying to keep his emotions in check but failing miserably. "I thought—I thought you were gonna die on me, Zayn. And I don't—fuck, I don't know what I'd do if you—"

Zayn squeezed his hand weakly, eyes heavy with exhaustion but still carrying the same glint of stubborn resilience. "You can't get rid of me that easily," he murmured, the corner of his lips tilting into the smallest smirk. "Not even a bullet's enough."

Niall let out a broken chuckle, shaking his head before leaning closer, pressing his forehead to Zayn's temple for just a moment. "Asshole," Niall muttered. But his grip on Zayn's hand didn't loosen. Not even a little.

Zayn hummed softly, his body sinking further into the cot. He was asleep within minutes, his breathing steady. Niall stayed there, watching over him, his own hands trembling slightly from everything they'd gone through. But at least Zayn was still breathing. At least he was still here.

Louis found himself back in his classroom—the place he once called his own. It felt different now. Like it didn't belong to him anymore.

He sat down on the edge of his cot, the creaking springs barely registering in his ears. His fingers reached for the tattered bunny doll, pulling it into his lap. He held it there, running his thumb over the frayed fabric, staring at it like it held all the answers to the questions rattling in his head.

His sister was alive.

Lottie was alive.

And she had disappeared before he could even process it.

His mind kept replaying it over and over—the weight of her pinning him down, the blade against his throat, the way her eyes had gone wide with recognition before she bolted like he was a ghost. Like she had seen someone she never expected to see again.

Then there was Marcus. The betrayal still burned, twisting in his gut. He had trusted him, even if only slightly. He had let him in. And Marcus had shot Zayn. Had gotten Jackson killed. He had worked with someone else—maybe even Lottie. And that was what Louis couldn't wrap his head around.

Was Lottie part of this?

Would she really do something like this?

The door creaked, and Louis looked up just in time to see Harry step inside, his expression unreadable. He didn't ask to come in. He just walked over and sat down next to Louis on the cot, hands resting on his knees, body slightly hunched forward.

"You okay?" Harry asked.

Louis let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "I don't know."

Harry nodded, like that was the answer he was expecting. "We need to have a meeting in the morning," he said. "I know you keep saying that Lottie wouldn't do this, but everything is just adding up too coincidentally, Louis."

Louis clenched his jaw, gripping the bunny doll tighter. He hated it, but Harry was right.

"I know," he admitted, voice quieter now. "I just—I can't imagine her turning into this person."

Harry studied him for a long moment, his green eyes flickering with something unreadable. "She probably can't imagine her brother going from a shy teacher to a buff killing machine either," he said. "But people change."

Louis exhaled sharply, staring down at the doll again. There was silence between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy, though. Weighted with things left unsaid.

After a moment, Louis spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. "Lottie had a bunny doll just like this," he said, gripping it tighter. "That's why I was so drawn to it."

Harry's gaze softened slightly as he looked at the worn-out toy in Louis's hands. "How old would she be now?" he asked.

Louis thought for a second. It was strange, how time blurred together now. He hadn't celebrated birthdays in a year. Had barely even kept track of them. "She'd be twenty-one now."

Harry let out a short, dry chuckle. "Well," he said, "the world going to shit is one way to spend being twenty-one."

Louis huffed out something resembling a laugh, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah," he muttered.

Another pause. Another silence. But this one was different.

Harry shifted slightly, his hand moving without thinking. His fingers brushed over Louis's knee, just the smallest bit of contact, but enough for Louis to notice. Enough for Louis to feel it.

Harry hesitated.

It was barely anything—a fleeting moment. But it was there.

Louis turned his head, watching Harry closely. There was something in his eyes, something hesitant, something vulnerable. And Louis wasn't sure if he'd ever seen Harry like that before.

Harry let out a slow breath, his fingers twitching slightly before pulling away. His expression was carefully guarded, but his voice was softer than before when he spoke. "When you said I don't understand how you feel," Harry murmured, his tone lower now, almost like a confession, "I do understand."

Louis furrowed his brows slightly, his chest tightening at the way Harry said it.

Harry swallowed, looking away briefly before his eyes flicked back to Louis's. "I had a sister too."

It was the only thing he said. No elaboration. No explanation.

And then, before Louis could even respond, Harry stood up, his movements slow, his body tense. He turned toward the door, pausing for only a brief moment.

"Goodnight, Louis," he said softly.

And then he was gone.

Louis sat there, gripping the bunny doll, his heart pounding for reasons he didn't fully understand.

Louis felt like there was a knife digging into his heart, twisting with every breath he took. He had been so wrapped up in his own pain, his own grief, that he forgot—other people were going through things too. He wasn't the only person who had lost someone, who had been forced to endure unthinkable things since the world had gone to hell. And worse, he never thought he'd be the kind of person to spit out something harmful just because he was upset, but now he realized how cruel his words to Harry had been.

Harry did understand. He had understood the whole time.

Louis sat there, gripping the tattered bunny doll in his hands, replaying the look on Harry's face when he had said it—when he had admitted, so quietly, so painfully, I had a sister too. In the year he had known Harry, he had never seen him look like that. Never seen him so stripped of his usual rough exterior, so openly vulnerable. It had unsettled him, because he wasn't sure how to feel about it.

And now, as he sat there in the silence of his classroom-turned-bedroom, he regretted every part of that conversation. Regretted how quickly he had assumed Harry didn't get it. Because he did. Maybe more than anyone.

Just as he was preparing to sleep for the night, the door creaked open again, and Louis looked up to see Liam stepping inside. He hadn't seen much of him since they got back—hadn't seen much of anyone, really, aside from Zayn and Harry.

"Just wanted to check in," Liam said, voice soft as he stepped forward, shutting the door halfway behind him. "See how you're holding up."

Louis exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. "I don't know," he admitted, shaking his head. "Everything just feels like it's spiraling. First Lottie, then Marcus, then Jackson..." His voice wavered slightly at the end, but he forced himself to swallow it down.

Liam hesitated for only a second before sitting next to him on the cot, his posture relaxed but his eyes filled with concern. "Do you even wanna go on more runs now?" he asked carefully.

Louis let out a dry laugh, though it lacked any real humor. "It feels like I have to," he muttered.

Liam studied him for a moment before nodding, accepting the answer for what it was.

A long silence stretched between them, and Louis thought that maybe Liam would leave it at that, let him sit with his thoughts, but then Liam took a breath and said, "What exactly happened with Jackson?"

Louis felt his entire body tense. He fought against the lump forming in his throat, gripping the bunny doll a little tighter, as if it could ground him. He didn't know how to say it, didn't know how to put into words the horror of watching Jackson pull down his shirt, revealing the bites, the way he had barely given them a second to react before throwing himself off the truck.

But he tried.

"He was bit," Louis said, voice hoarse. "Everywhere. And then he just... threw himself off the truck."

Liam inhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "Shit," he muttered under his breath.

They sat in silence again, but this time it was heavier. Louis could feel it weighing down on them, suffocating.

And then Liam said something that made that knife in Louis's chest twist just a little deeper.

"I can't even imagine what Harry's feeling right now."

Louis frowned slightly, turning his head to look at Liam. "Why Harry?"

Liam gave him a look like he was surprised Louis didn't already know. "Because Jackson and Harry were together," he said simply. "Like, in a relationship."

Louis felt his stomach drop. His grip on the bunny doll loosened slightly.

He had no idea.

Harry had never mentioned it—not once. Louis had never noticed, never even suspected. But now that it had been said, pieces started clicking into place. The way Harry had gone quiet when Jackson had been bitten. The way he had refused to look at any of them as Jackson threw himself from the truck. The way he hadn't even hesitated to jump back into action, to carry Zayn and drive them back home like nothing had happened.

Harry had been in survival mode.

And Louis had been too caught up in his own emotions to even see it.

That knife in his chest twisted again, guilt creeping in like a slow, suffocating tide.

"Lou?" Liam's voice was gentle, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Louis blinked a few times, shaking his head slightly. "I didn't know," he muttered, voice distant. "I had no idea."

Liam nodded, his lips pressing into a tight line. "Harry doesn't talk about his shit," he said. "Not really. But yeah, they were together. They kept it quiet, I guess. But it was obvious if you were paying attention."

Louis swallowed, his throat dry. He hadn't been paying attention.

And now, for the second time that night, he felt like absolute shit.

Louis wasn't sure how he had managed to sleep, but now he found himself at the long wooden table, surrounded by the people he trusted the most. The air in the room was thick with tension, heavy with unspoken thoughts and unresolved emotions. The dim lantern hanging above them flickered slightly, casting uneven shadows against the walls. He glanced around—Harry, Liam, Niall, and Zayn, who, despite still recovering from his gunshot wound, was determined to be at this meeting. His arm was bandaged tightly, and he looked pale, but his eyes were sharp, refusing to show any weakness.

This wasn't the first time the five of them had sat like this.

When they had first taken over this place, turning it into their camp, Harry had suggested they form a council of sorts—people who would oversee the important decisions, discuss inventory, rationing for the winter, and plan their runs. They weren't leaders, not exactly, but they were the ones people looked up to, the ones others turned to when shit hit the fan. It had only been natural for the five of them to fill those roles.

Now, though, the weight of responsibility felt heavier than ever.

Harry was the first to speak, his voice even but firm. "Alright," he said, leaning forward, his hands clasped together on the table. "Let's go over what happened." His green eyes flickered toward Louis for a moment, but Louis didn't meet them, too busy twirling the blade of his knife against the wooden table, the metal making a soft scraping noise.

Harry exhaled through his nose before continuing. "Louis and I were clearing the barn. Everything seemed normal—until it wasn't. We heard gunshots from the house. We ran back inside, and that's when everything went to shit. Infected, too many of them. Marcus, Jackson, and Zayn were already fighting them off when we got there."

Zayn, still looking exhausted, shifted in his seat and took over. "Marcus was acting weird from the start," he said, his voice rough but steady. "He kept looking out the windows, real fidgety, like he was waiting for something. Then out of nowhere, the front door burst open, and they came pouring in. He didn't even try to fight—just fucking stood there while the rest of us struggled." Zayn's jaw tightened, his good hand curling into a fist on the table. "I was covering Jackson's back, and the next thing I knew, I was on the ground, bleeding. Marcus fucking shot me, and then he was gone."

A heavy silence settled over them.

Louis hardly heard anything else. He just kept spinning his knife, watching the blade catch the dim light. It wasn't until Harry said her name that his fingers froze.

"Lottie."

Louis's head snapped up.

Harry leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. "Look, I don't know what's going on here," he said carefully. "But it's too much of a coincidence. Marcus knew something. He knew when to let the infected in. And then your sister—"

"Allegedly," Niall cut in, raising an eyebrow. "We don't know for sure she's involved."

Harry turned to Niall, unamused. "Come on. You think it's a coincidence that Marcus, some random guy we took in, suddenly betrays us, and at the same time, Louis's supposedly-dead sister shows up out of nowhere?"

Louis clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the knife handle.

"Okay, but for what?" Niall asked, frowning. "Why set a trap like that? What would they get out of it?"

Louis finally spoke, his voice low but steady. "Two things," he said. "Resources. Or a new base."

The room went silent again.

Harry looked at him, almost surprised that he had spoken, like he had expected Louis to keep quiet and sulk the entire meeting. "Exactly," he said, nodding. "They could be part of a bigger group. Maybe they were testing us, seeing how easy it would be to overrun us. Maybe they planned to take what we had, kill us all, and move in."

Niall exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Jesus."

Liam, who had been silent until now, finally spoke up. "We don't know for sure if that's what they're after," he said. "But we can't ignore the possibility. We need to be prepared."

Louis barely heard them. His mind was still stuck on the way Harry had said your sister like she was a stranger, like she was a threat. Maybe she was. He didn't know.

Niall turned to him, his expression unreadable. "Louis," he said slowly. "You told me before that your sisters were dead."

Louis swallowed, glancing down at the knife in his hand before setting it flat on the table. He looked back up at them. "I thought she was," he admitted. His voice felt foreign to him, raw and tired. "But clearly, she's not."

The weight of those words settled over them.

Harry watched him for a long moment before exhaling, rubbing a hand over his face. "Then we have a problem," he muttered.

Louis didn't disagree.

The room was silent for a long time after Louis admitted that Lottie was alive. No one knew what to say next, but they all knew one thing—things were about to change.

Harry leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. His voice was firm, but there was an edge of exhaustion beneath it. "We need to think about moving," he said. "Finding a new base."

Niall scoffed, shaking his head. "Harry, we have too many children here. Too many elderly. We can't just pack up and leave."

Harry's jaw tightened. "That's exactly why we should leave," he argued. "Marcus knows this place. If he's part of something bigger, if they're planning something, he's the one who's going to lead them right fucking here. We're sitting ducks."

Zayn shifted uncomfortably in his chair, still pressing his bandaged arm against his chest. "Harry's got a point," he muttered. "We don't know when—or if—they're coming. But if they are, we're not ready for it. We need a plan."

Liam exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. "We can reinforce the walls. Make it harder for anyone to get in."

Harry shook his head. "You think that'll stop them? You think that'll stop a whole group with guns, people who have been scouting us out? You think Marcus hasn't already told them how we work, where our weak spots are?"

No one had an answer to that.

Niall sighed, rubbing his temples. "We don't even know where we'd go," he muttered. "Winter's coming, Harry. Moving in the cold is a death sentence."

Harry let out a bitter laugh. "Staying here might be a death sentence too," he shot back. "I'm not saying we leave tomorrow. But we need to start looking. We need to have a backup plan."

The conversation went in circles for another ten minutes before it was clear they weren't going to agree on anything tonight.

"Meeting's over," Harry muttered, pushing himself up from his chair. "We'll figure it out later."

Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone slowly started filing out. Zayn was the last to stand, moving sluggishly as Niall wrapped an arm around him to help him walk back to his cot. Louis, however, didn't move. He stayed at the table, staring blankly at the scratched wood, his fingers tracing over the grooves absentmindedly. His mind was still stuck in the barn, on the way Lottie had looked at him, on the moment she vanished into thin air.

Harry was halfway to the door when he paused, glancing over his shoulder. Louis hadn't moved an inch. He hesitated before walking back, resting a hand on Louis's shoulder.

Louis flinched, shrugging him off immediately.

Harry didn't pull away at first, just watching him carefully. "You good?"

Louis let out a slow breath before finally speaking. "Why didn't you say anything?" His voice was quiet, but there was a weight to it.

Harry frowned. "About what?"

Louis's grip tightened on the edge of the table. "About you and Jackson."

Harry was silent for a moment before shrugging. "It was obvious if anyone paid attention," he said simply.

Louis clenched his jaw. He didn't know why that response bothered him so much. Maybe it was because he hadn't noticed. He had been so wrapped up in his own pain, his own guilt, that he had never stopped to consider that Harry had lost someone too. And now Jackson was gone, and Harry was just... carrying on.

Louis swallowed, suddenly feeling like he didn't know the man standing across from him at all. "Are you okay?"

Harry let out a short, humorless laugh. "What do you think?"

Louis didn't answer.

Harry exhaled, raking a hand through his curls. "I'll be fine," he said, but his voice was dull, empty. He met Louis's eyes then, and there was something in his gaze that made Louis's stomach twist. "I have to be fine," Harry muttered. "Because if I'm not, then I'm weak. And weakness gets you killed."

Before Harry could step out of the room, Louis spoke up, his voice firm but carrying an edge of desperation.

"Let me talk to Lottie."

Harry froze mid-step, his back still turned to Louis. For a moment, there was only silence, then a slow, exhausted exhale. He turned around, his expression unreadable.

"And what exactly is that gonna do?" His tone wasn't mocking, but it wasn't hopeful either. It was laced with something between skepticism and exhaustion, like he had already convinced himself that Louis's plan was a waste of time.

Louis sat up straighter, gripping the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. "She's my sister, Harry. I have to at least try." His voice wavered slightly at the end, but he forced himself to stay steady. "There's still a part of her in there that remembers who she was. She wouldn't just—just become someone else overnight."

Harry scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. "People change, Louis."

Louis met his eyes, unwavering. "I know that. But I can't believe she'd change that much. I can't believe she'd let herself become someone who would hurt people."

Harry studied him for a long moment. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he wanted to argue, but something about the way Louis was looking at him made him hesitate.

Louis pressed on. "We can scout. We can figure out where their camp is. I can talk to her—really talk to her. Maybe I can get through to her, buy us some time before anything worse happens."

For a second, Harry didn't say anything. He just stared at Louis, his brows furrowed, his lips slightly parted like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. And then, something in his posture shifted.

It was subtle—just a small tilt of his head, the way his shoulders relaxed slightly, how his fingers flexed at his sides. His expression softened in a way Louis had never seen before, like some invisible wall between them had cracked just a little.

Harry took a step closer. Then another. His movements were hesitant, slow, deliberate. Like he wasn't sure if he should be getting closer but was doing it anyway.

Louis swallowed.

Harry's eyes searched his, and for the first time in a long time, there was something in them that wasn't just hardened steel and exhaustion. There was something else there—something softer.

"When do you wanna try?" Harry asked, his voice quieter this time, more careful.

Louis barely had to think. "At first light. The sooner we leave, the better chance we have to buy time."

Harry nodded, biting his lip as he looked down at the floor, lost in thought.

Louis could see the gears turning in his head, could see the conflict in his expression. Harry wasn't the type to let emotions cloud his judgment, wasn't the type to cling to hope when everything else told him not to. But Louis wasn't backing down from this, and maybe—just maybe—Harry could see that.

After a long pause, Harry exhaled sharply through his nose. "Fine," he murmured. "We leave at first light."

Louis barely had time to feel relieved before Harry took another step back, his body tense like he had just realized how close he had gotten. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked off, leaving Louis sitting alone in the dimly lit room.

Tomorrow, they would go.

Tomorrow, Louis would find Lottie.

And tomorrow, he would finally get his answers.

Chapter Text

The morning was cold. A bitter chill clung to the air, sharp and unforgiving, the kind that cut through fabric and stung the skin. It would likely fade by afternoon, but for now, it made everything feel heavier, slower.

Louis adjusted the strap of his pack, double-checking the contents. A couple of ration packs, a bottle of water, extra ammo, and the tattered map they had been marking potential locations on. He threw an old denim jacket over himself, the fabric worn but still sturdy. His knife sat securely in his belt, his gun holstered tightly to his thigh.

When he stepped out of the classroom, the first thing he saw was Harry standing at the front gate. Dressed in all black—leather jacket over his t-shirt, a beanie pulled over his curls—he looked like he belonged in another life entirely. Something before this, something normal. But the rifle slung over his back, the way his stance was firm and ready, was a stark reminder of the world they lived in now.

Harry was talking to Niall, his voice low but firm. "Nobody leaves while we're gone. You've got enough rations to last, and we might be gone a couple of days—maybe more if shit goes sideways."

Niall nodded, the tension in his face clear. "You know I don't like when you say if like that."

Harry exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "Not like I can promise it won't."

Before Niall could argue, Liam approached, his gaze shifting between the two of them. "Keep an eye on Louis," he told Harry, his voice quiet but insistent.

Harry didn't respond right away. His green eyes flickered toward Louis, who was now walking up to them. Louis could feel Harry's gaze scan over him quickly, a fleeting but assessing glance before he turned back to Liam with a small nod.

Louis ignored the look, instead focusing on Harry. "You ready?"

Harry adjusted his bag, gripping the strap. "Yeah," he said, then turned to the guy on watch. "Open up the gate."

The heavy creaking of metal filled the air as the gate groaned open, revealing the landscape beyond their walls. The morning fog still clung to the trees, thick and unsettling. The road ahead was long, leading them into uncertainty, into the unknown.

Liam placed a hand on Louis's shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. "Be careful."

Louis smirked, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Always am."

He wasn't sure if Liam believed that, but he nodded anyway, stepping back as the two of them moved forward, out into the cold, open world.

The gate shut behind them with a finality that settled in Louis's chest.

The truck rumbled over the cracked pavement, the sound of the engine humming steadily as they pushed forward. The bags at Louis's feet shifted slightly every time the truck hit a bump, but neither of them paid much attention to it.

Harry's hands gripped the wheel, his fingers tapping idly against the leather as his gaze flicked between the road and the trees lining the horizon. "Got any idea where Lottie's camp might be?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Louis reached into his pack, pulling out the folded map. The edges were worn, creased from too many times being opened and closed, traced over with hopeful ideas and abandoned plans. He spread it out against his lap, running a finger over the places he had thought about the night before.

"Here," Louis said, pointing to a spot just south of their own camp. "This was an old hunting lodge before everything went to hell. Secluded, got access to water, plenty of places to set up defenses."

Harry gave a small nod, glancing at it briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "And this one?" he asked, pointing at another mark near the outskirts of an old town.

Louis exhaled. "Used to be a fire station. If they have numbers, they might have taken over a place with solid defenses already built in."

Harry didn't say anything at first, just hummed lowly in thought before finally asking, "Did you even sleep last night?"

"Got a couple of hours," Louis muttered, folding the map back up and stuffing it into his jacket.

Harry didn't press further. He knew what lack of sleep looked like—hell, he was probably just as guilty of it.

The road stretched ahead of them, the wooded area slowly giving way to open countryside. Once-thriving fields of crops now stood overgrown and lifeless, tangled with weeds and dried stalks. Among them, singular infected roamed aimlessly, their movements slow and lost, their sunken eyes scanning nothing.

Louis stared out the window, watching them. He found himself wondering about them—not just what they had become, but who they were before. The thought made his stomach turn.

"Do you think they remember anything?" he asked suddenly.

Harry flicked his gaze toward him. "What?"

Louis nodded toward the infected, still watching them as they drove past. "Like... do you think they remember their name? Their life? Or is there just... nothing left?"

Harry's jaw tightened slightly. He was quiet for a moment before answering, "It's unlikely. Whatever this virus is, it takes over the brain. Memory's probably wiped out completely."

Louis kept staring out the window, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh.

After a moment, he spoke again, quieter this time. "If I ever turn, kill me. Don't let me wander around like that, not knowing who I am."

Harry inhaled sharply through his nose, gripping the wheel a little tighter. He glanced at Louis, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

"Let's just hope you don't get bit," he said finally, voice low but firm. "Because I really don't want to kill you."

Louis turned to look at him then, eyes searching, but Harry didn't meet his gaze. He just kept driving, jaw tight, fingers tense, like the thought of it had unsettled something deep inside him.

For the first time in a long time, Louis felt the weight of someone else caring.

The truck rolled on, the tires crunching over cracked asphalt as they pushed further into the countryside. The silence between them felt heavier now, thick with something neither of them wanted to name.

Louis watched the landscape pass by, the morning frost still clinging to patches of dead grass, the infected growing fewer and farther between the deeper they went. His thoughts still lingered on their earlier conversation, about the infected, about who they once were.

"Where were you?" Louis asked suddenly, turning to face Harry. "When everything happened?"

Harry's hands flexed around the steering wheel, his knuckles briefly turning white before he released his grip slightly. His jaw tensed, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. For a second, Louis thought he wasn't going to answer, but then Harry exhaled through his nose and spoke.

"I was at work," he said, his voice steady but distant. "Got called out to a domestic violence situation. Woman attacking her husband."

Louis frowned, leaning in slightly, listening.

"When we got there," Harry continued, his fingers tightening again around the wheel, "we found her on top of him. Biting him. Clawing at him. It was—it was brutal. There was so much blood, and she wasn't responding to anything we said. Just—" He lifted one hand off the wheel briefly, fingers twitching like they were recalling the sight. "—tearing into him like an animal."

Louis swallowed, his stomach twisting. "And the guy?"

Harry let out a dry, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "He got up."

Louis's brows knitted together. "Wait—after she was done attacking him?"

Harry nodded, his eyes still locked on the road ahead, but there was something distant in them now, like he was watching the memory play out right in front of him.

"He just stood up, like nothing happened. But his eyes were—hollow. Like there was nothing left in him," Harry said, his voice quieter now. "I didn't understand what was happening. No one did. We tried everything—orders, restraints—but they wouldn't stop. Wouldn't respond."

Louis sat there, barely breathing, as Harry's voice dropped even lower.

"I had to shoot them," he said finally, the weight of those words pressing down like a hammer. "I was still a rookie. It was my first time even pointing a gun at someone."

Louis felt a sinking feeling in his chest. He didn't need to ask what Harry meant by them. But before he could stop himself, he did anyway.

"Harry," he said carefully, "who were they?"

Harry's fingers clenched around the wheel again, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. His jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with something raw. Then, barely above a whisper, he said:

"My sister and her husband."

Louis's breath caught. The weight of the confession crashed over him like a wave.

For a moment, all he could do was stare at Harry, at the way his shoulders seemed a little more rigid now, the way his mouth pressed into a hard line, like he was fighting something back.

"Shit," Louis whispered. "Harry, I—I'm so sorry."

He hesitated for only a second before reaching over, his fingers pressing lightly against Harry's arm. The muscle beneath his touch was tense, but Harry didn't pull away.

For the first time, Louis could see it—the walls Harry had spent the past year building up, the carefully crafted mask of indifference, the hardened exterior that kept everyone at arm's length.

But now, sitting next to him, feeling the way Harry's arm remained stiff under his touch, Louis realized something else.

Harry wasn't unfeeling. He wasn't cold.

He was just someone who had to survive a nightmare—and he had been carrying it alone ever since.

The silence between them felt different now—heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was the weight of things left unsaid, of memories neither of them wanted to relive but couldn't escape from.

Louis let out a breath, his fingers curling around the edge of his seat. "I'm sorry."

Harry glanced at him. "For what?"

"For what I said that night," Louis clarified, shifting slightly to face him more. "For saying you wouldn't understand how I felt." He swallowed, his voice quieter now. "That was out of line."

Harry was quiet for a moment before shrugging. "It's fine." His grip on the wheel tightened slightly, but his tone was indifferent, like it didn't matter. "I'm over it."

Louis could tell that was a lie. But before he could say anything else, Harry exhaled sharply and changed the subject.

"What about you?" he asked, his voice a little softer now. "Where were you when everything happened?"

Louis hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. He hadn't talked about it much, not in detail. It wasn't something he wanted to relive, but now, after what Harry had just told him, it felt... unfair to keep it to himself.

"I was in my classroom," Louis finally said. His voice was steady, but he felt the weight of the memory pressing down on him. "I was teaching a lesson—math, I think. Something boring. The kids were restless, ready for the day to be over."

A small, humorless smile flickered across his face before disappearing just as quickly.

"Then we heard it. Screaming. Gunfire. It was coming from outside." His fingers twitched slightly, like he could still feel the chalk dust on them, the way his hands trembled as he put the piece down and turned toward the door.

"I did what I was trained to do. Locked the door, got the kids away from the windows. Treated it like a shooter situation, because that's what I thought it was." His jaw clenched. "And for a minute, I thought we were okay. That we just had to wait it out."

Harry stayed quiet, his eyes flickering toward Louis briefly before returning to the road.

"But then," Louis continued, his voice hollow now, "something crashed through the window."

The words felt heavy in his mouth. His chest tightened at the memory, at the sharp, deafening sound of shattering glass, at the way the kids screamed as something inhuman launched itself into the room.

Louis took in a shaky breath. "It was one of them. An infected." His fingers curled into fists against his thighs. "It went straight for the closest kid. Tore through her like she was nothing. The others were screaming, trying to get away, but there was nowhere to go. The door was still locked."

Harry was gripping the steering wheel tightly now, his jaw tense.

Louis let out a breath, shaking his head. "I panicked. I—" He closed his eyes for a second. "I unlocked the door. Slipped out. And I ran."

His voice cracked on the last word.

Harry's brows furrowed, and he finally looked over at him. "You ran?"

Louis let out a bitter laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Yeah," he whispered. "I ran." His hands were shaking slightly now, but he didn't try to hide it. He forced himself to keep going. "The kids—they were begging me to let them out. They were banging on the door, crying. But I just—I kept running."

His throat felt tight. He didn't realize he was gripping his knee so hard until his fingers started to ache. "I should've saved some of them," he said, barely above a whisper. "I should've done something. But I didn't know what to do."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Harry let out a slow breath, his gaze dark and unreadable as he stared at the road ahead. Then, quietly, he said, "That must have been really hard. Leaving them like that."

Louis let out a small, broken laugh. "Yeah," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "You could say that."

For a while, neither of them said anything. The sound of the truck humming along the road was the only thing filling the space between them.

Then, after what felt like forever, Harry finally spoke again.

"I had a partner," he said. His voice was low, almost like he didn't want to say it out loud. "On the force."

Louis looked at him. "Yeah?"

Harry nodded, gripping the wheel tighter. "Good guy. Used to say he never wanted kids, but he had two little girls. Used to show me pictures of them every chance he got." His throat bobbed. "The day everything started, we got separated. I told him I'd find him later. That we'd meet at the station."

Louis didn't have to ask how that turned out.

Harry swallowed, his eyes distant. "I still think about that sometimes," he admitted. "How I should've stayed with him."

Louis watched him for a moment before exhaling softly. "Yeah," he said. "Me too."

Neither of them said anything after that.

But somehow, in the quiet, it felt like they understood each other better than ever before.

Chapter Text

The woods were dense, the trees standing tall and skeletal against the grey morning light. The ground was littered with dried leaves and twigs, the occasional gust of wind rustling through the branches above them. The cold still clung to the air, but it wasn't unbearable—not yet.

Harry slowed the truck as they reached a thick, overgrown patch of trees just outside the first marked location on Louis' map. He carefully maneuvered the vehicle behind a bush-covered slope, the foliage offering some natural concealment. The engine cut off, leaving behind an eerie silence that felt louder than the truck itself.

They both grabbed their bags and climbed out, scanning the area as they made their way deeper into the woods. The further they went, the more isolated it felt. No movement, no sounds—just them and the distant chirping of birds.

After a few minutes of walking, Louis spotted a small clearing that was just big enough for them to set up without being too exposed. He dropped his bag onto the ground and immediately started rummaging through it.

Harry sat on a fallen log nearby, watching as Louis pulled out a spool of wire and a handful of empty tin cans he had tucked away. He furrowed his brows, pulling out his lighter as he gathered some wood for a fire.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked as he struck the lighter, the flame flickering against the cold air.

Louis was threading the wire between two trees, his fingers working quickly and with practiced ease. "Setting up a perimeter." He glanced up briefly before returning his focus to the task. "If infected wander too close, they'll hit the wire and knock into the cans. We'll hear 'em before they get too close."

Harry let out a low hum of approval, watching the fire catch and grow. He added a few more sticks, warming his hands as the flames crackled to life.

"That's smart," he admitted, glancing back at Louis. "Never thought of that before."

Louis gave a small smirk as he tied off the last bit of wire. "Boy Scouts," he said simply. "It was one of those random things they taught us. Never thought it'd actually come in handy."

Harry huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. "You, a Boy Scout?"

Louis raised a brow, dusting off his hands as he stepped back to survey his work. "What? Surprised?"

"A little."

Louis scoffed, grabbing his sleeping bag and setting it up near the fire. "I was a good kid once."

Harry snorted, pulling out a can of beans from his bag and using his knife to pry it open. "I find that hard to believe."

Louis gave him a look but didn't argue. He was too tired to.

Harry poured the beans into a dented camping pot, setting it over the fire. The smell of food, even just something as simple as beans, made Louis' stomach stir with hunger. He shifted, stretching his legs out and resting his elbows on his knees.

"You hungry?" Harry asked, stirring the beans lazily with the end of his knife.

Louis nodded. "Yeah. Starving."

Harry handed him a spoon as he let the beans heat up. The fire flickered between them, casting shadows across their faces. It felt strangely normal, the two of them sitting by the fire, waiting for food, as if the world outside hadn't fallen apart.

Louis watched the flames dance for a moment before his thoughts drifted. It didn't take long before he broke the silence.

"So," he started, glancing at Harry. "You and Jackson."

Harry's stirring slowed slightly, but he didn't look up. "What about us?"

Louis shrugged, shifting slightly on the ground. "Were you together before all this?"

Harry sighed through his nose, finally looking up at Louis. "No," he admitted. "But... the feelings were there." He paused, watching as the beans bubbled. "We worked together. Spent a lot of time together. But it wasn't until we were both trying to build that goddamn wall that we really got close."

Louis nodded slowly. "And then?"

Harry exhaled, leaning back slightly. "And then things just... happened." He let out a humorless chuckle. "Not exactly a great world to start something new in."

Louis tilted his head, watching Harry closely. There was something guarded in his expression, something hesitant.

"So you're gay, then?" Louis asked, his tone neutral.

Harry gave him a sideways glance before nodding. "Yeah." He scraped his spoon along the side of the pot absentmindedly. "Been out since I was sixteen."

Louis hummed, processing that. "Jackson?"

Harry's expression flickered slightly, his eyes dipping back down. "He wasn't," he said. "At least, not publicly." He shook his head, scoffing lightly. "He had this whole idea of what people expected of him. Family, work. Didn't think he could be both."

Louis watched him, studying the way Harry's jaw tensed, the way his fingers tightened slightly around the handle of the pot. He wasn't just talking about Jackson.

Louis stared into the fire, watching the way the flames curled around the burning wood, the embers glowing orange against the darkening sky. He let the silence stretch between them for a moment before finally speaking, his voice quieter than before.

"Do you even think love is worth it anymore?" he asked, not looking at Harry. "In a world like this, where people are barely getting by?"

Harry shifted, setting the pot more securely on the rock beside the fire before leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He thought about it for a second, tilting his head as he gazed into the flames.

"If you love someone enough," he said finally, "then yeah, it's worth it." He picked at the frayed edge of his sleeve. "It makes surviving a little more bearable."

Louis glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "Did you love Jackson?"

Harry exhaled through his nose, rolling his lips together in thought before shaking his head slightly. "I really liked him," he admitted. "Enough to want to protect him. Enough to try and make something work, even when everything was against us." He paused, staring into the flames as if they might give him some kind of answer. "But things got tense before he died. I started realizing I didn't love him as much as I thought I did." He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Still... it was nice, having that. Something to hold onto."

Louis hummed in understanding, nodding a little. He didn't press for more, sensing there wasn't much else to say.

Harry grabbed the pot, lifting it away from the fire carefully before handing it over to Louis. "Here, eat before it gets cold."

Louis took it, grabbing his spoon and digging into the beans. They were warm, soft, a little bland but better than nothing. He took a bite, chewing slowly, before holding the pot back out for Harry to take some. They passed it back and forth, taking turns eating in silence until Louis spoke again.

"I just don't see it happening for me," he admitted, shrugging one shoulder. "Not in times like this."

Harry quirked a brow, taking another bite. "What do you mean?"

Louis scoffed lightly, setting his spoon down inside the pot. "I mean, look at us," he said, motioning vaguely between them. "We're bloody half the time, stressed, exhausted. We probably stink so bad that the thought of getting close to anyone—let alone kissing them—is enough to make someone gag."

Harry barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "It's not all that bad."

Louis shot him a skeptical look. "Really?"

Harry smirked, shrugging. "You get used to it."

Louis scoffed again, shaking his head before staring back into the fire, watching the flames dance.

Harry stretched his legs out, leaning back on his hands as he smirked at Louis. "Well, maybe something will happen between you and Eleanor," he said, his voice light but teasing.

Louis barely had time to process the words before he nearly choked on the last bite of beans. He coughed, shaking his head, before managing to get out, "Eleanor? Are you kidding me?"

Harry grinned, clearly entertained by his reaction. "What? She's always looking at you like you're some kind of godsend. Like you're the only thing keeping her from losing it completely."

Louis groaned, rubbing his hand over his face. "She's too young," he muttered. "And, uh... not my type."

Harry, still grinning, tilted his head. "Oh yeah? What is your type, then?"

Louis shot him an unimpressed look. "Are you seriously trying to play matchmaker in the apocalypse?"

Harry chuckled. "Maybe," he admitted, taking the pot from Louis and scraping up the last bit of beans with his spoon. "Come on, tell me. What's your type, then?"

Louis sighed, shaking his head before saying casually, "Not a girl, that's for sure."

Harry, mid-bite, paused. His eyebrows twitched upward in a brief moment of surprise before he quickly schooled his expression. He just nodded, chewing and swallowing his food before responding, "Huh."

Louis narrowed his eyes at him. "What's that face for?"

Harry blinked at him, looking slightly caught off guard. "What face?"

"The face you just made," Louis said, pointing at him. "You looked a little... I dunno, shocked or something."

Harry shook his head, setting the empty pot down beside the fire. "It's nothing."

Louis scoffed. "It's not nothing. What, you didn't expect me to be gay?"

Harry hesitated, then shrugged. "I mean... no, I guess not. You just—" He waved a hand vaguely in Louis's direction. "You didn't really give off gay vibes."

Louis snorted. "That's because I've had to kill more dead people than I can count and I don't exactly have time to be twirling around in a rainbow flag."

Harry chuckled at that, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

"I was different before all of this," Louis admitted, looking down at his hands. "I was... I dunno. More myself, I guess. More flamboyant. I think you would've liked me better back then."

Harry tilted his head slightly, considering him. "I dunno," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I kind of like you now."

Louis felt something unfamiliar twist in his chest but ignored it, glancing back at the fire instead.

The sun had almost completely disappeared behind the trees, the sky painted in dark shades of purple and orange. The woods around them were eerily silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. It was unsettling, but also oddly peaceful. A rare moment of quiet in a world that rarely allowed it.

Harry adjusted his rifle in his lap as he leaned against the rough bark of a tree, his legs stretched out in front of him. His body ached from the long drive and the tension that had been sitting heavy in his shoulders since they left camp, but he ignored it. He was used to it by now.

"You sure you don't wanna just sleep?" Louis asked from where he was setting up his sleeping bag a few feet away. "I set up the trip wires—if anything comes close, we'll hear it."

Harry shook his head. "I feel safer this way," he muttered, watching as Louis simply nodded in response before settling onto his back, his arm resting over his eyes.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled softly between them, casting a warm glow over Louis's face. Harry found himself watching him, unable to help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. It was a rare sight—Louis, still and quiet, not on edge, not gripping a weapon like his life depended on it. Just... existing for a moment.

Then Louis spoke, his voice slightly muffled under his arm. "Do you really think moving to a new camp is a good idea?"

Harry tore his eyes away, staring into the fire as he thought about it. He exhaled slowly before answering. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "But I'm trying to do what's best for our people."

There was a beat of silence, then a soft huff of amusement from Louis. "You're a good guy, Harry," he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion but still sincere. "I trust your judgment."

And just like that, he went quiet, his breathing slowly evening out as he drifted off to sleep.

But Harry—Harry stayed still, blinking at the fire, his mind suddenly miles away.

A good guy.

He didn't hear those words often. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he believed them anymore. He had been called a leader, a protector, a fighter—but good? That word felt foreign, something distant from who he had become.

Because good guys didn't have blood on their hands. Good guys didn't kill without hesitation. Good guys didn't make choices that got people hurt, that got people killed.

But Louis had said it so easily, so certainly, like it wasn't even a question.

Harry swallowed thickly, shifting his rifle slightly in his lap. He wasn't sure why it made his chest feel tight, why it made something unfamiliar twist in his stomach. Maybe because, for the first time in a long time, he wanted to believe it.

Even if he wasn't sure if he ever could.

The night stretched on, long and restless. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting dim, flickering shadows along the forest floor. The trees swayed with a faint wind, their rustling leaves blending with the distant sounds of animals moving through the underbrush. A howl, far off in the distance. A rustle in the grass. The occasional snap of a twig.

Harry adjusted his grip on his rifle, eyes scanning the darkness beyond the fire's weak glow. His mind wandered despite himself.

He wondered if animals could be infected. It was something nobody had a solid answer for. They'd hunted deer before, cooked the meat, eaten it—and nobody had gotten sick. But what if an infected bit one? Would the virus take hold? Would it spread the way it did in humans, turning the animal into something mindless, a carrier of disease? And if someone ate it then—would it be the end for them?

The thought sent a chill down his spine, though he had no way to confirm it. All the details and science behind this outbreak were still foreign to everyone. Nobody really understood how it happened, how the world had fallen apart so quickly. The few experts who might've had answers were long gone. Now, all they had were theories, fear, and survival instincts.

Harry sighed, leaning his head back against the tree, letting his eyes slip shut for just a moment. Just a moment.

He didn't realize he had dozed off until he was jolted awake by a sudden, sharp yell.

"Fuck—Harry!"

His eyes snapped open, and instinct took over. He turned toward the sound, heart hammering in his chest.

Louis.

Harry barely processed what was happening before he was moving. Louis was struggling against an infected, its bony fingers locked around his ankle. His sleeping bag had tangled around him, making it harder for him to kick the thing off. His breaths were ragged, his body sluggish from exhaustion, but he was fighting, trying to scramble back.

Harry didn't think—he reacted.

In a second, he was on his feet, lunging forward. He gripped his knife tight, driving the blade straight into the infected's skull. The body went rigid, a sickening gurgle escaping its decayed lips before it collapsed to the ground in a heap, the dead weight finally releasing Louis's leg.

Harry grabbed Louis by the shoulders, his own breath coming fast. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Louis pushed himself up, still catching his breath. "I— I think so," he muttered, quickly running his hands over himself, checking for wounds. His fingers lingered on his ankle where the infected had grabbed him, but there was no blood, no torn skin. Finally, he let out a shaky breath. "I'm not bit. Not scratched. I'm fine."

Harry exhaled hard, relief washing over him so fast it made his head spin. "Jesus, Louis."

And before he could stop himself, before he could even think, his arms were wrapping around Louis, pulling him close.

It surprised both of them.

Louis stiffened for half a second, caught off guard, but then he just let it happen.

Harry's grip was firm, desperate in a way that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. Louis could feel the tension in Harry's body, the way his breathing was still uneven, the way his fingers curled into the fabric of Louis's jacket like he needed to ground himself.

Neither of them spoke.

Louis hesitated, then, almost cautiously, lifted a hand to press against Harry's back. Just for a second. Just to let him know he was here.

Harry swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut before finally, slowly, pulling away.

Their eyes met in the dim firelight, something unspoken passing between them.

But neither of them said a word.

Harry let out a slow breath as he pushed himself off the ground and walked back to the tree he had been sitting against earlier. His heart was still racing, but he tried to shove it down, to focus on keeping watch again.

Louis, still shaken but too proud to admit it, stood up and followed. He let out a low huff as he dropped back down beside Harry, mirroring his position against the rough bark.

Harry smirked slightly, his voice tinged with dry amusement. "Maybe your trip wires aren't a hundred percent infected-proof, huh?"

Louis scoffed, rubbing his face before dropping his hands into his lap. "Yeah, well, I didn't exactly account for dead fuckers with no legs crawling towards me." He let out an exasperated sigh, leaning his head back against the tree. "I'll make a note of it next time."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. Then, with a small sigh, he shrugged off his leather jacket, balling it up slightly before draping it over his shoulder. "C'mon, get some rest."

Louis frowned, glancing down at the worn leather before looking at Harry with an arched brow. "I can just rest against the tree, y'know. Not exactly my first time sleeping outside."

Harry rolled his eyes, nodding down toward his own shoulder. "That's nonsense. Just use me."

Louis hesitated.

There was something oddly gentle about the way Harry said it, like it wasn't even a big deal. But it felt big to Louis, even if he didn't know why. He shifted uncomfortably for a second before sighing, giving in, and cautiously leaning against Harry's shoulder.

The warmth of Harry's body was immediate, solid and steady. Louis tensed at first, unused to this kind of closeness, but Harry didn't move, didn't pull away. He just sat there, relaxed, letting Louis get comfortable like this was the most natural thing in the world.

After a moment, Louis let his eyes slip shut. "You better wake me for my turn at watch."

Harry hummed in response, but Louis could already tell he had no intention of doing so.

Chapter Text

The morning air was crisp, carrying the damp scent of earth and decaying leaves as Harry and Louis trudged through the thick underbrush. The sun barely peeked through the tall pines, casting long, eerie shadows over the uneven terrain. Birds cawed in the distance, the only real signs of life in a world that had long since fallen into ruin.

The old hunting lodge sat nestled between a dense thicket of trees, its wooden structure aged and weathered. The roof sagged slightly on one side, caved in by either years of neglect or an unfortunate run-in with a fallen tree. The wraparound porch creaked as the wind brushed against it, and an old rocking chair sat abandoned near the entrance, tilted slightly like someone had just gotten up and left it.

A faded deer skull was mounted above the doorway, its hollow eyes staring down at them like a silent warning. Vines had begun to creep up the wooden walls, wrapping around the support beams as if nature was reclaiming what humanity had left behind. The windows were dirty and cracked, some boarded up with warped planks of wood. A rusted lantern hung from a bent nail near the entrance, swaying slightly.

Harry studied the place with narrowed eyes, shifting his grip on his rifle. "With how secluded this is, we need to be careful. Could be infected hiding inside."

Louis rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers over the handle of his knife. "Yeah, I don't need to be told twice." He was already scanning the perimeter, looking for any signs of people—disturbed dirt, fresh footprints, smoke in the distance. But the place was eerily still. No signs of life. No signs of anyone.

Louis exhaled sharply through his nose, his shoulders sagging slightly. "Shit," he muttered. He really thought this would be it. He thought they wouldn't have to check the other locations, that they'd find something here. But it was just another dead end.

Harry glanced at him, noticing the way Louis's fingers curled into a fist at his side, the way his brows pinched together like he was trying not to let his disappointment show.

So Harry did what he always did—he tried to lighten the mood.

With a dramatic gasp, he pointed toward the porch. "Oh my God, Louis, look. Your long-lost family left you a chair."

Louis furrowed his brows, confused, until he followed Harry's gaze and saw the old rocking chair swaying ever so slightly in the wind.

Harry grinned. "Go on, sit down, have a rest. Maybe they'll come back for you if you look comfortable enough."

Louis let out a tired scoff, shaking his head. "You're an idiot."

Harry gasped again, placing a hand over his chest. "You wound me." He then stepped up onto the porch, dramatically placing his hands on his hips as he surveyed the area. "Ah yes, home sweet home. A little dusty, but the bones are good."

Louis bit his lip, trying not to let the amusement show on his face. "You done?"

Harry gave a mock sigh, nudging the old chair with the toe of his boot. "Yeah, I suppose. You're no fun."

Louis just shook his head, but there was a flicker of something softer in his expression—like Harry had almost made him laugh. Almost.

Then, back to business.

Harry turned, adjusting the rifle strap on his shoulder. "Come on, let's check the armory. Maybe we'll get lucky and find some weapons or ammo left behind."

Louis nodded, pushing away his disappointment as he followed Harry toward the side of the lodge, where the old armory shed stood—silent and waiting.

Harry stepped up to the shed, pressing his rifle against the wooden door. The structure was small, barely more than a storage unit, its wood worn and chipped with age. A rusted metal latch held it shut, but it had already been undone—someone had been here.

Harry knocked twice with the butt of his gun, the sound hollow and ominous in the still air. For a second, there was nothing. Just the faint rustling of trees behind them. Then—shuffling.

His grip on the rifle tightened. He turned to Louis, giving him a silent nod before reaching for the door handle.

With one swift motion, he pushed the door open, stepping inside with his rifle raised—

"Wait, stop!" Louis' voice cut through the air.

Harry hesitated, his finger just shy of the trigger as his eyes locked onto the figure inside. A little boy.

The kid couldn't have been more than nine, maybe ten. His clothes were filthy, hanging off his small frame like they hadn't fit properly in months. His brown hair was matted, tangled with dirt, sticking up in places like he had been sleeping on the ground for too long. His cheeks were sunken, his skin pale beneath a layer of grime.

And his eyes.

Wide. Terrified. Hands trembling as he raised them in surrender, his fingers thin, almost fragile. He looked like he expected them to kill him on sight.

Louis' hand shot out, gripping the barrel of Harry's rifle and gently pushing it down. Harry let him, his own stomach twisting as he took in just how scared this kid was.

Louis took a cautious step forward, lowering himself slightly to the kid's level. His voice was calm, careful.

"Hey, we're not gonna hurt you, okay? I promise."

The boy's lips were pressed together in a thin line, his chest rising and falling quickly, like he was ready to bolt at any second.

Louis kept his voice gentle. "What's your name?"

The boy hesitated. His tongue darted out to wet his chapped lips. His voice was barely a whisper.

"Ben."

Louis nodded, offering the kid a small, reassuring smile. "Okay, Ben. That's a good name. My name's Louis, and this is Harry. We're just passing through. Can you tell us how you got here?"

Ben swallowed hard, shifting on his feet. His arms shook as he kept them raised, and Louis quickly realized the kid probably thought if he lowered them, he'd get shot.

"Hey, it's okay," Louis said softly. "You can put your hands down. I promise, we're not gonna hurt you."

Ben hesitated again, his small frame tense, before he slowly let his hands drop to his sides. His fingers twitched as he clutched the hem of his oversized shirt, as if grounding himself.

Harry took a small step back, trying to make himself less intimidating. He had seen fear like this before. Too many times. But it never got easier.

Ben's voice was quiet, shaky. "I was with my dad. We—we were looking for food. We came here a few days ago, but he... he told me to hide. Said he'd come back."

Louis' stomach sank. He didn't need to ask what happened next. He could see it in the kid's face.

"Did your dad say where he was going?"

Ben shook his head. His arms curled around himself like he was trying to hold himself together. "He said it wouldn't take long. That I just had to stay here and be quiet."

Louis felt his chest tighten. He glanced at Harry, who was watching the boy with an unreadable expression, jaw clenched. Louis knew that look.

Harry already knew the dad wasn't coming back.

Louis sighed, running a hand through his hair before crouching down in front of Ben. His voice was softer now.

"How long have you been alone, kid?"

Ben shifted on his feet, nervous. "I—I'm not sure. Maybe... three days? Maybe four?"

Three or four days. Alone. In a world like this.

Louis let that sink in for a moment before he spoke again. "You had anything to eat?"

Ben hesitated, then shook his head.

Harry let out a quiet curse under his breath. Louis turned his head just in time to see him reaching into his bag, pulling out a half-full can of peaches. Without a word, he held it out to the kid.

Ben stared at it, skeptical.

Harry's voice was calm, even. "Go on, it's yours."

The kid didn't move at first. Then, slowly, he reached forward, fingers shaky as he took the can from Harry's hands. He stared at it like he didn't believe it was real.

Louis offered him a small, encouraging smile. "We got a camp, Ben. Safe place. You don't have to stay out here alone."

Ben's eyes snapped up, filled with uncertainty.

"My dad told me to wait."

Louis exhaled through his nose, rubbing at his jaw. He looked at Harry again, who met his gaze with a knowing look. They both knew this wasn't going to be easy.

Harry spoke this time. "I get it, kid. You wanna do what your dad told you. But if he was coming back, he would've been here by now."

Ben flinched slightly, his fingers tightening around the can of peaches.

Louis leaned in just a little. "I know it's scary, but we can help you. We've got food, people. You don't have to be out here by yourself."

Ben was silent. His eyes darted between them, searching for something—probably a lie.

Then, finally, he whispered, "I don't know."

Louis sighed. "Well, how about this? Let's just step outside for a bit. Get you some fresh air, and you can eat."

Ben hesitated again, then, after a long pause, he gave a small nod.

Louis patted his shoulder gently. "Alright, let's get you out of here."

Harry watched as Ben took slow, uncertain steps toward the door. Something heavy settled in his chest.

Another lost kid in a world that had taken too many.

Louis guided Ben up the worn wooden steps of the hunting lodge, the wood creaking beneath their weight. The rocking chair sat just where Harry had pointed it out earlier, its paint chipped, the seat slightly tilted from age and weather. It looked like it hadn't been used in years, maybe even before the world ended.

Ben hesitated for a second, his small fingers still clutching the can of peaches, before finally sinking into the chair. He rocked back slightly, the movement almost foreign to him. Louis crouched in front of him, watching as the boy carefully pried the can open, using his fingers to scoop out a chunk of the syrupy fruit. He ate like he hadn't had anything in days—because he probably hadn't.

Louis glanced over his shoulder at Harry, jerking his head for him to step aside. Harry followed, both of them moving a few paces away while keeping an eye on Ben.

Louis sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We should take him back to camp."

Harry shook his head. "We can't go backwards, Lou."

Louis frowned. "He's a kid, Harry. What are we supposed to do, drag him through the woods while we search for my sister?"

Harry crossed his arms, glancing at Ben before turning back to Louis. "Look, I get it. But think about it—what if his dad is still out there? If we take Ben back to camp and his dad somehow made it, he's gonna be looking for his kid. Best place for Ben to be is with us."

Louis exhaled sharply, placing his hands on his hips. He wanted to argue, but Harry had a point. If Ben's father really was out there, wandering the woods, searching... he wouldn't find him back at camp.

"But what if he slows us down? What if shit goes south and we can't protect him?" Louis rubbed his jaw, eyes darting back to the boy in the chair. "It's dangerous for a kid, Harry."

"I know," Harry admitted. "But what's the alternative? Leave him here? Drop him off at camp without knowing if his dad's out there? That's more dangerous."

Louis looked at him for a long moment, then let out a sigh. "Shit," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. He knew Harry was right, even if he didn't like it. He turned on his heel and walked back to Ben, stopping just beside the chair.

Ben looked up at him, his expression still hesitant, his fingers sticky from the peach syrup.

Louis crouched down, resting his forearms on his knees. "Alright, kid," he said, voice softer now. "How about this—you come with me and Harry for a little while? See where the road takes us?"

Ben's brows knitted together. "Go with you?"

"Yeah," Louis nodded. "We're looking for my sister's camp. You can stick with us for a bit, and if we find your dad along the way, even better."

Ben hesitated. His fingers curled around the can, and he looked down at his lap, thinking. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he gave a small nod. "Okay."

Louis smiled slightly, reaching out to ruffle the kid's hair. "Alright, that's settled then."

Harry, standing a few feet away, smirked slightly. "Told you."

Louis shot him a look. "Shut up."

The walk back to their makeshift camp was quiet, the only sounds coming from the distant rustling of trees and the occasional infected groaning somewhere deep in the woods. The three of them moved quickly, packing up what little they had brought, making sure the fire was fully out before loading everything back into the truck. Louis dismantled the trip wires, rolling up the cans and stuffing them into his bag. He figured they might need them again later.

Ben was quiet through it all, lingering close to Louis as he worked, watching with big, tired eyes. When they were finally ready to leave, Louis opened the passenger door, gesturing for Ben to hop in. The kid hesitated before climbing in first, settling into the seat closest to the door.

Louis blinked. "Oh," he muttered, realizing what that meant.

Harry smirked, already catching on. "Guess that means you're in the middle, Lou."

Louis rolled his eyes, but climbed in anyway, slamming the door shut behind him as Harry started the truck. As soon as they started moving, Ben shifted, resting his head against Louis's shoulder. Within minutes, his small, steady breaths evened out as he drifted into sleep.

Louis glanced down at him, then carefully wrapped an arm around the kid, keeping him close to make sure he stayed warm. The heat of the truck's cabin wasn't much against the cold night air seeping through the cracks, but at least this was something.

Harry glanced over, a small, almost amused smile tugging at his lips. "You're really good with kids."

Louis chuckled, shifting slightly but keeping his hold on Ben secure. "Yeah, well. I love kids. Always have." He sighed, looking down at the sleeping boy. "I'd love to have my own someday... if I ever get the chance."

Harry hummed in thought, focusing back on the road. "I want kids too," he admitted after a beat. "But... I don't see it happening. Not in a world like this."

Louis frowned slightly, turning his head toward Harry. "You don't think things will ever go back to normal?"

Harry exhaled slowly, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. "I don't know, Lou. I want to believe it will, but even if it does, it won't be the same. The world we knew is gone."

Louis was quiet for a moment, just listening to the steady hum of the truck's engine. "Maybe," he said finally. "But if we stop believing in something better, then what's the point of surviving?"

Harry didn't have an answer for that.

The drive stretched into the night, the sky turning an inky black above them, only the stars and the faint sliver of a moon offering any light. The woods thinned out as they reached the next marked location on the map, an old fire station at the edge of a long-forgotten hiking trail.

Harry slowed the truck, pulling into a more secluded spot, hidden behind a few trees. "We should just stay in the car tonight," he said, putting it in park. "Ben's already asleep. No point making him get out and move to a sleeping bag outside."

Louis nodded, carefully adjusting his hold on Ben as Harry climbed out. He opened the passenger door, reaching in and gently lifting the kid into his arms. Ben barely stirred, only letting out a quiet murmur before nuzzling into Harry's chest.

Louis grabbed a sleeping bag from the back, rolling it out in the truck bed before Harry carefully laid Ben down. He tucked the bag around him, making sure the kid was warm, before stepping back.

Louis climbed in next, settling down beside Ben and pulling his own jacket off, draping it over him for extra warmth. He lay back, staring up at the stars out of the window, through the branches above them, listening to the quiet sounds of the night.

Meanwhile, Harry was back in the front seat, sitting at the wheel to keep watch. Every now and then, he glanced over his shoulder, watching the way Louis instinctively curled around the kid, keeping him close, protecting him.

Something about the sight made his chest ache.

Louis looked... calm. Peaceful, even. His usual sharp edges softened, his expression relaxed in a way Harry rarely saw. It was different from the smirks and sarcastic remarks, from the restless energy he always seemed to carry.

Harry swallowed, looking away.

He wasn't sure why it affected him so much, but it did.

The morning sun peeked through the trees, casting streaks of warm light across the truck bed. Louis stirred first, feeling warmth pressed against him. He opened his eyes, blinking the sleep away before glancing down at Ben, who was still curled up against him, breathing softly. His small face was relaxed, peaceful.

Louis smiled. He had no doubt this was probably the first full night of sleep the kid had gotten in a long time.

Carefully, he peeled himself away, shifting just enough to slide his jacket higher over Ben's shoulders to keep him warm. The boy barely stirred, only letting out a small sigh as he buried deeper into the fabric.

Louis sat there for a moment longer, just watching him, before quietly crawling toward the front of the truck. He climbed into the passenger seat, stretching his arms over his head before settling in next to Harry.

Harry turned his head slightly, eyes tired but alert as he offered a small smirk. "Morning."

Louis let out a breathy chuckle. "Morning. You get any rest?"

Harry shrugged, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "A little bit. Wanted to keep watch."

Louis shook his head, slouching against the seat. "You should've woken me up. We could've switched."

Harry scoffed. "You looked comfortable."

Louis rolled his eyes but didn't argue.

After a beat, Harry glanced toward the backseat. "He still out?"

Louis nodded. "Yeah. Kid sleeps like a rock."

Harry hummed, shifting slightly. "Pass me the map. Wanna see how far we've got left to the next location."

Louis reached for his bag, pulling out the crinkled map. He handed it over, watching as Harry unfolded it across the steering wheel. Harry traced a finger along the worn paper, eyes scanning over their route.

"Only a couple more miles," he muttered, nodding. "Should be easy enough."

Louis exhaled, resting his head back against the seat as Harry started the engine. He glanced once more at Ben in the back, who barely even flinched at the rumbling of the truck.

"Guess we'll let him sleep till we get there," Harry said, pulling onto the dirt road.

Louis was quiet for a moment, watching the trees blur past the window before he finally spoke. "What happens if we don't find his dad?"

Harry glanced at him briefly before looking back at the road. "You getting attached already?"

Louis scoffed. "No. I just need to prepare. If we find nothing at this fire station, then what? We just drop him off somewhere?"

Harry was silent for a long moment, fingers flexing over the steering wheel. Finally, he let out a sigh. "Then he's ours."

Louis turned his head, brows furrowing.

Harry shook his head, realizing how that sounded. "I mean, he'll be part of the group. One of us." He exhaled sharply. "We're not leaving him behind, Louis. He's just a kid."

Louis nodded slowly, his eyes drifting back to the road.

"Yeah," he muttered. "He's one of us."

As they neared the fire station, Louis felt his stomach tighten. It wasn't abandoned like the last few places they'd checked. A wall—built hastily but reinforced with stacked metal sheets and wooden beams—surrounded the station, and men with rifles stood guard at various points. Some were perched on top of the wall, keeping watch from an elevated position, while others patrolled the perimeter.

Harry scoffed as he slowed the truck. "Looks like we might've found Lottie's camp after all."

Louis didn't respond right away. His grip on the map in his lap tightened, his pulse quickening.

Harry turned his head, brow raised. "You alright?"

Louis swallowed hard. "Stop the truck."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Stop the truck," Louis repeated, his voice firmer this time. "We should walk from here."

Harry sighed but did as he was asked, pulling off to the side of the road where they were still shielded by trees. He shut off the engine, leaving them in silence.

Louis turned in his seat, reaching toward the back to gently shake Ben's shoulder. "Hey, kid. Time to wake up."

Ben groaned softly, rubbing at his eyes. He looked up at Louis groggily before his gaze flickered to Harry, then out the window toward the looming walls of the fire station.

"Where are we?" Ben mumbled, still thick with sleep.

Louis offered him a small smile. "Somewhere safe, hopefully. But we gotta go the rest of the way on foot, alright?"

Ben nodded sleepily, letting Louis help him down from the truck. He shuffled to Harry's side while Louis took the lead, his hand resting instinctively on the handle of his knife as they moved toward the entrance.

The moment they stepped into full view, the guards on the wall reacted immediately.

"Hands up!" One of the men shouted, his rifle snapping up, finger resting just above the trigger.

Louis's breath caught for a split second, but he quickly raised his hands, motioning for Harry and Ben to do the same. "It's alright," he murmured, mostly for Ben's sake. The kid hesitated but mimicked Louis's movements, his small hands lifting into the air.

Harry, standing close to Ben, glanced at Louis out of the corner of his eye but followed suit.

Another guard, taller and built like a brick wall, stepped forward. "What do you want?" His voice was rough, tired, and clearly not in the mood for games.

Louis kept his stance relaxed, not wanting to appear like a threat. His mouth felt dry, but he forced himself to speak.

"We just want to talk."

The guard's eyes narrowed. "Talk about what?"

Louis took a breath. "We're looking for someone. A girl named Lottie."

Chapter Text

The moment the guard heard Lottie's name, something in his expression shifted—suspicion, recognition, maybe both. He muttered something under his breath to the others before giving a sharp nod. "Let them in."

Another guard moved to a large, reinforced gate made of salvaged steel panels and thick wooden beams, pulling it open just enough for Harry, Louis, and Ben to step through before slamming it shut behind them.

Inside the walls, the camp stretched across what had once been the fire station's open lot. The cracked pavement was partially covered by dirt and makeshift pathways leading to various areas. There were tents scattered throughout, some large and sturdy, others barely held together. People moved between them, some carrying supplies, others tending to small fires with cooking pots hanging over them. A few kids sat in a corner playing with old toys, their laughter distant and fragile in an otherwise grim setting.

The fire station itself stood tall, its red brick exterior weathered and scorched in places. The windows on the upper levels were either boarded up or broken. A large garage door that once housed fire trucks had been converted into an entrance, propped open slightly with stacked crates, allowing a glimpse inside where even more people had taken shelter.

Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, their eyes constantly scanning for threats. Some of them looked battle-worn, their faces gaunt from exhaustion. Others seemed more hostile, their hands gripping their rifles a little too tightly as they watched the newcomers.

One of the guards that had escorted them inside turned to face them. "Only one of you gets to talk to Lottie."

Louis straightened his shoulders. "It's me. I'll go."

Harry immediately shook his head. "You don't have to do this alone. I can—"

"It's my sister," Louis interrupted, his tone firm but not harsh. He glanced at Harry, his jaw tightening. "I have to."

Harry hesitated for a second before exhaling, running a hand through his curls in frustration. He wanted to argue, but he knew Louis well enough by now to understand when he'd made up his mind. Instead, he gave a reluctant nod.

The guard motioned for Louis to follow. Louis gave a brief look to Harry and Ben before disappearing down a narrow pathway, out of sight.

The moment he was gone, everything shifted.

Rough hands suddenly grabbed Harry and Ben from behind, jerking them backward with force. Ben yelped, his small hands clawing at the air as he tried to resist.

"Hey! What the fuck—" Harry's protest was cut off as he was shoved forward, his boots scraping against the ground as two guards restrained him. He thrashed, trying to break free, but they were stronger, more prepared.

Ben was struggling too, kicking at one of the men holding him. "Let go!" His voice was frantic, high-pitched with fear. "Let me go!"

"Stop it, you bastards! Let the kid go!" Harry growled, twisting against the iron grip on his arms.

His protests meant nothing. The guards dragged them through the camp, past watchful eyes that did nothing to intervene. Some of the people barely looked up, as if this kind of thing wasn't new here.

They were shoved into a small, dimly lit building, the door slamming shut behind them. Harry barely had time to get his bearings before one of the guards forced him to his knees and yanked his hands behind his back, binding them tightly with rough rope.

"Fuck you," Harry spat, struggling even as the coarse fibers bit into his skin.

Ben was whimpering now, his face wet with tears as his hands were tied the same way. "Please, please don't do this," he sobbed, his small frame trembling.

The guards ignored his pleas.

Harry watched with fury burning in his chest as they finished tying Ben up before stepping back toward the door. "You'll stay here for now," one of them said gruffly.

Harry kicked out, his boot slamming against the doorframe as they moved to leave. "You can't fucking do this!"

The guard sneered. "Welcome to reality."

The door slammed shut, the lock clicking into place.

Harry immediately launched himself at the door, twisting to kick it as hard as he could. "Let us out, you sons of bitches!" His voice echoed in the small room, but there was no answer. He cursed under his breath, slamming his shoulder against the door, but it didn't budge.

Ben was curled up against the wall, sobbing softly. His small hands trembled against the ropes binding them. "Harry... what's gonna happen to us?"

Harry took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "We're gonna get out of here, kid. I promise."

Ben sniffled, nodding even though his face was still streaked with tears.

Then, a sound came from the far side of the room.

A low, guttural groan.

Harry froze. His entire body went rigid as he slowly turned his head toward the opposite wall.

There was another door.

And something was behind it.

Ben heard it too. His eyes went wide, fear flashing across his face. "Harry..."

Harry didn't answer. He moved toward Ben immediately, shifting so he was between him and the door. The groaning grew louder, more desperate, accompanied by the faint sound of shuffling feet and scratching.

Harry's heart pounded.

The fucking bastards locked them in a room with infected.

——

The inside of the fire station was dimly lit, the glow from oil lamps casting flickering shadows against the brick walls. The air smelled of smoke, old leather, and something metallic—blood, maybe, or just the remnants of a place repurposed for survival.

Louis kept his head up, shoulders squared as the guard led him further inside, down a narrow hallway and into what had once been a communal space for firefighters. Now, it was a war room. A large wooden table dominated the center of the room, covered in maps, weapons, and scattered papers.

And Lottie was sitting right on top of it, one leg crossed over the other, her back to him as she lazily swung one foot back and forth. At the sound of footsteps, she turned her head slightly before twisting all the way around, a slow smile curling onto her lips.

"Well, well," she drawled, sliding off the table with an effortless grace. "I was wondering when my dear brother would come find me."

Her tone was light, almost teasing, but there was something off about it. Something practiced. Louis felt his stomach tighten as he watched her, the way she moved with a deliberate slowness, the way her eyes flicked over him like she was sizing up a meal rather than greeting family.

He didn't bother with pleasantries. "What the hell happened at the farm?" he asked, voice hard. "And what did you tell Marcus to do?"

Lottie sighed as if he were a child throwing a tantrum. "Marcus was just doing what he was asked," she said, moving past the table to a set of shelves, running her fingers over the supplies neatly stacked there. "But I do think he feels bad about it. Not that it really matters."

Louis took a step closer. "This isn't you," he muttered. "You're not—"

"Sweet?" Lottie turned her head, her expression unreadable. "Not anymore, Lou."

She said it simply, as if it were a fact, something already decided and not worth debating. Then she smiled again, and there was something almost seductive about it, the way she tilted her head slightly, her eyes flashing with something unreadable but sharp.

"Sit," she said, gesturing to one of the chairs. "We can talk."

Louis hesitated but ultimately lowered himself into the chair. If nothing else, he needed answers.

Lottie moved to sit beside him, close enough that their knees almost brushed. As she did, she pulled a knife from her belt, twirling it between her fingers with expert precision. The blade glinted under the dim light, spinning effortlessly in her grasp, an extension of her hand rather than a weapon she had to think about using.

Louis swallowed, keeping his gaze on her face. "What do you want, Lottie?"

She stopped twirling the knife, pressing the flat of the blade against her palm as she considered him. "A new base," she said finally. "We need more space. More resources. More land."

Louis scoffed. "Then why the hell would you come after mine? You know it's not any bigger than this place. Marcus would know that."

She hummed, tilting her head. "The land's better, though. You have space for crops. Real ones. Not this bullshit," she gestured vaguely toward the outside, where their makeshift garden probably sat, struggling under bad soil and limited care. "We have new people coming in every day, Lou. This place is shrinking."

Louis leaned forward slightly. "Then let's merge. Work together. Instead of trying to take from each other."

Lottie's lips curled, something between amusement and disdain. "That won't work," she said. "Because you take, Louis. You don't give."

Louis frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Her fingers tightened slightly on the knife. "You don't even know, do you?" She let out a sharp, breathy laugh before shaking her head. "Jesus, you really don't."

Louis clenched his jaw. "Lottie—"

"You killed them."

His stomach dropped.

"What?"

Lottie's eyes darkened, and for the first time since he walked in, her mask cracked. The amusement faded, replaced with something else—something raw and burning.

"You killed Mum. You killed Daisy. You killed Phoebe." Her voice was eerily calm, but her grip on the knife was white-knuckled now. "I came home that first day, Louis. I saw them. I saw what you did."

Louis's breath was caught in his throat. "Lottie, no—"

"The house was wrecked," she continued, her voice growing more frantic, more feverish. "The front door was wide open, shit was scattered everywhere. And they were turned. All three of them. Stumbling around, rotting inside our fucking home like animals."

Louis shook his head, hands gripping the arms of the chair. "I didn't—"

"And you were gone," Lottie hissed, leaning in now, close enough that he could see the wild gleam in her eyes. "Your things were gone, your bag was gone. Like you just took what you needed and left them there to die."

Louis's heart was hammering against his ribs. He could barely breathe past the lump in his throat. "That's not what happened," he said, voice desperate. "Lottie, I swear to you—"

"Shut up."

Her knife pressed against his thigh.

Louis went rigid.

The pressure was light at first, just the tip of the blade digging into his jeans.

"You left them," Lottie whispered, and now her hand was shaking, the knife pressing in just a little harder. "You left them to die, Louis. And you're sitting here, looking me in the eye, trying to tell me that's not true?"

Louis swallowed hard, keeping his voice steady. "It's not. Lottie, please. You have to listen to me."

But she wasn't.

Her breathing was uneven, her chest rising and falling too quickly. Her pupils were blown wide, hands trembling as she pushed the knife a little deeper—not enough to pierce skin yet, but close.

"Lottie," Louis murmured, his muscles tense, his hands gripping the chair to keep himself from moving too fast, from doing something that would set her off completely. "You have to believe me."

She let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

"I don't think I do, Louis."

And the knife pushed deeper.

——

The groaning from the other side of the door was getting louder, more urgent, the sound of something mindless and starving. Harry's jaw clenched as he pulled against the ropes binding his hands behind his back, but it was useless—too tight, too well-done. He was starting to sweat, the air in the room feeling heavier as fear clawed at his throat.

Ben was trembling, trying hard to control his breathing, but the sharp gasps of panic kept escaping. "Harry," he whimpered, his voice shaking, "they're gonna get in. They're gonna—"

"Hey," Harry cut in firmly, turning his head as much as he could to look at the kid. "Ben, listen to me. Breathe. I need you to breathe, alright? If you lose it now, we're screwed."

Ben squeezed his eyes shut, nodding, but his body was still shaking like a leaf in a storm.

Harry took a slow breath, forcing himself to focus. His fingers fumbled behind his back, pushing against his waistband until he felt the familiar shape of his knife, cool against his skin. He shifted, angling his wrists just right, gritting his teeth as he tried to grip the handle. "Come on," he muttered under his breath. "Come on, you stubborn piece of shit—"

After a few agonizing moments, his fingers curled around the handle, and he let out a breath of relief. "Got it," he said. "Okay, Ben, I need you to do something for me."

Ben swallowed hard. "W-what?"

"I'm gonna hold the knife, but I need you to get behind me and grab it, alright?" Harry instructed. "Turn around, press your hands against mine, and try to get the blade between the ropes. If you press hard enough, it should start cutting through."

Ben's breathing stuttered. "I—I don't know if I can—"

"You can," Harry said firmly. "I know you can. Just take it slow, and don't cut yourself. You got this, kid."

Ben hesitated, but then he nodded, shifting to kneel behind Harry. His fingers shook as he tried to grasp the handle, struggling at first, but Harry kept murmuring encouragement. "That's it, good, just like that. Now press. Push down—"

Ben gritted his teeth, pressing the blade against the ropes. It was slow going, the tension making it difficult, but after a few agonizing moments, the rope started to give.

"I—I'm getting it!" Ben gasped, his voice a mix of fear and determination.

"Keep going," Harry urged, his muscles tight with anticipation.

With one last push, the rope snapped. Harry wasted no time—he twisted his wrists free and immediately grabbed the knife, cutting Ben loose in quick, precise motions.

The moment Ben's hands were free, he clutched them to his chest, his fingers stiff from how tightly they'd been bound. "What now?" he whispered, eyes wide.

Harry got to his feet, flexing his hands before gripping his knife again. He moved to the door, shoving the blade into the lock, working it with quick, practiced motions. "Now," he muttered, "we get out of here."

Ben tensed. "How? The guards—"

"Let's give 'em a little chaos to deal with first," Harry said. A soft click echoed in the room, and he exhaled sharply, pulling the lock free. He turned to Ben, lowering himself to his level. "Okay, here's the plan. I'm gonna open the door with the infected. Once I do, you run to the main door and open it so we can get out. The infected will go crazy and give us a distraction."

Ben looked pale. "That's—" he swallowed. "That's really dangerous."

"Yeah," Harry admitted. "But it's the only shot we've got."

Ben's hands balled into fists. "What if I mess up?"

"You won't," Harry said instantly. "You're strong, Ben. I've seen it. You've made it this far. I need you to trust me, alright?"

Ben hesitated, then nodded, though his hands were still shaking.

Harry gave his shoulder a quick squeeze before moving back to the door. "On three," he whispered. "One... two..."

He threw the door open.

The infected tumbled out, their rotting bodies falling forward as if they'd been waiting for this moment. Their heads snapped toward the sudden movement, eyes milky and mouths already open in guttural groans.

"Now, Ben!" Harry barked.

Ben sprinted to the main door, fumbling with the latch. Harry barely had time to react before one of the infected lunged at him, its bony fingers locking onto his arm.

Harry snarled, twisting sharply and ramming his knife into its temple. The infected crumpled, but another was already close, its jaws snapping dangerously close to his face.

"BEN!" Harry roared.

"I GOT IT!" Ben shouted, and the door burst open.

Harry kicked the infected away and bolted after Ben. The moment they were through, he shoved the door shut behind them, and a second later, the infected were pouring out into the open, snarling and staggering toward the sounds of the camp.

Shouts erupted from the guards. Gunfire cracked through the air.

"Come on!" Harry grabbed Ben's hand and yanked him behind the building, away from the chaos.

Ben was breathing hard, his entire body shaking violently. He looked up at Harry, eyes wide and full of terror. "I-I thought I was gonna mess up—I thought—"

"Hey, hey." Harry crouched down, gripping Ben's shoulders. "You didn't. You did exactly what you needed to do, and we're okay because of it. You hear me?"

Ben nodded rapidly, but his lip was trembling.

Harry sighed and pulled him into a quick hug, squeezing the back of his head. "You're alright, kid. You're alright."

Ben buried his face into Harry's shoulder, just for a second, just long enough to breathe.

Then Harry pulled back, glancing toward the fire station. "We're not done yet," he said. "We gotta find Louis."

Ben sniffled but nodded. "Okay."

Harry gave him one last reassuring pat before they both turned toward the building, slipping through the shadows as the chaos of the infected kept the guards distracted.

——

The blade pressed deeper, and Louis gritted his teeth, his entire body going rigid as a sharp, searing pain flared through his thigh. His fingers curled into fists against the chair, his knuckles turning white as he fought the urge to flinch.

Lottie's hand was steady, but there was something wild in her eyes, something untethered, something that had broken a long time ago and never quite healed. The flickering candlelight in the room cast jagged shadows over her face, making her look even more unhinged.

"You left them," she said again, her voice barely above a whisper, but it was laced with venom. "You left them there to die."

Louis shook his head, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as the knife dug in just a little more, a slow, torturous push. He could feel warm blood seeping through the fabric of his jeans, sticking to his skin.

"Lottie," he gasped, "I didn't—"

"Don't lie to me!" she snapped, her voice cracking as her grip on the knife tightened. Her other hand curled into the collar of his jacket, yanking him closer so that their faces were inches apart. Her breath was shaky, erratic. "I came home, Louis. I came home and I found them."

Lottie's eyes glistened, but she didn't cry. Her jaw clenched, and the knife in her hand twisted just slightly, cutting in deeper. Louis's entire body jolted, his muscles tightening to keep himself from crying out.

"I walked into that house," she continued, voice eerily calm now. "And it was already over. The front door was wide open. There was blood on the floor, on the walls, everywhere. I went upstairs, and I found Mum first. She was—" Lottie's breath hitched for a moment, but then she forced herself to keep going. "She was turned. Just standing there in the hallway, making that awful noise they make. And then I saw the girls."

Louis was shaking his head, his mind reeling, struggling to process what she was saying. "Lottie—"

"They were turned..," she whispered, her fingers curling into his jacket so tightly they trembled. "My sisters. Our sisters. And you were gone."

Louis was shaking his head harder now, panic creeping in. "Lottie, I swear to you, I didn't—"

"I had to do it," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I had to put them down. Our mum. Our baby sisters." Her lips parted in a shuddering breath, and her eyes darted around as if she was reliving it, as if she could still hear the sounds of the past echoing in her ears. "I had to kill them."

Louis's chest was heaving, the pain in his leg forgotten for a moment, drowned out by the sheer weight of what she was saying. "Lottie, listen to me." His voice was desperate now. "That wasn't me. I didn't do that. I didn't take anything, I didn't leave them, I—"

"Then where the hell were you?!" she snapped, her face twisting with anger.

Louis opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He didn't have an answer.

Lottie let out a sharp, broken laugh. "That's what I thought," she murmured. Her hand on the knife trembled, and then she pushed—just a fraction, just enough to make Louis jerk, a strangled noise slipping from his throat as fresh agony burned through his leg.

"You killed them," she whispered, voice trembling, but the conviction in her eyes didn't waver. "You might not have pulled the trigger, but you left them. You let them turn."

Louis felt something break inside him, something raw and aching and full of a grief he hadn't even had the chance to process before. His breath was shaky, his vision blurring at the edges.

"Lottie," he gasped. "I swear to you, I didn't know. I would never—"

"Lies," she hissed, pressing the blade even deeper, and this time, Louis couldn't stop the strangled groan of pain that ripped through him. His entire body tensed, his fingers curling against the chair, his breathing ragged.

His sister was losing it right in front of him.

Louis tried to reach her, not with his hands, but with his voice. "Lottie, please," he rasped. "You know me. You know I would never abandon them. I would never leave them to die. If I had known—if I had been there—"

"You weren't there," she cut him off, her voice shaking violently. "That's the problem, Louis. You weren't there."

Louis swallowed hard, his heart slamming against his ribs. "Then tell me what you want from me," he whispered. "Tell me what you want me to do."

Lottie's eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them. Her breathing was sharp, erratic. "I want you to admit it."

"There's nothing to admit," Louis said, his voice hoarse, his leg throbbing in unbearable pain. "I didn't do this, Lottie. I swear to you, I didn't do this."

She was shaking, her entire body taut like a wire about to snap. For the first time, she looked unsure. But the paranoia, the grief, the anger—those were too deeply ingrained.

Louis could see it. She wanted to believe him.

But she couldn't.

And that was the most terrifying part.

The sound of Lottie's voice carried through the dimly lit corridors of the fire station, sharp and frantic.

"Admit it!" she was screaming, her voice cracking under the weight of her rage. "Admit what you did!"

Harry's grip on Ben's wrist tightened as they crept forward, weaving through the old building. They had slipped in through a back door, careful to avoid the guards that had been drawn away by the infected Harry had unleashed. The halls smelled of smoke and sweat, of people who had lived here too long, too comfortably in their own cruelty.

Ben was trembling against his side, barely keeping up with Harry's long strides. His breath was quick, unsteady, and Harry knew the kid was terrified. But there was no time to comfort him now.

Another yell rang out, followed by a choked sound that made Harry's stomach drop. That was Louis.

They reached the edge of the main room. The door was slightly ajar, and Harry pressed a hand against Ben's chest, stopping him. He crouched down so they were eye-level.

"Stay here," he murmured.

Ben looked like he wanted to argue, his wide eyes darting toward the door where Louis was. He was scared. Harry could feel the small boy shaking under his hand, but this was no place for him.

"Ben," Harry whispered, his voice softer now, "I need you to trust me. Don't move, don't make a sound, okay?"

Ben swallowed hard but nodded.

Harry turned back to the door and carefully pushed it open just enough to slip through.

Inside, the scene made his blood boil.

Louis was slumped in a chair, his face twisted in pain, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles were white. His leg was bleeding, dark red soaking into the fabric of his jeans. And Lottie—Lottie had a knife pressed into that wound, her body trembling, her breath ragged.

She was completely lost in her delusion, her grief.

Harry moved before he could think, silent and quick.

In one motion, he yanked her away from Louis, twisting her arm behind her back and slamming her into the nearest wall. A strangled gasp left her lips, her head hitting the concrete hard enough to daze her. The knife clattered to the floor, and Harry pressed his blade against her throat, his grip iron-clad.

Lottie gasped, struggling, but Harry held firm. His jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

"You think you're some kind of leader?" he growled, his voice low and dripping with fury. "You think you can do whatever the hell you want? Hurt whoever you want?" His fingers dug into her wrist, keeping her pinned. "Brother or not, if you ever lay another finger on him, if you even think about hurting him again—I will kill you myself."

Louis's breath hitched from the chair, and Harry barely registered him saying, "Harry, stop. That's my sister."

"I'm not gonna kill her," Harry bit out, not taking his eyes off Lottie. "I'm giving her a choice. She gets the hell out of here. She disappears. She never comes near you again. Or I make sure she never gets the chance to."

Lottie let out a shaky breath, her wild eyes darting between them.

"You don't understand," she whispered, her voice desperate. "He left us. He—"

"Enough," Harry snarled, pushing her harder into the wall. "You're done, Lottie. Leave. Find a new place. Don't ever let me see you again."

For a moment, she hesitated. And then, like something in her finally shattered, she wrenched herself free from Harry's grip. Her breath was ragged, her shoulders shaking, her eyes flickering between him and Louis.

Louis was staring at her, his face drawn, exhausted, pained.

"Lottie," he murmured, but she was already backing away.

She turned and fled, disappearing into the corridors.

Harry didn't watch her go. He was already turning back to Louis, kneeling in front of him, his expression shifting from fury to deep concern.

"Shit," he muttered, scanning Louis's leg, his hands hovering over the wound but not wanting to touch it just yet. "She really did a number on you, huh?"

Louis let out a weak chuckle, wincing. "Yeah, well. Family bonding, I guess."

"Not funny," Harry shot back, his brows furrowed as he reached down, tugging at the torn fabric of Louis's jeans to see the wound better. Blood was still trickling from it, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

Harry cursed under his breath and immediately reached for the hem of his own shirt, tearing a long strip from it. He folded it quickly and pressed it against Louis's leg.

Louis inhaled sharply, his hands gripping the chair again.

"Sorry," Harry murmured, his voice softer now. "I know it hurts."

Louis let out a breath, nodding. "It's fine."

Harry looked up at him, really looked at him. The usual cocky glint in Louis's eyes was gone, replaced with exhaustion, pain—something deeper, something raw.

"She really thinks I did it," Louis whispered, his voice barely audible.

Harry exhaled through his nose. "She's wrong."

Louis let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Doesn't matter. She's never gonna believe me."

Harry didn't say anything at first. He just tightened the makeshift bandage around Louis's leg, his fingers gentle despite the roughness of the fabric. Then he met Louis's gaze, steady and sure.

"She's gone," he said firmly. "She's not gonna hurt you again. Not while I'm around."

Louis studied him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

"You always this protective?" he asked, forcing a smirk, but his voice was quieter than usual.

Harry scoffed. "Only when dumbasses like you get themselves stabbed."

Louis chuckled, shaking his head. "Guess I owe you one."

"You owe me a hell of a lot more than one," Harry muttered, adjusting the bandage. "But we'll deal with that later. Right now, we need to get the hell out of here."

Louis nodded, his body sagging slightly against the chair. He was exhausted.

Harry turned back toward the door, where Ben was peeking in, his eyes wide with worry. Harry motioned him over, and the kid hesitated only for a second before running up to them.

"Louis?" Ben murmured.

Louis offered a tired smile. "I'm okay, kid."

Ben's small hands clutched the edge of Louis's jacket, and Harry felt something in his chest tighten.

"Let's go," Harry said, gripping Louis's arm and helping him up.

Louis winced, but he let Harry take most of his weight.

As they limped toward the exit, Harry kept a firm hold on Louis, making sure he didn't fall.

Because no matter what, he wasn't letting Louis go. Not now. Not ever.

The fire station was in chaos.

Infected roamed freely now, drawn in by the ones Harry had let loose earlier. People were screaming, gunshots cracked through the air, and the fortified walls of the camp had turned into a death trap. Some were fighting back, others were running—none of it mattered to Harry. The only thing that mattered was getting out.

He kept one arm slung around Louis, helping him limp toward the exit, while his other hand held tightly onto Ben's wrist. The boy was small, but the grip he had on Harry's fingers was desperate, like he was terrified of being left behind.

"Almost there," Harry muttered, scanning the chaotic mess ahead. "Just keep moving."

Louis gritted his teeth, the pain in his leg slowing him down. "Shit, I'm slowing you down—"

"Shut up," Harry cut him off, readjusting his grip to hold Louis up better. "We're not leaving without you."

Ben was silent, gripping Harry's hand so tightly it hurt. His small legs struggled to keep up, but Harry was guiding him, making sure he didn't get separated.

Then, just as they reached the edge of the camp, Ben suddenly stopped.

His entire body jerked back, and Harry nearly lost his grip on him.

"Dad?"

The single word cut through the noise around them, a choked, disbelieving gasp.

Harry barely had time to react before Ben yanked away from him, running forward.

"Ben!" Harry snapped, lunging after him.

But the boy wasn't listening. His tiny frame weaved through the panicked crowd, past people screaming and shoving, until he stopped—completely frozen.

Harry saw it a second later.

There, standing in the middle of the chaos, was a man. Or at least, what was left of him.

His clothes were torn, his skin pale and sunken, blood dried around his mouth. His eyes—lifeless, hollow—darted erratically, drawn to the movement around him.

Ben's chest was rising and falling rapidly, his small hands clenched into fists at his sides. His breath hitched. "D—Dad?"

Harry didn't hesitate.

He stormed forward, grabbing Ben's arm before he could take another step. The boy twisted in his grip, trying to pull away.

"No!" Ben cried, his voice breaking. "That's my dad! He's right there! Dad!"

Harry turned Ben toward him, gripping both of the kid's arms. "Ben, listen to me. That's not your dad anymore."

Ben shook his head violently, his face scrunching up in denial. "No! No, you don't know! He—he just looks sick, we can help him—"

"Ben," Harry said, forcing the kid to look at him. His voice was firm, but not cruel. "I know this is hard. But your dad is gone. That thing—that thing is not him. You have to understand that."

Tears streamed down Ben's face, his small body trembling. "No," he whimpered, barely a whisper now. "No, he—"

The infected man let out a low, guttural snarl, his head snapping toward them.

Ben's breath caught in his throat.

The thing that had once been his father let out a horrible sound and lunged.

Harry didn't wait.

He scooped Ben into his arms and ran.

Ben screamed, his fists pounding weakly against Harry's shoulder. "No! No, let me go! Please! Dad!"

"Keep moving!" Louis shouted from behind them, trying to keep up despite his injury.

Harry kept running, dodging panicked survivors and snarling infected. Ben was still thrashing in his grip, sobbing uncontrollably, but Harry refused to let him go.

When they reached the truck, Harry threw open the door, shoved Ben inside, and slammed it shut. The boy scrambled up against the window, his tear-streaked face pressing against the glass, staring out at the wreckage of what was once his home.

Louis reached them seconds later, groaning as he hauled himself into the passenger seat.

Harry didn't waste a second. He threw himself into the driver's seat, slammed the door shut, and turned the key in the ignition.

The engine roared to life.

Ben was still crying, his small body shaking. "We can't just leave him—"

Harry gripped the wheel, his jaw clenched tight. "We already did."

He stepped on the gas.

Chapter Text

The truck rumbled softly as it idled on the side of an old dirt road, far enough away from Lottie's camp that they wouldn't have to worry about being followed—at least for the night.

The moon was out, casting a pale silver glow over the quiet landscape. Crickets chirped somewhere in the distance, the only sound accompanying the occasional rustle of leaves. Inside the truck, it was still, except for the soft, steady breathing of Ben in the backseat, completely exhausted from all the crying he had done earlier.

Louis sat in the passenger seat, staring at nothing, his hands resting in his lap.

He hadn't spoken much since they'd left.

Since Lottie.

Since she pressed a knife into his leg, looked him in the eyes, and called him a murderer.

His own sister.

Louis clenched his jaw, trying to push the memory down, but it clawed its way to the surface again. The way she had looked at him—like he was a monster. The way her voice cracked with rage. The way her hands trembled with the weight of everything she believed he had done.

She really thought he'd killed their family.

And nothing he said could change her mind.

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing at his face. The pain in his leg throbbed dully, but he barely noticed it over the twisting ache in his chest.

Harry shifted next to him, glancing over. "How's your leg?"

Louis blinked out of his thoughts, finally looking at him. "Hurts," he admitted.

Harry nodded, adjusting his seat. "Let me take a look at it."

Louis hesitated for a second, but then sighed and shifted, letting Harry move closer.

Harry reached down, carefully undoing the makeshift bandage he had thrown on earlier. His fingers were gentle, peeling back the fabric with slow, precise movements. The wound wasn't deep enough to be life-threatening, but it was enough to make Louis grit his teeth when the cool air hit it.

"She really did a number on you," Harry muttered, reaching for the first aid kit they kept in the truck.

Louis huffed out a humorless laugh. "Yeah. She did."

Harry didn't say anything to that.

He pulled out a bottle of antiseptic and a clean cloth, soaking it before pressing it lightly against the wound. Louis hissed, his fingers digging into his knees.

"Sorry," Harry murmured, voice softer now.

Louis shook his head. "It's fine."

For a few moments, neither of them spoke.

Harry worked carefully, his hands steady as he cleaned the wound. His brows furrowed slightly, his jaw tight in concentration, but his touch was impossibly careful, like he was afraid of causing any more pain.

Louis just stared at him.

Watched the way the moonlight cast shadows across his face, the way his lashes flickered as he focused, the way his lips pressed together in a thin line.

It was rare to see Harry like this—soft.

Harry wasn't heartless, not by any means, but he had built up walls. He had to. The world they lived in didn't allow for much softness. But here, right now, he was being careful. He was being gentle.

Louis swallowed, shifting slightly, and Harry's eyes flicked up to meet his.

They lingered.

Harry's fingers stilled for just a second, his eyes searching Louis's face as if trying to figure out what he was thinking. Louis wasn't even sure what he was thinking himself.

Then, as if breaking whatever moment had settled between them, Harry went back to his work, wrapping a fresh bandage securely around Louis's leg.

"That should hold you over for now," Harry said, tying it off. "We'll check it again when we get back to camp."

Louis nodded slowly. "Thanks."

Harry leaned back against his seat, exhaling. "You should get some rest."

Louis ran a hand through his hair. "We should get to camp as soon as possible. Make sure no one's following us."

Harry studied him for a moment, then just gave a small nod. "Alright."

He turned the key in the ignition, and the truck rumbled back to life.

By the time they reached camp, dawn was beginning to creep over the horizon, casting everything in muted shades of gray and blue.

The camp was quiet, most people still asleep in their tents or small makeshift cabins. A few early risers were walking around, keeping watch or preparing for the day.

Niall was one of them.

As soon as the truck rolled to a stop, he was already approaching, his brows furrowed. "Jesus, what the hell happened to you two?"

Louis groaned as he pushed the door open. "Long story."

Niall's eyes landed on his leg, and his expression darkened. "You need to sit down. Come on."

Louis didn't argue, too tired to put up a fight. He barely noticed as Niall led him toward his cabin, already muttering about how stupid he was for getting hurt.

Harry watched them go, exhaling before turning to Ben, who was still curled up in the backseat, staring down at his lap.

"Hey, bud," Harry said, keeping his voice softer now. "There are some other kids here if you wanna stay with them."

Ben barely moved. His fingers curled against the fabric of his pants, and he swallowed. "Can I... Can I just stay with you and Louis?"

Harry blinked, caught off guard.

Ben looked up then, eyes still red and puffy from crying. "Please?"

Harry hesitated, opening his mouth, but then shut it again. He scratched the back of his neck, trying to think of how to word this without hurting the kid more than he already had been.

"Louis needs rest," he said finally, shifting his weight. "But I promise, you'll be safe here. And I'll check in on you, okay?"

Ben looked uncertain but finally gave a slow nod.

Harry reached out, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before nodding toward the cabins. "Come on, I'll take you where the other kids are."

Ben followed without another word, his small footsteps quiet against the dirt.

Harry led him to one of the larger cabins near the back of the camp, where a handful of other kids stayed. He knelt down beside Ben, looking him in the eye.

"You're gonna be alright, kid," Harry murmured.

Ben just nodded again, and Harry exhaled, ruffling his hair before standing.

As he walked away, he found himself glancing back one last time, watching as Ben hesitantly stepped inside.

Harry sighed, rubbing at his face before heading toward Louis's cabin, exhaustion creeping into his bones.

—

The cabin was dimly lit, a single lantern flickering in the corner, casting long shadows across the wooden walls. Louis sat on the edge of his bed, his leg throbbing dully beneath the bandages, but that pain was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. He felt hollow, like something had been scooped out of him and left him empty.

Lottie's words still echoed in his head, the sharp accusation, the venom in her voice.

You killed them.

A deep sigh pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced up as Liam stepped into the cabin, his expression one of quiet concern.

"You okay?" Liam asked, arms crossed over his chest.

Louis forced a smirk. "Yeah, just a stupid run-in with my sister."

Niall, who had been standing near the doorway, scoffed. "A stupid run-in? You came back looking like absolute shit, mate."

Liam sat on the chair beside Louis's bed, his gaze serious. "What the hell happened?"

Louis exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. "She's deranged or something. Completely changed. She's convinced I killed our family."

Silence settled over the room, heavy and uncomfortable.

Niall and Liam just stared at him, their faces sad.

"She really thinks that?" Niall finally said, his voice quiet.

Louis nodded, jaw tight. "She came home that day and found them turned. Said the place looked ransacked like I just grabbed my shit and left them. She thinks I let them die."

Liam ran a hand through his hair, looking like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

Niall sighed, leaning against the wall. "That's... that's messed up."

"Yeah," Louis muttered, staring at his hands.

Before anyone could say more, a figure appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.

Harry.

His arms were crossed over his chest, his green eyes scanning Louis carefully before he finally spoke. "We need to start looking for a new base."

Louis furrowed his brows. "What?"

"They're gonna come back," Harry said simply, pushing off the doorframe and stepping further inside.

Niall frowned. "You sure about that?"

Harry let out a humorless chuckle. "Two of Lottie's guards locked Ben and me in a fucking room with infected. So yeah, I'm sure."

Liam sat up straighter. "Who the hell is Ben?"

Louis glanced at Harry, then back at the others. "A kid we found at one of the places we searched. He was alone. Said his dad was one of the infected we saw tucked away in Lottie's camp."

Niall's face twisted with understanding. "Shit."

Harry nodded. "He's one of us now." His gaze flicked to Louis then, and a small smile tugged at his lips. "Right?"

Louis felt warmth spread through his chest at the way Harry was looking at him—like they were in this together. Like they had just wordlessly decided to take this kid in, no questions asked.

Louis just stared at him, something fond in his expression. "Yeah," he said softly. "One of us."

Niall sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "We can figure out the base situation later. You both look like actual hell. Get some rest first."

Liam nodded in agreement. "We'll talk in the morning."

Louis didn't argue, too exhausted to fight them on it.

Niall and Liam both gave him one last look before slipping out, leaving just him and Harry alone in the quiet cabin.

Harry lingered for a second before he finally sighed and moved to sit beside Louis on the bed. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers tapping against each other absently.

His head lowered slightly, his brows furrowed.

Louis watched him, eyes scanning his face. "What's wrong?"

Harry exhaled, shaking his head. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "I just... when I heard you whimpering and yelling like that while she was hurting you, I was really fucking scared."

Louis swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. He didn't know what to say to that.

Harry turned his head slightly, looking at him. "What if I was too late?" His voice was almost a whisper now, rough with something unreadable. "What if I walked in and you were—" He cut himself off, his jaw clenching. "I don't know what I would've done."

Louis stared at him, his chest tightening.

Without really thinking, he reached out, placing a hand on the back of Harry's neck. His fingers pressed slightly, grounding, comforting.

"Hey," Louis murmured, offering him a small, tired smile. "I guess I'm just not that easy to kill."

Harry huffed out a quiet breath, nodding, but he didn't look away. His eyes stayed locked on Louis's, something intense swirling in the green depths.

Their faces were close.

Closer than either of them realized.

Louis could feel the warmth of Harry's breath against his skin. His fingers twitched slightly against the back of Harry's neck. Harry's gaze flickered, just briefly, down to Louis's lips, before snapping back up to his eyes.

Something heavy hung between them, unspoken but undeniable.

Harry didn't know why he was feeling like this, why his chest felt so tight, why his pulse had picked up.

But he couldn't look away.

Louis didn't move either.

His heart was pounding, his mind racing, but he stayed still, waiting, watching.

And then—

A quiet voice from the doorway shattered whatever moment had settled between them.

"Louis?"

Both of them turned their heads, their bodies snapping out of whatever haze they'd been in.

Ben stood there, his small frame illuminated by the soft glow of the lantern. His hands were clasped together, his eyes wide and sad.

"Can I... can I stay with you?" Ben's voice wavered. "I'm too scared."

Louis immediately let go of Harry, motioning for the boy to come over. "Yeah, of course, come here."

Ben wasted no time, crawling onto the bed and settling beside Louis.

Harry ran a hand through his hair before exhaling and standing up. He grabbed the blanket at the foot of the bed and carefully pulled it over Ben, tucking him in.

His movements were slow, careful, almost instinctive.

Ben sniffled, curling into Louis's side, and Harry stepped back, clearing his throat.

"You should get some rest," Harry murmured, looking at Louis. "We'll have a meeting later."

Louis just nodded, watching as Harry turned and quietly slipped out of the cabin, leaving him alone with Ben.

Louis lay back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.

His mind was racing.

Not about Lottie.

Not about the base.

Not about the infected.

But about the way Harry had looked at him.

—

The morning light filtered in through the slats of the cabin walls, casting warm lines across the floor and over the bed where Louis lay. The ache in his leg throbbed like a dull drumbeat beneath the sheets, but what stirred him awake was not pain—it was the warmth pressed against his side.

Ben was still asleep, curled in tight like he was trying to disappear into the blankets. One small hand gripped the edge of Louis's shirt like he'd done it in his sleep, instinctively seeking comfort.

Louis looked at him for a long moment, his chest heavy. The boy's face was streaked faintly with dried tears, but it was the most peaceful Louis had seen him since they'd found him.

He reached down gently, easing Ben's hand from his shirt, then tucked the blanket more snugly around his shoulders.

"Sleep while you can, little man," he murmured.

Louis sat up slowly, biting back a groan as pain lanced through his leg. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and braced himself, drawing in a breath before pushing to his feet. His whole body felt stiff and used, his leg pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

He limped toward the door, one hand on the wall for support. When he cracked it open, the cold morning air hit his face and cleared the last of the fog from his head.

Across the clearing, by the gate, he saw Harry and Liam in conversation. Liam stood with his arms crossed, nodding while Harry leaned against the fence, gesturing toward the trees beyond.

When Harry glanced over and saw Louis, he straightened, eyes narrowing slightly. A beat later, he jogged across the clearing, his boots kicking up dust with each step.

"Should've known you'd try walking on that leg already," Harry muttered when he reached him.

Louis gave him a tired look. "I can manage."

But as soon as he took a step away from the door, his footing faltered and the pain buckled him slightly.

Without a word, Harry slid under his arm, looping his own around Louis's waist.

"Yeah, I can see that," Harry said, voice dry. "Come on, tough guy. Meeting room's this way."

The five of them sat inside the meeting room, their usual circle of battered chairs and crates forming a loose shape. Zayn had a fresh wrap around his shoulder, and Niall looked like he hadn't slept in two days. Liam held a notebook in his lap, pen tucked behind his ear.

"We don't have time to keep waiting," Liam said, setting the tone quickly. "We've seen the signs. The wall's not holding up. Food's tighter. It's only gonna get worse when the snow hits."

"Yeah, but how do we even start?" Niall asked. "We can't just pack everyone up and hope for the best. We've got elderly, kids, injured—" he nodded toward Zayn and Louis, "—we're not exactly nimble right now."

Zayn leaned forward. "We don't move all at once. We send a scouting team. They go out for a few days, check any places that might work. Forests, old buildings, towns that haven't been picked clean. They come back, map it out, and then we talk again."

Niall nodded slowly. "But it has to be fast. Like, now fast. Before the weather turns."

Harry's gaze had already shifted to Louis.

"You're not going," he said bluntly.

Louis blinked, brow furrowing. "What? Why not?"

Harry pointed at his leg. "Because that needs to heal. Last time you said you could handle it, you ended up with a knife in your thigh."

Louis huffed. "I can still shoot a gun."

"I don't doubt that," Harry said. "But you're not running, and we're not risking it."

Louis opened his mouth to argue, but Liam cut in. "Harry's right. We need you sharp for when we actually move. Not crawling through a field with blood in your boots."

Louis sat back, jaw tight, but said nothing more.

Harry shifted. "There's more."

Everyone looked up.

He exhaled slowly, then looked at Liam and Zayn. "While we were in Lottie's camp... two of her guards grabbed Ben and me. Said only one of us could see her, remember?"

Zayn nodded.

"They took us to a room. Locked us in. At first I thought it was just holding us while she talked to Louis, but... there was a second door. Behind it, I could hear groaning. Infected. Not one. Multiple."

Liam's brow furrowed.

"They left us in there. Just a concrete box with another room full of biters next to it. I think they were planning to wait until they turned and toss 'em in with us. Or worse, open the wrong door by accident."

Niall paled. "Jesus."

"I had to get Ben to help cut me loose. He was shaking so bad I didn't think he could do it, but he did. We picked the lock, let the infected out into the camp, and used the chaos to run."

There was a pause, heavy with weight.

"They would've killed us both," Harry said, voice low. "He's just a kid. That room was a death trap."

Louis's jaw clenched. He looked down, eyes fixed on the floor. The guilt pooled in his gut like lead.

"She knew what she was doing," Harry continued. "They probably lost people in that mess. Which means next time... they're not gonna just lock us up."

"You think she'll attack us?" Zayn asked.

Harry nodded. "She's coming. Could be days, weeks. But she will. She thinks Louis betrayed her. That doesn't go away."

"We need to move, fast," Liam said. "And we need to prepare to defend what we have until we can."

The conversation shifted then, more logistics, more talk of who to send. But Louis stayed quiet, his eyes still on the floor.

—

After the others filed out, Louis stayed behind, his hand resting over the fresh bandage on his leg. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the wrap, tugging slightly as if it would distract from the knot in his chest.

Harry lingered near the doorway, watching him.

"How you feeling?" he asked, voice softer now.

Louis shrugged. "Fine. Just hurts still."

Harry nodded and walked over, sinking into the chair beside him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Harry glanced sideways. "She looks like you."

Louis blinked, turning to him.

"Lottie," Harry clarified. "She looks like you."

Louis let out a breath of a laugh. "We used to get that a lot. Same mouth, same eyes. Mum always called her my shadow when she was little."

Harry studied his face, something unreadable in his expression.

"You ever talk about them?" he asked.

Louis looked down at his hands.

"Mum was... strong. Tough as hell. Didn't take shit from anyone. She raised five of us on her own after Dad bailed. Lottie was the second oldest, and probably the smartest. Daisy and Phoebe were twins—always inseparable. And then there was Félicité."

He paused, swallowing.

"She died when I was sixteen. After that, Mum broke a bit. But she never let us see it."

Harry didn't say anything. He just listened.

Louis leaned back slightly, eyes distant. "They were loud. All of them. Our house was chaos, but it was warm. And I'd give anything to hear it again."

Harry reached out, hand resting lightly on his bandaged leg.

"You didn't kill them," he said quietly. "No matter what she thinks."

Louis looked at him, and the weight behind his eyes was almost too much to bear.

"I know," he said. "But it doesn't matter if she never believes it."

Harry gave a slow nod, the silence between them thick and full.

Outside, the camp moved with quiet urgency. Winter was coming. So was war. But in that moment, it was just the two of them in the quiet aftershock of everything.

And somehow, even with all the weight pressing in, it didn't feel so heavy anymore.

—

Louis limped slowly across the camp, the chill of the morning air brushing against his skin, rustling through the sparse autumn leaves overhead. Every step sent a dull ache spiraling up his leg, but it was manageable now—part stubbornness, part necessity. He gritted through it, jaw clenched, eyes focused on the path. Smoke curled from the nearby cooking pit, and the low murmur of early risers buzzed through the air.

He reached the door and pushed it open with his shoulder.

Inside, Ben was awake, sitting quietly on the edge of the bed with his arms wrapped around his knees. His small frame was hunched forward, eyes staring down at the floor, his sneakers dangling off the edge like they were too big for him.

Louis softened at the sight.

"Morning, kiddo," he said gently, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "Sleep alright?"

Ben lifted his head, blinking a little as if pulled out of his thoughts. He gave a faint nod. "Okay."

Louis walked over, dragging his hand through his tousled hair. "Think you’re up for some breakfast? There’s a girl here, Eleanor—she makes some killer oats with honey. Warm stuff. Might hit the spot."

Ben nodded again, quiet but receptive.

Louis held out his hand. "Come on, then. Let’s go get some."

Ben reached out slowly, his fingers sliding into Louis’s palm, and Louis helped him down off the bed, careful not to show the way the movement jarred his leg. The boy didn’t say anything, but he stayed close as they walked together through the door.

The center of camp was stirring now—fire pits were being stoked, smoke rising lazily into the pale blue sky. People moved around purposefully, some setting up water collection buckets, others stringing up dried herbs along the cabin porches. Despite everything, life was still happening here.

Louis led Ben to the central patio area, where a few wooden tables were scattered under a patch of sun-bleached canvas. The worn wood creaked faintly as they approached.

"Eleanor?" Louis called out, scanning for her familiar face. "You around?"

"Yeah?" she called back, wiping her hands on a towel tucked into her waistband.

Louis gestured to Ben. "Got someone I want you to meet."

Eleanor walked over, crouching slightly in front of Ben and offering her hand without hesitation.

"Hey there," she said softly, smiling. "I’m Eleanor. You hungry?"

Ben hesitated, then nodded.

She pointed toward one of the tables. "Alright, pick a seat. I’ll bring you a plate in a second, okay?"

Ben gave a small nod and walked over to the nearest bench, sitting stiffly and placing his hands in his lap.

Eleanor straightened up and turned to Louis, her smile fading into something more serious. Her eyes flicked down to his leg.

"How are you feeling?" she asked. "Liam and Harry told me what happened."

Louis shrugged like it was nothing. "It’s just part of this world now, isn’t it? I’ll heal."

She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push. "Want me to get you a plate too?"

Louis shook his head. "Nah. Just give him some of mine. Kid looks like he hasn’t had a proper meal in days." He glanced back toward the table, watching Ben with something heavy in his expression. "He’s had it rough."

Eleanor followed his gaze, nodding. "Yeah, I can tell. I’ll take care of him."

"Thanks, El."

Louis made his way over to the table, lowering himself carefully beside Ben with a wince. He didn’t say anything for a while—just sat there beside the kid, watching the camp wake up around them. Ben stayed quiet too, but he inched a little closer, his shoulder brushing against Louis’s.

It wasn’t much.

But it was enough.

Chapter Text

The sunlight had begun to warm the edges of the day, cutting through the crisp chill with golden streaks that lit the wooden tables scattered across the center of camp. The fire pit crackled a few feet away, and the scent of oats and honey hung gently in the air.

Ben sat across from Louis, legs swinging under the bench as he spooned warm porridge into his mouth, slow and methodical like he was still getting used to eating without thinking about when the next meal would be. He didn't speak, but every now and then his eyes would flick toward Louis, watching him closely.

Louis had his gun in his lap. He'd unholstered it from the strap on his thigh, balancing the weight in one hand while the other slid the magazine free. He checked the chamber, then the feed lips, then the grip, moving through the routine with ease—familiar, practiced. His fingers were smudged with dirt and oil from the cleaning cloth folded beside him.

Ben swallowed a mouthful and leaned forward a little. "Can you teach me how to shoot?"

Louis looked up, blinking once. He paused mid-movement, the cloth frozen against the barrel.

"Absolutely not," he said, his voice firm but not unkind.

Ben's expression scrunched into something between a pout and a frown. "Why not?"

"Because you're what, ten?"

"I'm not a baby," Ben said, his voice a little louder now. "I can learn."

Louis reassembled part of the slide, keeping his tone even. "Still too young."

Ben pushed his spoon around the bowl. "I just wanna be cool like you. And Harry."

Louis's hands stilled again. His gaze slowly rose from the weapon to meet the boy's.

"Being cool isn't about carrying a gun," Louis said quietly. "It's about surviving. And making it through another day without having to shoot anything. You should be a kid while you still can."

Ben looked down at his bowl again, his jaw tight, but he didn't say anything.

Louis let the moment breathe, his hands going back to their task, slow and careful. He didn't rush the reassembly. The click of metal echoed softly between them.

Ben stirred the oats for another minute in silence before he spoke again, softer this time.

"What do you think happened to my dad?"

Louis's fingers paused again, resting on the curve of the magazine.

Images flashed unbidden—of the man slumped, bloodied, groaning, pale eyes glassy as he shuffled behind the fence of Lottie's camp. The way Ben had cried out for him. The way Harry had to drag him back.

Louis looked out across the camp, to the trees just beyond the wall, the stretch of woods that felt endless.

"I don't know," Louis said finally, voice quiet. "Maybe he was out scavenging. Maybe he ran into the wrong people. Wrong time, wrong place."

Ben didn't look up, but his chewing slowed.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Louis added, his voice softer now, nearly a whisper.

Ben pushed a piece of honey-drenched oat around his bowl with the edge of his spoon.

"It's okay," he mumbled. "I had a feeling."

Louis closed his eyes briefly. Then set the gun down on the bench beside him and leaned forward, elbows braced on the table.

"No kid should have to guess if their parents are still alive."

Ben nodded, small and quiet, his shoulders tense.

Louis hesitated, then reached across the table and gave his shoulder a light squeeze.

"You've got us now, yeah? Me, Harry, the rest of the camp. You're not alone."

Ben didn't smile, but he nodded again, slower this time.

"I know."

Louis sat back, reaching for the cloth again, fingers brushing over the weapon beside him.

And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered how many more kids would have to grow up this fast.

How many more kids would ask to learn how to shoot.

How many more might not even get the chance to ask.

 Ben had stopped eating for now, his spoon resting lazily against the rim of his bowl, the oats half-finished and starting to cool.

Louis watched him quietly for a moment, then leaned back against the bench, arms braced behind him as he let the sun hit his face for just a second. Then, turning toward Ben again, he softened his voice.

"When you're done eating, wanna walk around a bit? I can show you the camp, introduce you to the other kids if you want."

Ben looked up at him, cautious but curious. "How many are here?"

Louis shrugged, glancing off toward the far cabins and tents, where he knew the makeshift school sat half-shadowed by the trees.

"A few," he said. "Maybe six or so. Some older, some younger. Couple around your age, though. You might like Tyler. He's got a smart mouth. Kinda reminds me of me when I was your age."

Ben gave the faintest ghost of a smile, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Louis nudged him gently with his elbow. "And we even have a school here. Nothing fancy, but we've got books, writing stuff, little desks made out of salvaged wood. I used to teach there."

Ben blinked at him. "You did?"

Louis nodded, then looked down at his leg, resting his hand over it absentmindedly.

"Yeah," he said, quieter now. "Taught English. Math. Even a little science when we had the supplies. Tried to keep the normal stuff going, you know?"

"Why don't you teach anymore?" Ben asked, genuinely curious.

Louis's mouth opened like he meant to answer quickly, but no words came out at first. His chest tightened, the memory slipping in like a crack in the dam—Darcy's laugh, her braids bouncing as she raised her hand, the drawings she'd tape up on the classroom wall.

He swallowed hard.

"I, uh..." He glanced away, focusing on the trees in the distance. "I needed to help Harry with other stuff. More runs. Defense. Saving more kids like you."

It wasn't a full lie.

But it wasn't the truth either.

Ben didn't press. Maybe he saw the shift in Louis's eyes, the way he blinked slower, more deliberately. Maybe he already knew Louis was holding something back and chose not to push it. He just nodded, taking another bite of his oats, chewing slowly.

Louis exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Anyway," he added after a beat, voice lighter, "Eleanor's running the school now. She's great. Smarter than me, and way more patient. She might let you pick the music during study hour if you ask nicely."

Ben tilted his head. "Music?"

Louis grinned. "Yeah, we've got an old solar-powered radio. Mostly static, but sometimes you catch something weird. Last week, Eleanor swore she heard Adele."

Ben gave a small laugh, muffled by another bite of food.

Louis leaned forward again, elbows on the table, watching him with quiet fondness.

"Point is, you're safe here," he said. "And if you wanna be a kid for a while—go to school, play soccer with Tyler, pretend the world out there doesn't exist—you can do that here."

Ben paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth, looking at Louis like he didn't know what to say. His eyes shimmered slightly in the sunlight. He didn't nod, didn't smile—he just looked.

—

Outside the gate, the wind moved low and slow through the trees, rustling branches with a soft, hollow whistle. The sky was clouded over now, a dull grey settling above the forest like a heavy lid, and the crunch of dry leaves beneath boots was the only steady sound in the clearing. Harry was half-kneeling beside a narrow tree he’d already half-chopped through, the axe gripped tight in his hand, jaw set, lips moving in a near-whisper that no one else was around to hear.

"Could’ve been worse," he muttered, breath clouding the air. "Could’ve—fuck—could’ve been too late."

He didn’t notice the approaching footsteps at first, not until the faint crackle of a twig snapped him out of his haze. He spun quickly, hands instinctively tightening around the handle of the axe, shoulders rigid—until he saw Liam standing a few feet back, hands raised slightly in that casual, disarming way he always had.

"Easy," Liam said, brows raised. "It’s just me."

Harry’s chest rose and fell as he caught his breath, lowering the axe with a slight grunt. His eyes were darker than usual, a faint shadow under them from sleep that never quite came last night. The wheelbarrow beside him was already half-full—sticks, branches, and lengths of fresh-cut wood stacked like a barricade waiting to be built.

Liam eyed it, then looked back at Harry. "You stocking up for winter?"

"Yeah," Harry muttered, turning back toward the tree and grabbing another limb. He tossed it into the pile. "Firewood."

Liam folded his arms, watching him for a long second. "We’ve got enough to get through for a while. Unless you’re building a damn fortress."

Harry didn’t answer immediately. He wiped his forearm across his brow, then glanced off to the side. "It’s for Louis’s cabin."

Liam blinked. "Louis’s?"

Harry cleared his throat. "Yeah. Well, Ben’s probably gonna be staying in there more now. Figured it can’t hurt to make sure they’ve got enough to keep warm." He didn’t look at Liam when he said it.

There was a pause—one of those quiet ones that said more than words would.

Liam tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "You’ve been a little protective of him lately."

Harry didn’t answer.

"Didn’t think you two were even that close," Liam added, his voice gentle but probing. "What happened… back at Lottie’s place?"

Harry finally stopped moving. His back was turned, the axe head resting against the dirt now, both hands gripping the handle tightly as he stared straight ahead. His shoulders were tense, rising slightly with each breath.

"I heard him screaming," Harry said, voice low. "Before I even opened the door. Just—screaming. These sounds I’ve never heard him make. Not from him. Not from anyone I care about."

Liam didn’t move.

Harry turned then, his eyes wet but not crying, lips pressed into a thin line that trembled at the corners. "When I got in there, she had a knife to him, pressed into his fucking leg like it was a game. Like it meant nothing. And he—he wasn’t fighting back. He wasn’t yelling at her. He was just sitting there, trying to reason with her like he thought he deserved it."

His voice cracked on the last word. He let out a shaky breath, looking away.

"I thought she was gonna kill him," Harry whispered. "I thought I was gonna walk in and see him dead. And for the first time since this whole thing started, I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t feel ready. I just felt... terrified."

Liam’s face softened, and he took a slow step closer.

"I’ve seen you drag injured people across rivers. I’ve seen you take down a pack of infected without flinching," Liam said quietly. "But I haven’t seen you look like this before."

Harry let the axe slip from his grip, the head hitting the earth with a muted thud. He dragged his hands down his face.

"I don’t know what the fuck’s going on in my head, man," Harry muttered. "I keep looking at him and thinking—what if I’d been five minutes later? What if Ben had to watch him die? What if that’s the thing that breaks the kid completely?"

Liam’s voice was calm but certain. "But that didn’t happen."

Harry looked at him, eyes rimmed red.

"You saved them both."

"I almost didn’t," Harry whispered.

And that, more than anything, was what haunted him.

He crouched to grab another piece of wood, just to keep his hands busy, but Liam stopped him, one hand on his shoulder. He didn’t speak, didn’t push any further. Just let Harry sit with the fear that hadn’t left him since that day.

Because some wounds didn’t show up as scars.

Some stayed open, just under the surface, raw and waiting.

The woods had gone quiet again, the breeze softening to nothing, just the faint creak of branches overhead and the occasional clink of metal as the axe handle shifted where Harry had dropped it. Liam didn’t take his hand off Harry’s shoulder, just stood beside him in the brittle silence, letting the air settle around them like dust after a storm.

"You know," Liam said after a long pause, his voice low and measured, not gentle exactly, but real, "Louis is lucky to have a friend like you."

Harry didn’t look up right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the ground, lashes damp, mouth slightly parted like he was trying to hold back the weight of everything still sitting heavy on his chest.

Liam continued, his hand dropping back to his side. "Even if it’s a pairing none of us saw coming."

That earned the faintest flicker of something from Harry, the corner of his mouth twitching—not quite a smile, not yet.

"You make him strong," Liam said, and this time, Harry did lift his head, his brow pulling slightly like the thought sat wrong in his chest.

But he shook it, voice soft and sure when he answered, "He was already strong."

Liam tilted his head.

Harry looked past him, toward the camp in the distance, where the smoke curled lazily into the air and kids probably laughed somewhere in the background, blissfully unaware of what that strength looked like up close. "He’s been strong for a long time. He just… didn’t see it. Or maybe didn’t want to. Not until Darcy."

Harry’s voice caught on her name. He swallowed.

"I think losing her broke something open in him. But it didn’t destroy him. That kind of pain—it makes you smaller or it makes you sharper. And Louis... he chose sharp."

Liam nodded slowly, eyes searching Harry’s. "Might be true. But you’re the one who gave him that shot. That run? You didn’t make him stay behind like you usually did. You let him come."

Harry looked down again, jaw working slightly like he was trying to piece together the right words. "He needed it."

"And maybe you did too," Liam said, and the silence after that was longer.

Harry let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, digging the heel of his boot into the earth. "I try so hard to be... the one with the plan. The calm one. The one people go to when they’re scared because I won’t break. But I almost broke that day. Watching Louis bleed, hearing him beg her to listen. And still trying to protect her, even when she was the one hurting him."

His eyes flicked up, glassy but clear. "I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to kill someone that bad. And I hated that. Hated what it meant about me."

Liam’s voice was quieter now, but steadier than before. "It means you care. And it’s okay to care. To soften up sometimes. You don’t always have to be this brick wall with a gun in your hand. People need you to be strong, yeah—but they don’t need you to be stone."

Harry blinked hard.

Liam leaned back, slipping his hands into his pockets, looking off toward the tree line. "You say it all the time. People change."

Harry let out a half-breath, half-laugh through his nose. "Yeah, I guess I do."

"And maybe you are," Liam added. "Changing. Letting some of that weight come off your shoulders."

Harry looked at him, eyes rimmed red but soft. "It’s hard."

"I know."

They stood in silence for another beat, the stillness settling deep between them. The weight wasn’t gone. It never would be—not fully. But something about speaking it out loud, about having someone else carry the pieces for just a minute, made it a little easier to bear.

In the distance, Harry could almost see the shape of Louis’s cabin, tucked just beyond the trees, smoke curling gently from the chimney. He wondered if the fire was burning already, if Ben had stirred, if Louis had smiled yet this morning.

He didn’t say it aloud, but his heart pulled in that direction—heavy, aching, and somehow alive.

—

The sound of children’s voices still lingered faintly behind Louis as he stepped away from the small clearing where Ben had disappeared into a tentative game of tag with the others. He paused once just beyond the path, his eyes flicking back for a second, watching as Ben’s lanky frame stumbled into a laugh he hadn’t heard from the boy before. Louis felt it in his chest—sharp and full, like a breath he'd been holding since the night they'd found him. But it didn’t dull the ache in his leg or the quiet reminder pulsing beneath his skin that rest didn’t come easy, not anymore.

He made his way toward the medical tent, dragging his hand along the canvas edge as he stepped inside. The scent of antiseptic and sweat was sharp in the air, cut only slightly by the lavender Clara insisted on hanging in small bundles near the lanterns. The space was quiet for now, sunlight spilling in between the flaps and falling in warm ribbons across the cots and shelves.

Clara was bent over a small pile of gauze, restocking with careful fingers. She looked up when she heard him, her brows lifting, mouth already forming a knowing sigh.

"Let me guess," she said, wiping her hands on a cloth. "You need another wrap."

Louis gave a tired smile. "Guilty."

Clara nodded toward the cot closest to the entrance. "Sit. I’ll grab fresh bandages."

Louis obeyed, lowering himself slowly with a grimace as his leg bent beneath him. The bandage had started to loosen during the walk back, the movement pulling at the wound until it throbbed hot under the cloth. He undid the wrap carefully, layer by layer, until the last fold peeled away and the cold air hit the exposed skin. He winced, inhaling sharply.

Clara returned, dropping a roll of gauze and a bottle of saline onto the table beside him. She knelt down, inspecting the gash with a professional detachment, though her touch was always steady, always gentle.

"Still clean," she said. "Not too deep. Should heal alright, as long as you stop trying to play hero."

Louis gave her a wry look. "You know I’m not really the hero type."

She raised an eyebrow, beginning to clean the wound. "Could’ve fooled me."

He let that sit for a moment, the sting of antiseptic flooding in behind the silence. The pain was sharp but manageable—less than what he’d grown used to.

"How’s Zayn?" Louis asked after a moment, his voice quieter now.

Clara glanced up briefly, then back at the dressing. "Healing fine. The bullet missed anything important. He can probably ditch the sling in a few days." She paused, smoothing the gauze into place. "Still sore, though. But he’s Zayn. He’d never admit it."

Louis nodded, the relief obvious in the slow way he let his shoulders drop. He glanced around the tent as she started wrapping the fresh bandage, his eyes moving over the shelves, the dwindling supplies. Bottles with only a quarter left, rolls of tape unraveled at the edges, jars of antiseptic that were already stretching further than they should.

"We’re running low, huh?" he murmured, mostly to himself.

Clara didn’t stop moving, but her voice was sharper now, more clipped. "Yeah. I’ve been saying it for weeks. People hear it, but I don’t think they really hear it. One more outbreak of something, even just a fever, and I won’t have enough to cover everyone. If another kid gets bit, or if we get hit with another bullet wound like Zayn’s—"

"I know," Louis said, cutting in softly. He let the weight of her worry settle in his gut alongside his own. "Maybe I can bring it up to the team. See if anyone’s up for a run—just supplies. Bandages, meds, maybe even antibiotics if we get lucky."

Clara pulled the bandage tighter, tying it off with a practiced flick of her fingers. "That’d help. But be careful. You’re not ready to be limping through a pharmacy or fighting off scavengers for cough syrup."

Louis huffed a tired breath, but there was a faint spark of amusement behind it. "Yeah. I’m grounded. Bed rest and storytime duty."

Clara sat back on her heels, giving him a firm look. "I mean it, Louis. If you go out, you take someone. Harry. Liam. Hell, take Niall and his sarcastic mouth. Just not alone."

Louis tilted his head slightly, the corners of his lips tugging into something soft, but not quite a smile. "I’ll behave. For a few more days, at least."

She didn’t laugh. Just looked at him for a second too long, her eyes heavy with more concern than she could probably afford to show. Then she stood, reaching for the disinfectant bottle and putting it back in its spot.

"Good," she said over her shoulder. "Because I’m not patching you up again unless you bring me chocolate."

Louis let out a breath of a laugh as he slowly stood, testing his weight on the bandaged leg and nodding his thanks.

But behind the humor, behind the banter, there was something colder setting in—something he didn’t voice, but that stayed with him as he stepped out into the daylight again.

If they didn’t find more supplies soon… it wouldn’t just be a leg wound or a shoulder injury next time. It’d be something they couldn’t walk off. Something they couldn’t come back from.

Louis made his way back across the clearing, the fading light stretching shadows long across the path. His leg still throbbed beneath the fresh wrap, but he barely noticed it now. His mind was heavier than the ache—full of faces, of voices, of wounds both healing and wide open. The new cabin stood just beyond the outer circle of fire pits, tucked quietly between two tall pines. It had belonged to Jackson before. The thought made Louis’s throat feel tight.

He’d asked Eleanor to move his cot while he was gone—to clear it out of the classroom and place it somewhere else, somewhere quieter. Somewhere less filled with ghosts. The classroom used to be his safe space, but after Darcy, after her blood on the ground and her voice fading into something still and awful, he hadn’t set foot inside again. Not really. And he didn’t think he could.

As he neared the steps to the cabin, he paused, catching movement at the door. Harry.

He was stepping out, sleeves pushed up, brushing dirt off his hands and onto his jacket, the collar slightly upturned and hair falling into his face like always. He looked up as soon as he heard the crunch of Louis’s boot.

"Hey," Harry said, casually, but there was warmth there—warmth he didn’t offer to everyone.

Louis blinked, surprised. "What were you doing in there?"

Harry shrugged, still rubbing his palms on his coat. "Brought you more firewood. Figured with Ben staying in here now, you’d need more to keep the place warm. Nights are getting colder."

Louis slowed as he reached the bottom step, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "That’s very domestic of you."

Harry smirked. "Don’t get used to it."

Louis pushed the door open and nodded for him to follow. "Come in, then."

Harry leaned against the doorframe at first, hesitating like he wasn’t sure if he should step in, but eventually, he did. Louis walked to the cot, lowering himself down with a quiet grunt, adjusting his leg as he glanced toward the small fireplace that now crackled with the fresh wood Harry must have just set. The room still smelled faintly like pine, and there were only a few things scattered about—a coat hanging on the back of a chair, a half-unpacked bag in the corner, and Ben’s small boots tucked neatly beside Louis’s.

"I talked to Clara," Louis said after a pause, voice low. "She’s running thin. On everything."

Harry exhaled through his nose, already sensing where this was going. "Yeah, I know."

Louis looked at him, eyes tired but insistent. "There’s a gas station. The one we went into on that first run I came on. It had shelves in the back, some medical stuff left behind. I don’t think it was ever fully cleared."

Harry looked down at the floor for a moment, dragging his boot across the wood like he was thinking hard. "We could check it," he said slowly, "but getting people together right now... it’s gonna be a stretch."

Louis furrowed his brows. "Why?"

"Because everyone's on edge," Harry said, voice tinged with something more than frustration—weariness, maybe. "After what happened at Lottie’s camp, word’s been circling. People are scared. They think if we wait too long, she’s gonna bring the rest of her people here, maybe with a vengeance. Everyone’s thinking about moving. Packing. Starting over again."

Louis leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. "And what happens if someone gets shot again? Or gets a fever, an infection, anything? What happens when Clara can’t patch them up because we’re waiting for a new base to fall out of the sky?"

Harry looked at him then, really looked—like he was trying to read something deeper behind the worry in Louis’s voice. He crossed the room slowly and sank down beside him on the cot. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. For a second, he didn’t say anything.

Then he placed his hand gently on Louis’s knee, the pressure grounding, steady.

"I hear you," he said, voice low. "And I’ll talk to Niall. I’ll talk to a couple of the others. We’ll make it happen."

Louis stared at the hand for a second, then up at Harry’s face. There was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there a few weeks ago—something softer, more unguarded. It caught Louis off-guard every time it showed up, but somehow, he didn’t mind it.

"You promise?" Louis asked, barely above a whisper.

Harry nodded. "I promise."

Louis’s gaze lingered a little longer, just enough for something to stretch tight between them again, unspoken and suspended. But then he nodded too, leaning back with a sigh and letting the fire fill the silence.

Harry’s hand lingered on his knee for a beat longer before he gave it a light tap and rose from the cot.

“You should get some rest,” he said, voice quieter now, careful.

Louis didn’t protest. He just nodded once, eyes following Harry as he stepped away, the door creaking slightly when it opened. A gust of cool air swept in, tousling the edges of Harry’s curls. He turned for just a moment at the threshold, eyes meeting Louis’s once more, soft and unreadable, before slipping out into the growing dusk.

The camp was slowly dimming as the day bled into night. The sky overhead was streaked in violet and dusty amber, the last light clinging to the horizon like it didn’t want to let go. Fires were being stoked, boots scuffed across the hard-packed dirt paths, and voices drifted low like wind through broken windows.

Harry moved quickly, heading toward the gate where he spotted Niall and Zayn, both half-silhouetted in the waning light. Niall was leaning against the gateframe, arms crossed, laughing at something Zayn was saying, his body relaxed but his eyes still sharp, always scanning. Zayn stood a few feet away, his arm still tucked into the makeshift sling Clara had crafted, posture more rigid but face etched in that usual calm—cool even now, after everything.

“Niall,” Harry called as he approached.

Both men looked up. Niall’s smile faded into something more attentive, more serious.

“What’s up?” Niall asked, already reading the tone in Harry’s voice.

Harry stopped in front of them, not bothering to lower his voice. The camp didn’t need secrets tonight—just action. “We need to go on a run. A quick one. Clara’s almost out of everything. If we’re going to move base, we can’t do it without a stockpile of meds.”

Niall rubbed at his jaw, eyes narrowing slightly. “Now?”

Harry nodded. “Tonight. There’s a gas station just east of here, me and Louis went through it on his first run. We didn’t clear the whole place. It had a small pharmacy section in the back. I’m willing to bet there’s still something left.”

Zayn looked at Niall, then back to Harry. His voice came low and tired. “You’re not wrong. If we get hit with even one outbreak or injury mid-move, it could break us.”

Niall let out a breath, looking over the fence like he could already see the darkness stretching out in front of them. “It’s gonna be dark in less than an hour, Harry. You sure you wanna risk that?”

“We can’t afford not to,” Harry said firmly, his voice steady but laced with urgency. “If we wait until morning, that station could be picked clean by someone else. Or worse, Lottie’s people. If there’s a chance it’s still untouched, I want to take it.”

Zayn adjusted his sling, wincing slightly. “I’ll talk to Luke and Ash. They’ve been itching for something to do. Might actually keep them from climbing the walls.”

Harry nodded, grateful, but still tense. “Tell them to meet at the gate in fifteen. Pack light, we’ll be quick in and out.”

Niall pushed off the wall, brushing dirt off his palms. “Don’t make this another Lottie situation,” he muttered, half a warning, half concern.

Harry met his gaze. “It won’t be.”

Niall held his stare a second longer, then gave a tight nod. “Fine. Go get your gear.”

Harry turned on his heel, the dusk deepening around him as he made his way across camp toward his tent. His heart was already pounding—not out of fear, not yet—but anticipation, that taut wire strung tight across his chest. He wasn’t thinking about himself, not really. He was thinking of Clara, her fingers trembling when she folded gauze she didn’t know she could replace. He was thinking of Louis, sitting by the fire with that stubborn pain hidden just beneath his skin. He was thinking of Ben.

Fifteen minutes.

Just enough time to grab his rifle, his blade, and the last of his hope.

Chapter Text

Harry stood just in front of the gate, slipping the strap of his rifle over his shoulder as he glanced back to where Niall was checking over the last of their supplies. Luke and Ash were already waiting, packs slung and flashlights clipped to their chests.

Before they moved out, Harry turned to Niall, voice low but steady.

"Don't tell Louis about this."

Niall looked up, eyes narrowing slightly as he zipped his coat higher. "Why?"

Harry glanced toward the trees beyond the wall, the darkness already starting to swallow the road ahead. "Because he'll worry," he said simply. "And he doesn't need that right now."

Niall studied him for a moment, then gave a short nod. "Alright. But don't make me lie to him."

"You won't have to," Harry said as he stepped through the gate, the creak of old metal swinging wide behind them. "We'll be back before anyone even notices."

The truck wasn't much—rusted sides, dented front fender, headlights that flickered—but it was reliable, and it rumbled to life with a growl as they climbed in. Harry slid into the driver's seat, Luke riding shotgun, Ash tucked in the back with the supplies. The sky was darkening fast, bleeding into navy and then black, stars barely peeking through the cloud cover above. The flashlight beams inside the cab cast long shadows, everything tinted with that eerie, too-quiet calm that came when the world fell asleep but danger didn't.

Harry's knuckles tightened on the wheel as he drove, eyes locked forward, the woods flying past them on either side like a tunnel of ghosts.

"You guys done many of these?" he asked, voice cutting through the hum of the engine.

Luke shrugged. "Been on a couple. Usually close to base. Nothing too bad."

Ash leaned forward slightly from the back. "This is my first."

Harry glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "Then listen carefully, yeah? No fuck-ups."

Ash gave a tight nod, jaw clenched.

"When it gets dark," Harry continued, shifting gears as they rolled down the narrow dirt path toward the old road, "they don't see well. But their hearing? It's different. I swear it's like... ten times sharper. So every footstep, every breath, you treat it like a shout."

Luke looked over at him. "You think they're out here?"

Harry's jaw ticked. "Could be. I swept through this place with Louis a few weeks back. It was quiet then. Doesn't mean it's still empty now."

They didn't speak for the rest of the drive. Just the sound of tires crunching gravel, branches scraping lightly against the sides of the truck, and the occasional click of Ash checking his flashlight.

When they finally reached the outskirts of the small town, everything felt even more still than it should've. The gas station stood crooked under the weight of time, its front sign hanging off one hinge, swinging gently in the wind. A couple of cars were still parked out front, tires flat, windshields smeared with old blood and moss. The air smelled like dust and damp concrete.

Harry parked with the headlights off, cutting the engine and stepping out into the dark with the flashlight already in hand. The silence pressed in, heavy and unnatural.

He looked at the station, then back to the two men.

"We're only going through this place," he said, voice firm. "No wandering, no detours. If it's not meds, don't touch it. We move fast."

He nodded at Luke. "You're with me."

Then turned to Ash. "You stay at the door. Keep your eyes wide. Ears wider. If you see anything, if you so much as hear a groan or a shuffle—you shout. Don't hesitate."

Ash nodded, swallowing. "Got it."

Harry gave one last glance toward the shadows stretching past the trees. The stars above were now veiled behind a thick patch of clouds, and the night settled fully around them like a weight. He felt it in his chest. That familiar thrum of risk. The instinct to protect, to return with what they needed, to make it back to camp with nothing more than sore muscles and full hands.

But he also felt something else—the echo of Louis's voice, the worry he hadn't said out loud, the trust he'd handed to Harry back in that cabin just hours ago.

He couldn't let him down now.

The cold stung more now that the wind had picked up, brushing through the branches like something watching, waiting. Harry moved first, crouching low as he signaled Luke and Ash to stay close behind him. The gravel crunched under their boots as they made their way across the lot, where a few old pumps still stood crooked like rusted-out tombstones. The canopy overhead groaned faintly in the breeze.

They were ten feet from the front entrance when Harry froze.

Three infected stumbled around near the side of the building—one limping on a twisted ankle, another dragging what used to be a sweater behind it like dead skin. The third had a bent neck, its head lolling at an odd angle, but its ears twitched like it heard something it couldn't quite place.

Harry didn't breathe. His hand slid down to the hilt of his knife.

Then he moved.

Quick, deliberate steps. One, two, three.

He grabbed the first by the collar of its filthy shirt and yanked it backward. The knife went clean into the base of its skull, a slick twist of motion that sent it collapsing in a heavy thud. The second one turned just in time to catch Harry's shoulder, but Harry drove his elbow into its chest and shoved it back against the wall, slicing his blade across its throat and then straight through its eye socket. The third lunged with a snarl, but Luke was already there—his blade striking through its jaw, shoving it to the ground with a grunt of effort.

Harry let out a sharp breath, wiping the blood from his knife onto his sleeve.

"That's more than there were last time," Luke said under his breath, eyes flicking over his shoulder. "They're starting to roam again."

Harry nodded once. "Yeah. That's why this is fast. Quiet. Grab what we need and get out."

He motioned for Ash to hold position near the broken window beside the door, then ducked inside with Luke behind him. The bell above the entrance had long been busted, but the soft crunch of shattered glass beneath their boots echoed louder than it should've in the eerie silence.

The inside of the gas station looked worse than before—racks overturned, floor littered with snack wrappers and bottles of expired energy drinks, glass cases smashed in like looters had been there already. The air was musty, thick with mildew and the faint stench of rot.

Ash took up post just outside the door, gripping his gun like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes darted constantly across the parking lot, where shadows swayed like bodies behind the misted glass.

Harry moved fast. His flashlight beam swept across a wall of shelves. There were scattered first aid kits, some half-empty, a few plastic boxes with off-brand bandages, a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He shoved everything usable into his bag, not bothering to sort it.

Luke nudged him and pointed toward the pharmacy section in the back—partially blocked by a collapsed shelving unit. Harry gave him a nod and together they climbed over it, careful not to knock over the bottles rolling beneath their boots.

They stepped into the dim backroom, walls lined with pill bottles, small drawers labeled with long-faded marker ink, most already raided. Harry pushed through the drawers anyway, scanning for anything sealed—painkillers, antibiotics, even vitamins. He found a dusty bottle of antiseptic and tucked it into his vest. Luke shoved a nearly full box of sterile gauze into Harry's hands, then turned and found a metal drawer with unopened surgical tape.

The tension in the room was thick, every breath shallow, every sound too loud. In the distance, muffled through the glass, a noise echoed—low and guttural. Neither of them stopped moving.

Then a sharp whistle cut through the quiet.

It was Ash.

Harry's head snapped up, heart spiking. The whistle came again, followed by a hiss of urgency.

"They're outside!" Ash called, his voice panicked but restrained. "A lot of them. Like... a lot."

Harry turned, already stuffing more boxes into his bag. "Grab what you've got!" he barked at Luke. "We're out in sixty seconds."

Luke didn't need to be told twice. He shoved the last bottle into his backpack and vaulted back over the collapsed shelf, Harry close behind him, bag heavy against his back. The closer they got to the exit, the more they could hear them—shuffling feet, the telltale groans, claws of fingernails against siding.

Ash stood just inside the door now, flashlight aimed at the parking lot. Shapes moved behind the fogged glass, bodies hunched and twitching, heads tilting, as if scenting the air.

"They're circling," Ash said, eyes wide. "One of them must've seen me breathe or something—"

Harry reached past him and flicked off the flashlight, plunging the station into near darkness except for the faint spill of moonlight through the broken windows.

"Stay calm," Harry said. "We go out slow, quiet. No shots unless absolutely necessary. Stick close, and whatever happens, don't run unless I say run."

Luke checked his knife again, face pale but steady. "We make for the truck?"

Harry nodded. "Truck. Then out of town. No stops."

Ash swallowed hard. "How many do you think are out there?"

Harry glanced at him, then at the shadows that had begun pressing against the outer glass. One palm smeared blood across it.

"Too many."

He looked between them, his voice low but sharp. "Get ready to move."

—

The fire crackled gently in the hearth, casting warm flickers of light across the cabin walls. Louis sat in the worn wooden chair nearest the flames, his hands wrapped loosely around a cup of cooling tea he hadn’t sipped in over ten minutes. His leg still ached, but not as much as the weight in his chest—the one that always seemed to linger when things were too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel earned, but borrowed. Temporary.

The cabin door creaked open behind him, letting in a rush of cooler air. Ben’s footsteps padded softly across the wooden floor, his small figure pausing halfway inside.

“Where’s Harry?” the boy asked, rubbing at one of his eyes, like he hadn’t meant to sound worried but couldn’t help it.

Louis blinked, turning toward him. “Should be somewhere around camp. Probably keeping busy,” he said, trying for casual but already uneasy with the question.

Ben shook his head. “I just saw him leave. In the truck. Not long ago.”

Louis stared at him for a beat, his brows pinching slightly as he set the mug down on the table beside him. “You’re sure?”

Ben nodded, looking up at him with those wide eyes that always saw more than he let on.

“Alright,” Louis said, voice quieter now. “Stay here, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Ben watched him leave without asking anything else.

Louis’s steps were fast and uneven as he crossed the camp, a limp cutting through his stride but not slowing him down. He passed the cooking tents and cabins without looking up, moving straight toward the communal dining area, where soft chatter still lingered under the faint flicker of lanterns. He spotted Niall by one of the tables, sleeves rolled up, wiping down surfaces while Eleanor dried dishes beside him.

“Niall,” Louis called, not loud, but firm.

Niall turned mid-laugh, his face relaxing when he saw Louis, but the smile faltered quickly.

“Hey—shouldn’t you be off that leg?” he asked, setting the rag down.

“Where’s Harry?” Louis asked, cutting straight through it.

Niall blinked, eyes flicking quickly to Eleanor, then back to Louis. “Uh, he turned in early. Long day—”

“Ben saw him leave,” Louis interrupted. “In the truck. Said it wasn’t long ago.”

Niall’s jaw shifted, tightening. “He—”

“Don’t,” Louis said, voice rising. “Don’t lie to me. Where the hell did he go?”

Niall hesitated, glancing at Eleanor who tactfully turned away, giving them the illusion of privacy. Finally, Niall sighed, rubbing a hand down his face.

“He went to get medical supplies. That little station you two found a few weeks ago. He figured it was now or never and asked me not to tell you.”

Louis felt like his stomach dropped out of his body. “He went on a run?” he repeated, voice somewhere between disbelief and panic. “In the dark?”

Niall looked guilty now. “He took Luke and Ash. Said they needed experience.”

“They’re kids,” Louis snapped, his voice sharp with fear more than anger. “Luke’s barely been outside the wall and Ash has never been on a damn run before!”

“Harry said it’d be quick. Just a grab-and-go,” Niall replied, but even he didn’t sound convinced anymore. “He didn’t want you to worry.”

Louis stared at him, jaw clenched, chest rising fast as panic settled deep into his bones. His hands curled into fists at his sides as he turned and stormed off without another word.

He walked until the voices behind him faded into nothing, until the fire at the center of camp came into view—its glow steady, but not warm enough to soothe the cold in his spine.

He sat down on one of the stools by the pit, the wood creaking under his weight. His hands rested on his knees, fingers twitching with restless energy. He fixed his eyes on the gate.

And waited.

Every flicker of shadow beyond the wall made his heart skip. Every rustle of leaves, every whisper of wind.

He didn’t know how long he sat there.

But he knew he wouldn’t move until that truck came back.

—

The groaning outside the gas station had become a chorus—low, guttural, hungry. Harry crouched just past the shelf of expired canned soup, breath shallow as he scanned the growing shadows moving along the shattered windows. The bodies pressed tighter against the glass, palms smearing blood across it, teeth bared in slack, ravenous mouths. Every second was louder than the last: the sound of cracking glass, the thud of shoulders hitting the walls, the groan of metal as the doorframe buckled.

“They’re gonna break through,” Luke whispered, knuckles white around his blade, eyes locked on the shuddering front wall.

Harry’s eyes flicked up to the ceiling, then around the narrow back of the shop. Then he saw it. Near the far corner, almost swallowed by shadows and stacked with toppled shelves, was a rusted red-painted door—an emergency exit.

He pointed quickly. “There. When the glass gives in, that’s our way out.”

Ash was still posted near the door, breathing fast, gun shaking in his grip. “What if they’re out there too?”

“They probably are,” Harry said, voice low but steady, “but not as many. This lot’s focused on the front. We use the chaos to slip past. You hear that glass pop, you run.”

Luke gave a tense nod, but Ash didn’t move.

The sound came fast. A crack like a rifle shot, then the wrenching groan of metal—and finally, the glass shattered all at once.

The infected poured through, hands reaching, limbs flailing, slipping on the broken glass but not stopping. Their bodies were packed in tight, spilling over the shelves in a grotesque wave.

“GO!” Harry shouted, throwing himself into the nearest one, driving his knife deep into its neck, jerking it free with practiced force. Luke lunged forward, cutting another one down, while Ash fired—two, three deafening shots into the mass. One bullet missed and slammed into a display case, glass exploding around them.

“Watch your aim!” Harry yelled, dragging Ash back by the collar as another infected launched toward them. It clipped Harry’s shoulder with its claws before he shoved it down, his blade slicing straight across its face.

They sprinted for the emergency exit, Harry using his weight to shove over one of the fallen shelves, temporarily blocking the horde behind them. It wouldn't last. The mass was too dense, the pressure from behind too heavy.

The back door was rusted shut, but Luke kicked at the handle until it groaned open just enough to squeeze through. Cold air hit them hard, moonlight spilling across the overgrown alley behind the station.

Harry turned just in time to see three more infected rounding the corner, drawn by the noise. He lunged forward, his arm wrapping around one’s throat, dragging it back and stabbing upward beneath its jaw. Another grabbed at Luke, and Harry threw his weight into it, tackling it to the ground and driving his blade through its chest, breath ragged as blood coated his hands.

"Go!" Harry barked, grabbing the duffel bag of supplies off his shoulder and tossing it at Luke. The weight hit him hard.

“What—what are you doing?” Luke shouted, stumbling back as Harry dug in again, stabbing another infected that had latched onto his arm.

Harry ripped his truck keys from his coat pocket and tossed them next. “Take the bag. Get in the truck. Go back to camp!”

Ash hesitated at the edge of the alley, eyes wide with disbelief. “No—no, we’re not leaving you!”

Harry’s breath came fast and sharp as another infected lunged. He slammed it against the wall and drove his blade into its skull, twisting until it fell limp in his hands. His hair was soaked with sweat, blood streaked his neck, his fingers slick and trembling—but his eyes were fire, fierce and commanding.

“I said go!” he growled, teeth clenched. “Get those meds back. Don’t waste what we just fucking risked our lives for!”

Luke looked like he might cry, jaw trembling, but he grabbed Ash by the sleeve and yanked him toward the road. They hesitated one last second, watching Harry—still standing, still swinging—as the horde swarmed closer through the shadows.

“Harry!” Luke called out, voice cracking.

“I’ll find my way back,” Harry snapped, eyes locking with his. “Now run.”

And they did.

Harry could hear the truck engine sputter to life behind the gas station. Gravel kicked up under the tires, a sharp spin of wheels cutting through the stillness of the night. He caught a glimpse of Luke behind the wheel, Ash climbing in on the passenger side, both of their faces pale and blurred in the moonlight. The sound of the truck peeled away, fading down the cracked road toward the tree line—away from this chaos.

And Harry was still standing in it.

He turned, his breath ragged in the cold air, chest rising and falling with the weight of every swing. Infected were stumbling over the bodies already on the ground, their limbs contorted, eyes gleaming with that mindless hunger. They were coming faster now—drawn by the scent, by the noise, by the sheer weight of movement. And Harry ran.

Not toward the road.

But deeper into the alleyway.

He moved fast, ducking between the piles of trash and broken crates, his boots slamming against the concrete with wet smacks. He could hear them behind him—groans, snarls, the squelch of bare feet dragging through mud and blood. He reached the fence at the far end, the one leading to a rusted maintenance corridor, and turned sharply into it, forcing himself to keep breathing, keep moving.

"Come on then!" he shouted over his shoulder, the sound echoing off the alley walls like a war cry. "Come get me, you crusty fucks!"

They followed.

The horde turned the corner, a tangle of limbs and teeth and gashed flesh, and Harry waited—just a second too long. One grabbed his sleeve, yanking him sideways into the wall, his shoulder slamming hard against the brick. He cried out but didn’t drop the knife, and before the infected could sink its teeth into his neck, he whipped around, driving the blade deep into the side of its head. Blood splattered across his cheek. He didn’t flinch.

Another came from his blind spot and he spun, slicing hard and fast, the sound of metal cracking bone, the body crumpling at his feet. They just kept coming.

But so did he.

Every step he took led them farther from where the truck had gone. He could still see the glint of taillights in the distance, a smear of red blinking between trees, growing fainter by the second.

That meant Luke and Ash made it out.

That was enough.

"Yeah, you like this, don’t you?" he panted, voice gritty and low as he shoved another body down, his foot crunching into its ribcage as he twisted the knife free. "Smelled blood, didn’t you? Thought I’d be an easy one?"

His hands were slick now—sweat and gore making it harder to grip the hilt—but he tightened his fingers around it, eyes wild, adrenaline lighting him up from the inside.

The alley narrowed, and Harry knew it was a dead end. He skidded to a stop just before the far wall and turned, backing against the brick, chest heaving. A few had caught up—maybe six or seven—and they filled the alley like smoke, slow and crawling forward. One of them had no jaw, just a raw, hanging mess. Another still had a utility vest on, half-rotted, the flashlight clipped to it flickering on and off.

Harry licked the blood from his lip, his laugh short and breathless.

"You don’t get to win tonight," he whispered, raising his knife.

They lunged, and he met them head-on.

His blade went through the nearest one’s temple, twisting just as another grabbed his shoulder. He let it, using the momentum to shove it backward, his knee slamming into its gut. Another one clawed at his arm, and he yanked himself free with a snarl, spinning the knife in his hand before burying it in its spine.

They fell like wet paper, collapsing into one another, and Harry kept moving, ducking, swinging, stumbling, stabbing. His side burned, and his ankle was slick where something sharp had grazed him earlier, but he didn’t stop.

Not until the last one was twitching at his feet.

Not until the only sounds left were his own gasps and the drip of blood onto concrete.

He leaned forward, one hand braced against the wall, sweat soaking through his shirt, arms shaking. The moon lit the alley in a ghostly blue, and the silence pressed down again—thick, uneasy, almost sacred.

He didn't speak. Just stood there, bloody and winded, chest rising like a bellows, jaw clenched tight. Every muscle in his body screamed, but his mind—his mind only thought of Louis, of Ben, of the way Louis’s eyes had softened back in the cabin when he’d smiled at Harry like he actually believed in him.

And that had to be enough.

He wiped his face with the back of his arm, took one final breath, and pushed off the wall.

The silence was fleeting.

It always was.

Because the second his boots crunched across the gravel backlot of the gas station, he heard it—a sound like rustling leaves at first, distant but deliberate. Then a groan. Then another. Not the slow shuffle of one or two, but the thick, shuddering moan of many. The kind of sound that made the hair on his arms stand straight up.

His stomach dropped.

Harry turned toward the noise just as they rounded the corner of the building—ten, maybe twelve of them, their forms blotting out the starlight like a tide of decay. Some dragged feet, some staggered unnaturally fast, and one of them had something still lodged in its shoulder, like it had been hit and just kept moving anyway. Their eyes found him at once, soulless and shining in the dark, and the nearest one let out a screech that pierced the air like shattering glass.

“Shit,” Harry breathed, backing up fast, hand scrambling at his belt for the backup blade.

The weight of the last fight was catching up to him now. His arms shook. His side throbbed. But they were coming, and he wasn’t about to let them take him.

He charged first.

Because if they were going to get him, they’d have to work for it.

His knife sank into the first one’s chest, but it didn’t stop moving—not right away. It clawed at him, bony fingers scraping across his neck, and he let out a roar as he shoved it back and slashed at its throat. Another grabbed his arm from the side, its mouth yawning open too close to his face. He twisted violently, using its own weight to flip it into the dirt before slamming his knee into its skull, crushing it under pressure.

But more came.

Too many.

They circled faster than he expected, one catching the back of his shirt and yanking him off balance. He hit the ground hard, dust and rot in his mouth, his ribs screaming in protest. Two were already on top of him—one pinning his arm, the other snarling, teeth gnarled and wet as it lunged toward his throat.

“No—no, no—” he growled, thrashing with everything he had left, kicking, writhing, fingers desperately clawing for his blade.

He found it.

Slammed it into the side of the infected’s face, twisting until it fell sideways with a gurgle. The one holding his arm snarled, scratching deep into his bicep, but Harry rolled and kicked off the wall of the building, slamming both feet into its chest until it toppled backwards. He scrambled to his feet, blade gripped tight, and staggered backward just as another came at him from the side.

This one knocked him sideways into the hood of a rusted-out car, the sharp edge of the fender splitting the skin on his hip. He cried out, barely able to breathe, but turned in time to drive the blade up through the creature’s chin. Blood sprayed across his face, warm and slick, and he shoved it away with a howl, stumbling back into the open.

His vision blurred. His knees buckled.

He looked up—and they were still coming.

Still more. Two… no, three. One faster than the rest. One that smelled more like wet earth than flesh, its head tilted like it had once been a man who listened.

Harry could barely lift his arms now.

His knife shook in his grip.

He braced himself.

He knew it wasn’t going to be clean.

He knew it wasn’t going to be quick.

But if this was it, if this was the end—

He was going to take as many of them as he could with him.

He took one breath, one last desperate breath, the kind that rattled through every crack in his ribs.

—

The night had settled thick over camp, stars dulled by the low-hanging clouds, wind picking up in slow, sighing gusts that rattled through the trees. Louis hadn’t moved from his place by the fire pit, hadn’t spoken, hadn’t blinked much. His leg ached, but it was a distant throb compared to the pulse hammering in his ears. Every flicker beyond the wall made him flinch. Every second stretched thinner than the last.

Then he heard it.

The low, familiar growl of the truck engine, rumbling up the dirt path just outside the wall. His head snapped toward the gate, heart slamming into his ribs. The creak of metal followed, the gate sliding open just enough for the truck to squeeze through, headlights cutting through the dark like twin beacons. Louis was on his feet before he realized he’d moved, limp forgotten, pain forgotten. His boots hit the ground hard as he moved toward the entrance, breath lodged in his throat.

The truck rolled to a stop.

Luke was the first to get out, face pale, blood on his hands that didn’t look like his. He was holding two bags, one clutched tight in each hand. Ash followed, climbing down slower, visibly shaken, eyes wide and unfocused. Louis scanned the truck bed. Then the cab.

No Harry.

He stopped dead in front of Luke, grabbing his arm before the boy could take a step toward the supply tents. “Where is he?”

Luke froze, his mouth opening, but no words came out at first.

“Where the hell is Harry?” Louis asked again, voice cracking now, harsher, tighter, more fragile.

Luke’s eyes dropped. “He… he stayed back.”

“What?” Louis blinked, not understanding.

“There was a hoard,” Luke said quietly, his voice thin and shaky. “We got what we needed, but they swarmed the place. He made us run—tossed me the keys and the bags and told us to go.”

Louis stared at him like the words weren’t registering, like they were in a different language entirely. Then it hit. All at once.

“You left him?” Louis said, voice loud now, raw. “You fucking left him out there?!”

“He told us to,” Luke said, flinching. “He made us go.”

“We don’t leave people behind!” Louis shouted, his fists clenched at his sides, his body shaking. “You should’ve fought! You should’ve stayed and fought with him!”

“There were too many!” Ash blurted, eyes wet now. “He was trying to save us—he was buying us time—”

“How bad was it?” Louis snapped, cutting Ash off, turning back to Luke. “The hoard. How bad?”

Luke looked like he was going to be sick. “Bad. Like... the kind we’ve only heard stories about.”

Louis stumbled back a step, a choked sound escaping him as his chest clenched tight. He turned without a word and started walking, fast, half-limping toward the edge of camp.

“Louis—” Luke called after him.

“I’m going,” Louis said without turning around, his voice already breaking.

He didn’t make it far.

Liam sprinted across the clearing, stepping in front of him, blocking his path. “Louis, stop—”

“Move,” Louis snapped.

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere.”

“Move, Liam—please.” Louis shoved weakly at his chest. “He’s out there. In the dark. I—he could be—”

He broke off, his breath hitching hard. His voice dropped into something hollow and small. “He could be dead.”

“He’s not,” Liam said quickly, hands steady on Louis’s shoulders. “It’s Harry. He’s strong. He’s made it through worse. You know he has.”

Louis shook his head, tears streaming freely now as he sagged against Liam’s grip. “You don’t understand. You didn’t see what he looked like before he left. He was tired. He was already—already at his limit and I let him go and now he’s gone—”

“He’s not gone,” Liam said, firmer now, locking eyes with him. “Not until we know. And knowing him? He’s probably still out there, carving a path through every last one of them. That’s what Harry does. He fights. He survives.”

Louis couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop the panic from rattling every nerve in his body. But Liam didn’t let go. Just kept him upright, his grip grounding even as Louis’s heart threatened to collapse.

“We’ll find him,” Liam whispered. “I promise. But not like this. Not with you barely standing. We wait. We keep watch. He’s coming back.”

Louis didn’t respond, didn’t nod or argue. He just stood there in the cold, tears streaking down his cheeks, eyes locked on the path where the truck had returned—and where Harry hadn’t.

Chapter Text

The morning light was grey and reluctant, bleeding slowly over the tree line as though even the sun was unsure if it wanted to rise on a day like this. Camp stirred faintly in the distance, the soft shuffle of boots in dirt and the low clang of pots echoing like distant thunder. But near the fire pit—now only a ring of ashen, cold embers—there was stillness.

Louis hadn't moved all night.

His hands were numb where they'd rested against his knees, his hoodie drawn tight around his chest but offering little warmth now. The fire had died sometime around three, maybe earlier—he wasn't sure. Time had blurred into something weightless, something cruel. He hadn't blinked much. His eyes were dry, but there was a stinging behind them that hadn't gone away. He was just there. Watching the gate like it might open if he stared hard enough. Like he could will Harry back through it by sheer desperation.

He didn't hear the footsteps behind him until something soft brushed over his shoulders.

Eleanor draped a blanket around him gently, tucking it in with a care that felt almost motherly. Her touch was quiet. Patient. She didn't say anything at first, just stood beside him, her hands lingering briefly on the edge of the blanket before sliding away.

"You've been out here all night?" she finally asked, voice soft with concern.

Louis didn't look at her. He just nodded, and she caught the faint sniffle as he swallowed it down, hard.

"You okay?" she asked.

He blinked slowly, trying to pretend his eyes weren't glassing over. "No," he whispered, the word barely there. "Not really."

Eleanor sat down beside him, folding her arms tight around her own chest against the morning chill. She didn't speak right away. Just looked toward the gate like he was, her gaze tracing the outline of the trees still cloaked in mist.

"You must really care about him," she said eventually, gently. "Harry."

Louis let out a shaky breath, his jaw clenched like it was the only thing holding him together. He nodded once. "Yeah," he said. "I do."

His voice cracked at the end, so quiet it felt like it didn't belong to him.

Eleanor didn't pry, didn't push, just nodded softly and reached out to squeeze his hand where it poked out from under the blanket. "I'll grab you something warm to eat. You need it."

Louis didn't argue. But as she stood to leave, he turned his head slightly, his voice small again. "Can you check on Ben too? Make sure he eats. He doesn't always ask."

Eleanor paused, giving him a soft smile, her eyes flicking briefly to his before she nodded. "Of course. I'll make sure he's alright."

Louis watched her go, his throat thick. The blanket around his shoulders felt too heavy and too light all at once, like it was trying to hold in everything he didn't have words for.

And still, his eyes stayed on the gate.

The cabin was still dim when Eleanor reached the door, the light from the overcast sky outside barely seeping through the small window. She had a tray balanced carefully in her hands—two tin bowls of warm oatmeal sweetened with what little honey they had left, the steam rising in delicate curls. She hesitated before knocking, once, twice, soft enough not to startle.

Then she let herself in.

The door creaked quietly, the hinges always a little too loud in the silence. Inside, Ben sat curled up on the cot, knees tucked tight to his chest, his oversized sweater hanging off one shoulder. His hair was rumpled from sleep, and his eyes, still swollen from the night before, found her the second she stepped through the doorway.

"Good morning," Eleanor said gently, setting the tray down on the small table near the bed. "I brought breakfast. It's still warm."

Ben didn't move for a second. He just watched her with that same quiet heaviness Louis had the night before, a weight far too large for a child to carry. Then he unfolded his arms and reached for the bowl with both hands, careful, like he didn't want to drop it.

"Thank you," he murmured.

Eleanor crouched down beside the bed so she was closer to eye level, watching him with a smile that was soft but a little forced. "Louis didn't come back last night," Ben said suddenly, his voice thin.

Her heart pulled, but she kept her tone steady. "He was helping out in the medical tent," she said. "There were a few people who needed him. I think it kept him busy all night."

Ben looked at her, then back down at the oatmeal, poking his spoon into the center. "Oh," he said.

"And Harry?" he asked a second later, almost too quiet.

Eleanor paused. She kept her face still, calm. "He's sleeping," she replied. "Had a long day yesterday, so he needed a little extra rest."

Ben didn't say anything after that, just nodded and brought the spoon to his mouth. The cabin was quiet aside from the sound of his chewing, and Eleanor moved to stand again, brushing her hands off against her coat.

But just as she turned toward the door, Ben's voice stopped her.

"Can you stay?" he asked. "While I eat?"

Eleanor turned, surprised by how small he sounded. He didn't look at her, didn't even lift his head, but his fingers were white-knuckled around the bowl, and his eyes were glassy again.

She stepped back to the chair without saying a word and sat beside him. "Of course," she said softly. "I'll stay as long as you need."

She watched him for a moment—watched the way he ate slowly, like every bite was something to be earned, like it might disappear if he wasn't careful. There was something about the stillness in him that reminded her of Louis. The way they both carried their worry like armor.

She folded her hands in her lap and stared out the window, letting the silence sit between them. Letting it be enough.

—

The wind had shifted since sunrise, carrying with it the faintest scent of decay from beyond the wall. Louis was still at the firepit, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, staring into the ring of white ash where flames had once lived. His leg throbbed, his back ached, and his eyes felt hollow from a night of staring, hoping, begging for movement at the gate.

Then, finally—creak. The gates stirred.

Louis's head snapped up, heart in his throat, breath catching.

But it wasn't Harry.

It was just Joel, one of the outer guards, slipping through with a machete in one hand and a sigh in the other, heading toward a couple of wandering infected shambling too close to the perimeter.

Louis groaned under his breath, fingers gripping his thighs as he pushed himself to his feet, blanket sliding off his shoulders and crumpling to the ground. He stormed off across the dirt path, not even acknowledging Liam and Niall as he passed, but his voice cut sharp as flint.

"Meeting. Now."

Liam and Niall exchanged a look but followed without question, both jogging slightly to keep pace with his uneven stride. Niall whistled over to where Zayn sat cleaning a blade near the mess tent. "Zayn—meeting room, now."

They all slipped into the canvas-covered space that served as the camp's meeting shelter, the air still cool inside. The chairs scraped against the floor as they settled. Louis didn't sit. He didn't even pace. He stood near the end of the table like it might keep him anchored to the ground.

"Alright," he started, voice calm in a way that was deceptive. Dangerous. "Who thought it was a brilliant idea to let Harry go on a run last night?"

No one spoke.

Louis's glare cut into Niall first.

Niall rubbed the back of his neck. "He said it would be quick. In and out. A grab and go. Clara needed the meds, and it—he made it sound important."

Louis barked out a humorless laugh. "Right. Important. You know what's more important than meds? Him not fucking dying."

Niall opened his mouth but didn't respond. Zayn leaned forward instead, arms crossed.

"Look. Harry's strong," Zayn said. "We all know that. He's made it out of worse, and he didn't go alone. He took two others. It wasn't reckless."

Louis turned on him like a storm.

"Yeah? You want to talk about reckless? Because here's the part you all keep ignoring—he's alone now." His voice shook, rising. "Because dumbfuck and dumbass bailed the second things got hard and left him behind!"

"Louis," Liam said gently, "you need to calm down a bit—"

"No," Louis snapped. "No, I don't need to calm down. You want to talk about calm? Calm was six hours ago. Calm was when I thought maybe, maybe, he'd just stayed out 'til dawn. That maybe he was resting. But it's past morning, and he's still not here."

The tent was silent except for the wind pushing faintly against the fabric.

Louis's voice dropped, but it trembled with rage. "Do I need to remind you that there's not just infected out there? That my psychotic sister has people? Armed people? People who know how to move in the dark? Who could be hiding right now in trees, or behind brush, ready to take a shot or a knife to the back, and Harry's alone out there?"

Liam stood, his brow furrowed, voice gentle. "He's going to be okay, Louis."

"Stop saying that!" Louis yelled. "You don't know that! None of you do! He's been out there all goddamn night and we're sitting here like it's just another fucking Tuesday!"

The others were quiet.

Louis shook his head, his throat thick, eyes glassy but defiant.

"If he's not back by sundown, I'm going," he said coldly. "I don't care if you try to stop me."

Niall leaned forward, worried. "Louis, you're not—your leg—"

"I don't care." His voice cracked but didn't waver. "If he doesn't show up ever, or if I find out he's dead, then Luke and Ash better hope I never see them around this camp again. Because I swear to God—"

He didn't finish. He didn't have to.

The look on his face said enough.

He turned and walked out of the tent, the flap snapping shut behind him. The others didn't follow. They sat in stunned silence, unsure if anything they said would even matter now.

Louis made his way back toward the firepit, each step heavier than the last. The sun was just beginning to climb, casting long shadows across the camp.

He hadn't made it far past the firepit before he heard soft, hurried footsteps crunching over the dirt behind him. Louis didn't turn around. He didn't have it in him.

"Louis," Eleanor called gently, and he felt her fall into step beside him.

When he finally glanced over, she was holding out a tin bowl of oatmeal, steam rising off the top in lazy curls, a wooden spoon tucked inside.

"Here's that breakfast I promised," she said, nudging it into his hands. "And... I made sure Ben ate too. He actually fell back asleep."

Louis took the bowl automatically, his hands trembling slightly where they curled around the metal. "Thanks," he said quietly. His voice was rough, brittle at the edges. He didn't look at her.

Eleanor hesitated, eyes flicking across his tired face before speaking again. "He asked about you. And Harry."

That made Louis finally look up, blinking hard. "What'd you tell him?"

"I told him you were helping in the medical tent," she said softly. "And that Harry was sleeping."

Louis let out a slow breath, the spoon clinking gently against the side of the bowl as he nodded. "Good," he murmured. "I don't want him to worry."

Eleanor watched him for a long moment. The wind picked up slightly, rustling the edges of the tarp above them, and still she didn't move.

"I've never seen you care about someone this much," she said eventually, her tone delicate but not teasing. "Not since the kids."

Louis swallowed hard, gaze locked on the oatmeal in front of him like it might offer some kind of escape. "He's my friend," he said, quiet but firm. "And we've... we've gotten really close the past few weeks."

Eleanor didn't interrupt, didn't press. She just waited.

Louis's throat worked around the words. "It's not just that we've been surviving together," he went on, barely above a whisper. "It's that he's always there. Steady. He watches out for people, even when he's got nothing left in him. He... he watches out for me."

His voice cracked at the end, and he shook his head, trying to blink away the sting building behind his eyes. "I don't know what I'd do if something happened to him."

Eleanor placed a gentle hand on his arm, squeezing once. "You're not going to have to find out."

Louis didn't answer. He just stood there with the bowl cooling in his hands, the weight of what-if sitting heavy in his chest.

—

Branches clawed at his sleeves and the soles of his boots caught on half-buried roots as he dragged himself through the woods. Harry's breathing was uneven, each inhale sharp against the tight ache in his side. His left ankle had swollen sometime in the night, forcing him to lean more of his weight on the thick branch he'd hacked from a tree with the last bit of strength in his arm. He used it now like a makeshift cane, knuckles white around the bark.

A bag he found, slung over his shoulder bounced with every step, heavier than he remembered. It was filled with whatever he'd managed to salvage from a forgotten outpost he stumbled upon before dawn—bandages, gauze, alcohol, a few tins of food, half a bottle of antibiotics. He didn't even know if most of it would be usable, but it had kept him moving. That and the thought of Louis's face when he walked back through that gate alive.

He stayed off the road. The silence of the trees was safer than the sound of tires on gravel, safer than becoming a silhouette in someone's scope.

Still, the forest offered no kindness.

His foot caught a hidden log. He went down hard, the stick slipping from his hand and the weight of the bag yanking his shoulder as he hit the ground.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, teeth gritted as he rolled onto his back, staring up at the gray sky through trembling lashes. For a second he didn't move. He just breathed. Then, with a hiss of pain and a deep groan, he pushed himself upright and reached for the stick again.

He wasn't far now. He could feel it in his bones.

Back at camp, Louis sat hunched forward at the firepit, his fingers twitching absently as he twirled his knife between them. The fire crackled softly now, finally revived, the warmth licking at his shins but doing nothing to ease the ache in his chest. His eyes were sunken with exhaustion, hair sticking up from running his hands through it all night, mouth tight as he stared into the flames without seeing them.

The gate creaked in the distance.

Louis barely blinked at first, assuming it was another guard or patrol shift, but then—

"Gate!" someone called.

His head snapped up.

And there, framed between the wooden beams and the slowly widening entrance, was a figure limping through the foggy light, clothes torn, face streaked with dirt and blood and sweat.

"Harry?" Louis whispered to himself.

The stick. The hair. The silhouette he knew better than his own shadow.

"Oh my god," Louis breathed, scrambling to his feet.

His leg screamed in protest, but he didn't hear it. His body was already moving, already surging forward. He pushed through the pain like it was background noise, like it wasn't real, because nothing else mattered now—not his leg, not the night, not the fire or the sky or the eyes that turned to watch him as he bolted across camp.

He reached Harry just as he crossed into the gate, and without a second of hesitation, Louis threw his arms around him.

The impact nearly knocked Harry off balance, his stick slipping sideways, but he grunted and caught himself just in time, one hand instinctively wrapping around Louis's back, the other gripping tight to the fabric of his jacket.

Louis clung to him like something sacred, like something long lost and finally found, his face buried in Harry's shoulder. His breath hitched audibly against his neck, a mix of relief and panic unspooling all at once.

"Jesus Christ," Louis mumbled, voice cracking. "You—fuck, I thought—"

Harry didn't say anything for a long moment. He just held Louis there in the middle of camp, the early light spilling across them, the faint hum of shocked voices around them fading into silence.

Eventually, Harry whispered, his voice hoarse and warm against Louis's temple, "I told you I'd come back."

Louis held on just a second longer, letting the moment stretch, letting the world stay quiet and still, just for them. His fingers curled tighter into Harry's jacket as if to make sure he was real. When he finally pulled back, his hands didn't drop far—one stayed pressed to Harry's arm, the other falling to his waist, anchoring him there.

His eyes flicked over every inch of Harry's face and then dropped to the rest of him.

The dried blood streaking down from his temple. The scratch marks across his neck and collarbone. The dirt ground into his palms and under his nails. The sleeve torn at the seam, his pant leg soaked to the knee in dark, crusted red.

Louis's stomach twisted.

"Are you—" he stopped, voice catching. "Harry, are you bit?"

Harry shook his head quickly, already breathless from just standing. "No. I swear. Just scraped up. Nothing broke the skin deep enough to—"

Louis exhaled harshly through his nose and nodded, but didn't let go of him. He looked down at the bag Harry still clutched in one hand, heavy and sagging against his side, and reached out to thumb the flap open.

"What's this?"

"Found it," Harry said, chest rising and falling fast. "Outpost off the back trail. No one was there. I—I just raided what I could. Some meds, antiseptic, a bit of food. Found a few things in the houses nearby too."

He knelt a little, grunting as he shifted the bag and reached inside. "Thought Ben might like these."

Louis watched as Harry pulled out a small plastic dinosaur, its green paint chipped on one side, and a deck of playing cards bound with a rubber band.

For a second, Louis just stared.

Then a smile cracked across his face, quiet and full of something soft that hurt to feel. "You thought about Ben?"

Harry shrugged. "Figured if I was out there, might as well bring something back for the kid."

Louis swallowed hard, eyes stinging all over again—but this time for a different reason. He reached out, gently pried the bag from Harry's hand and slung it over his own shoulder.

Then, without asking, without hesitating, he slipped an arm around Harry's waist, tugging him in close.

"Come on," Louis said, his voice low. "Medical tent. You're not gonna last five more minutes on your feet like this."

"I'm fine—"

"Harry," Louis cut in, eyes locking with his. "Let me do this. Just let me take care of you."

Harry didn't fight it after that.

He let Louis lead him across camp, limping beside him, his side pressed close. Louis kept his grip firm, like he was afraid Harry might vanish again if he loosened it even slightly. He didn't care who saw. Didn't care that people were watching from tents and windows and doorways, whispering or staring.

The moment they stepped through the flap, Clara turned from her cabinet of dwindling supplies, and when her eyes landed on Harry, she let out a soft gasp.

"Jesus Christ," she breathed, dropping the cloth she'd been folding.

Harry lifted a hand, weakly waving the bag he'd hauled back with him. "Brought you your shopping list."

Clara didn't smile. Her eyes flicked to the blood dried in the hollow of his throat, to the way he leaned heavy into Louis. "At what cost, though?" she said, already crossing the tent to clear off a cot. "You look like you lost a fight to a meat grinder."

"Only lost a round or two," Harry muttered, smirking faintly as he dropped onto the cot with a wince. "Think I won the war."

Louis didn't move far. He stayed right beside the cot, close enough that Harry could feel the warmth of him, the tremble still lingering in his fingers. When he pulled up a stool and sat, it wasn't quiet or casual. It was stubborn. Intentional. Harry looked over at him once, that lopsided grin still tugging at his lips, but Louis didn't meet it.

Clara rolled up Harry's sleeve and hissed under her breath at the angry gash along his bicep. "This one needs a few stitches."

"Don't hold back," Harry said, trying for humor, but his jaw was already tight.

Clara ignored him and grabbed her tools.

The antiseptic burned, and Harry flinched hard when it touched his skin, his knuckles going white as they gripped the edge of the cot. Louis shifted forward, elbow on his knee, gaze steady.

"You wanna tell me what the hell happened out there?" he asked, voice low.

Harry exhaled through gritted teeth. "Too many infected. Whole pack was just... waiting. Silent until they weren't. Luke and Ash made it out. I gave them the keys."

Louis's throat worked. "And you stayed."

"I had to."

Clara didn't pause her work, threading the needle with practiced precision. "You ever think about letting someone else take the heroic act for once?"

Harry smirked again, though it faltered when the needle bit into his skin. "Control freak," he muttered. "Occupational hazard."

The first stitch pulled tight. Harry hissed and bit down on the inside of his cheek.

Louis's fingers tapped against his knee, restless. "You're lucky to be alive," he said after a moment.

Harry turned his head slightly, just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark and tired, but the way they landed on Louis held weight. "I didn't think I'd make it," he admitted quietly. "But I kept thinking about you. About Ben. About what you'd do if..."

Louis looked down at the floor, jaw clenched so tight it ached. "Don't," he said, voice sharp.

Harry went quiet. Clara started the second stitch.

"You don't get to scare the shit out of me and then casually say you almost died," Louis said, more steady now, even as his voice softened.

Harry swallowed, his gaze lingering on Louis's profile. "Okay," he said simply.

Clara finished the last stitch and sat back, nodding in approval. "That's the worst of it. You'll need to rest, hydrate, and stay still. Which, judging by your reputation, you'll ignore entirely."

Harry flashed a weak grin. "I'll behave."

"You better," Clara muttered, standing to grab a clean wrap for his ankle. "Or I'm telling Ben you didn't bring him anything."

"Hey—" Harry leaned over slightly, reaching for the bag, but Louis got to it first, pulling out the small dinosaur toy and setting it aside.

"I'll give it to him," Louis said, eyes finally meeting Harry's. "You're not going anywhere for a while."

Harry didn't argue.

He just leaned back into the cot, his eyes heavy, his body bruised and stitched and half-broken—but whole.

The flap of the tent rustled quietly behind them as Clara stepped out, giving them space without a word, just a glance between the two of them and a soft nod in Louis's direction. The light dimmed a little once she was gone, leaving only the low lantern glow and the thick silence that settled in its place.

Louis shifted in his seat, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped, watching Harry struggle to adjust himself on the cot. He waited until Harry stilled, face pinched in pain, before speaking.

"You shouldn't have gone."

Harry didn't look at him. He rolled his head toward the ceiling, brow furrowed as he exhaled through his nose. "I promised you I'd try to get a run in for those supplies."

Louis turned his head, the corner of his mouth twitching—not in amusement. "Yeah, well, I didn't think you'd turn it into a suicide mission that same night."

Harry winced as he tried to sit a little straighter, groaning softly before giving up and slumping back into the cot. "I keep my promises," he said, voice quieter now. "Maybe that's stupid. But I do."

Louis leaned back in the chair, rubbing at his jaw. "Next time you get the brilliant idea to throw yourself into danger like that," he muttered, "I'm coming with you."

Harry gave him a look, one brow raised.

"I'm serious," Louis added, more firmly. "You're not doing that again. Not without me."

There was a beat of silence, the kind that might've been argumentative, if it weren't for how tired Harry looked—how tired he was.

Louis's tone shifted as he leaned back, eyes flicking to the bag still resting near the cot. "By the way, I called Luke and Ash dumbfuck and dumbass for leaving you behind."

Harry huffed out something between a laugh and a wince. "I told them to go. Thought it'd be easier if I distracted the hoard and they just got the hell out."

Louis raised an eyebrow. "Then that makes you the dumbfuck and dumbass combined."

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Louis had already stood, stepping over to grab the chipped green dinosaur. He held it for a moment, staring at the tiny toy in his hand like it was a fragile, living thing, then turned toward the exit.

He didn't get far.

Harry's fingers curled gently around his wrist, a soft but unrelenting grip that made Louis stop just short of pushing through the tent flap. He didn't turn right away. Just looked down at Harry's hand, warm against his skin, before lifting his eyes.

Harry was watching him, something tired and raw written all over his face.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Louis's brow furrowed slightly. "For what?"

"For making you worry like that," Harry said, his voice low, his words weighed down with a sincerity Louis hadn't expected. "I told Niall not to say anything. I didn't want you to... stress. Thought if it was quick, I'd be back before anyone even noticed."

He gave a weak, bitter smile. "Guess that backfired."

Louis stared at him for a moment, jaw clenched, the dinosaur still in his hand.

"You scared the shit out of me," he said, barely more than a whisper.

Harry's grip on his wrist didn't tighten, didn't ease. It just stayed there. Solid. Real.

"I know," he said. "I know. And I'm sorry."

Louis finally looked away, exhaling slowly through his nose. He didn't pull his arm back, didn't shake Harry off. He just stood there in the warm hush of the tent, the weight of everything pressing into the small space between them.

Then, after a moment, Louis squeezed Harry's fingers once before stepping out—dinosaur in hand, heart still somewhere in that room.

Chapter Text

Louis stepped through the door of his cabin, the hinges creaking softly in the quiet afternoon light, the dinosaur still warm in his hand. He blinked a few times against the haze behind his eyes, brushing his knuckles quickly across his cheek before walking further inside.

Ben was perched on the edge of the bed, hair a mess of sleep from his nap, blinking groggily at him. When Louis crouched down and held out the little green toy, Ben's face lit up, all traces of tiredness falling away.

"Where'd you get that?" Ben asked, voice scratchy with sleep, small hands reaching out eagerly.

Louis smiled as he placed it in Ben's palms, watching the way Ben cradled it like it was the rarest, most precious thing in the world. "Harry found it for you," Louis said, his voice soft, rough around the edges. "Said he thought you might like it."

Ben looked up at him with wide eyes, toy clutched against his chest. "Where's Harry?"

Louis swallowed the lump rising in his throat, forcing a smile as he brushed a hand over Ben's hair, smoothing it down. "He's gettin' some rest," Louis said gently. "Had a big night. But you'll see him later, yeah?"

Ben nodded, seeming satisfied enough with that, immediately turning his attention to the dinosaur. He made it stomp across the blanket, complete with sound effects, and Louis sat back against the wall, watching him with a tightness in his chest he couldn't shake.

He wasn't sure how much time passed like that, the two of them just sharing the quiet space, the only sounds coming from Ben's whispered roars and the scritch of the toy's little plastic feet against the worn quilt.

After a few minutes, Ben glanced over at him, his brow furrowed slightly. "You're not allowed to leave overnight anymore without saying anything," he said, the seriousness in his voice almost too much for Louis to bear.

Louis barked out a soft laugh, the sound choked with something else underneath. He leaned forward, reaching out to tug Ben playfully closer by the arm. "I promise, kiddo," he said, voice low, rough with emotion. "I'll tell you next time, alright? No disappearin' acts."

Ben nodded firmly, like he was making Louis sign a contract right there on the spot, before settling back into playing, dragging his dinosaur along the bedspread with a new sense of purpose.

Louis sat there, legs stretched out, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching Ben with a fondness that ached deep in his bones, the kind that wrapped itself around every bruised and battered part of him.

The fire was still burning somewhere outside, crackling faintly, and Louis let his head fall back against the wall, his eyes slipping shut for just a moment, breathing in the thin, fragile peace they had managed to scrape together, if only for now.

—

The hours slipped by slowly, the air cooling and settling into that fragile quiet that always came just before full nightfall. Louis made his way back to the medical tent, boots crunching softly against the gravel, a warm bowl of stew balanced carefully between his hands. Eleanor had shoved it into his arms with a soft smile and a pointed look, telling him he better make sure Harry ate all of it.

The flap of the tent brushed against him as he stepped inside, the warm, slightly musty air wrapping around him. He found Harry curled up on the cot, the blanket bunched around his waist, one hand tucked beneath his head, his curls a complete mess. Louis paused just a second longer than necessary, something tightening painfully in his chest at the sight.

He cleared his throat and stepped closer, tapping Harry's shoulder gently. "Oi," he said, voice low. "Brought you some dinner."

Harry stirred, letting out a soft groan as he blinked awake, his eyes bleary before landing on Louis with a slow, lopsided smile that nearly knocked the air from Louis's lungs. It was small, half-asleep and warm and real, and Louis had to pretend it didn't undo him in a way nothing else ever did.

"Hey, you," Harry rasped, sitting up a little, wincing as he shifted too quickly.

Louis shoved the bowl into his hands, but Harry just smiled again, cradling the stew like it was something precious. He brought the spoon up toward his mouth, then paused, peering at Louis under his lashes.

"You eat yet?" Harry asked, like it was the most natural thing to check on him, like he hadn't just spent the last day dragging himself back home from hell.

Louis shook his head, shrugging casually, even though there was a knot twisting in his stomach. "I'll eat later. Wanted to make sure you got somethin' down first."

Harry frowned, setting the bowl down in his lap and digging out a full spoonful. "C'mere," he said, beckoning with the spoon like he was about to feed him.

Louis blinked, deadpanning, "You're ridiculous."

Harry grinned, that stupid charming grin that Louis hated how much he loved, and lifted the spoon higher. "Come take a damn bite, Lou."

Louis muttered something under his breath about dealing with a manchild before stepping closer, crouching beside the cot. He leaned in, and Harry, looking smug as ever, brought the spoon to Louis's mouth. Louis opened up begrudgingly, tasting the rich, savory broth as he pulled back, chewing slowly.

When he looked up, their eyes caught — held — and neither one of them moved for a long moment.

The tent seemed to close in around them, the muted sounds of the camp outside falling away, leaving only the faint rustle of fabric and the steady beat of Louis's heart slamming in his ears. Harry was still smiling, softer now, like he was seeing right through Louis, all the way down to the parts he tried so hard to keep hidden. His hand, still holding the spoon, hovered uselessly between them.

Louis swallowed thickly, feeling the heat crawl up the back of his neck. He could feel Harry's breath, could count the freckles dusting the bridge of his nose, could see the way Harry's eyes flickered between his mouth and his eyes like he was caught between a thought and a feeling and had no idea which one to listen to first.

Louis shifted back slightly, trying to break the moment before it swallowed him whole, but Harry just lowered the spoon and said quietly, "Thanks for takin' care of me."

Louis huffed out a laugh, rough and a little broken. "You're bloody hopeless, y'know that?"

Harry leaned back against the pillow, that small, crooked smile tugging at his mouth again. "Yeah, but you seem to like it."

Louis didn't answer. He just shook his head, reaching out to pull the blanket up higher over Harry's legs like it would somehow make up for the way everything inside him was trembling. He brushed his hand along Harry's shin before he realized what he was doing, the touch lingering longer than it should have, and Harry's eyes fluttered shut at the warmth.

Neither of them said anything after that. The stew sat forgotten in Harry's lap, cooling slowly as the night deepened outside the tent, the soft golden light casting shadows on the canvas walls. Louis stayed there, crouched beside him, pretending he wasn't memorizing every line of Harry's face like he didn't know what he'd do if he ever had to go another night not knowing if he'd see it again.

Finally, Louis dragged in a breath and muttered, almost under his breath, "How the hell are we supposed to scout for a new base if you can't keep yourself outta danger?"

Harry let out a low laugh, the sound a little hoarse. He leaned his head back against the pillow, his curls haloing around him, and said, "I'll be fine. Couple more days and I'll be good as new."

Louis scoffed, the sound sharp and disbelieving. "I can't stand you." He shook his head, pressing a hand to his face before letting it fall again. His voice was quieter when he asked, "Can I come with?"

Harry opened his eyes, blinking slowly at him like he wasn't sure if he'd heard him right. "Thought you had your hands full," he said after a beat. "Ben won't like it much if you up and leave."

Louis shrugged, trying for casual and missing by a mile. "Ben does fine with Eleanor. Kid's stronger than any of us give him credit for." His voice cracked a little at the end, and he cleared his throat roughly, pushing past the lump forming there. "Besides... it's probably best if I go anyway. Someone's gotta keep you outta trouble."

Harry's mouth twitched into a smirk, slow and crooked, and for a second it almost looked like he wanted to argue. But then he said, voice low and a little too soft, "Fine. But if you're coming, you better not let me out of your sight."

Louis narrowed his eyes playfully. "Yeah? Why's that?"

Harry smiled wider, and it was all teeth and something dangerous simmering just beneath the surface. "'Cause trouble's my middle name, remember?"

Louis huffed out a laugh, shaking his head again like he couldn't believe he was entertaining this madness, but the truth was he already knew he would follow Harry to the ends of the earth if it came down to it. He already had. Somewhere along the way, without meaning to, without wanting to, he'd handed Harry his loyalty like it was the easiest thing in the world. And now here he was, sitting at his bedside, vowing to make sure Harry didn't self-destruct before sunrise.

"Trouble's one word for it," Louis muttered, grabbing the discarded stew bowl and setting it on the ground beside the cot. He stayed crouched there, watching Harry's face in the dim light, feeling the pull between them stretch tighter, more fragile with every breath.

Harry watched him right back, his gaze steady, unflinching. "You don't have to babysit me, Lou," he said, softer this time, like maybe he knew exactly how deep Louis had gotten. Like maybe he was already in just as deep himself.

Louis shook his head once, firm. "Yeah, I do."

Harry didn't argue again. Didn't smirk. Didn't joke. He just nodded, so slight Louis almost missed it, and for a long moment they just sat there, two broken boys trying to stitch together something they couldn't quite name.

—

Louis stirred slowly, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the canvas of the medical tent. The scent of antiseptic lingered faintly in the air, mixing with the distant smoke from the campfire outside. His neck ached with stiffness, and when he lifted his head, it took him a second to register why he wasn't in his own bed. The side of the cot beneath him was creased with the imprint of his cheek, and as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his gaze settled on Harry—sitting upright, shirt half off, methodically changing the bandage along his ribs.

Louis blinked again, a bit dazed. "Shit," he murmured, voice thick with sleep. "Didn't mean to knock out here."

Harry turned, shirt draped over one shoulder, a small smile curving at the corners of his mouth. "Morning," he said, low and warm. "You said you'd stay. I just made sure you actually did."

Louis sat up properly, running a hand through his hair. "Didn't think I'd pass out right here, though. Hope I didn't snore or annoy the hell outta you."

Harry chuckled, rolling his eyes fondly. "You didn't. I liked the company. Felt... nice, having you there." His voice softened at the end, like it carried something else with it.

Louis looked away, exhaling through his nose. "Well, now I owe Ben an apology. Told him I wouldn't disappear overnight anymore."

Harry reached for the clean shirt Zayn had left, speaking while he pulled the old one from his shoulder. "He came by earlier," he said casually, though his tone was laced with a quiet reassurance. "Saw you asleep beside me. I think it made him feel better. He didn't look upset."

That tugged something in Louis's chest, something that settled deep and slow like warmth after a frost. "Yeah?" he asked, softer now. "He really okay?"

Harry nodded as he carefully peeled the backing off a fresh bandage. "Told me I looked gross," he said with a grin. "Then asked if I could play dinosaurs with him later. So I'm guessing he's fine."

Louis huffed out a laugh, watching as Harry leaned forward to press the gauze against a mottled patch of skin along his ribcage. His smile faded a bit as his eyes tracked the long scar that cut across Harry's side, still pink from where it had only just begun to heal. The bruise across his shoulder was deep and dark, and a scrape near his collarbone was already scabbing over, the skin around it red and irritated.

There were other scars, too—old ones. Thin silver lines etched along his bicep, a healed burn above his hip. They weren't the kind you'd notice right away, not unless you were looking closely. Not unless you were already too far gone not to. Louis didn't even realize he was staring until Harry caught his eye, pausing as he shrugged the fresh shirt over his arms.

"Do I have something on my face?" Harry teased, raising an eyebrow, though there was a flicker of something else in his voice—uncertainty, maybe, or shyness masked in humor.

Louis looked away quickly, his throat dry. "No. Just didn't realize how banged up you got."

Harry smoothed the shirt down, still watching him. "It looks worse than it feels, promise. I'm already doing better today." He shifted on the cot, testing the movement in his shoulder with a slight wince. "Planning to go over the maps with Zayn later, maybe start planning routes. You're still coming, right?"

Louis blinked, his gaze snapping back to him. "Course I am."

Harry gave a nod, quiet satisfaction in his expression, like he'd been hoping for that answer. "Good. I need you there. You're good at figuring out what's bullshit and what's worth risking."

Louis swallowed thickly, trying not to let the weight of that statement land too heavy. "Yeah, well," he muttered, "someone's gotta keep you alive. You've got a real talent for doing dumb shit when no one's watching."

Harry laughed at that, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Louis had to glance away again before it got too much. Before the warmth pooling in his chest made him say something he wasn't supposed to. Before the morning light made Harry look too soft, too real.

There was still too much to do. Too many decisions to make, places to scout, wounds to stitch up—some literal, some not. But for now, in this quiet moment, with the smell of morning smoke and the ache in his spine from falling asleep beside someone he swore he didn't love yet, Louis just let himself breathe. Let himself be, beside the boy who never stopped breaking rules or making promises or finding new ways to come back in one piece.

They didn't speak much on the way over to Zayn's, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was that kind of silence that had settled between them more and more lately—the kind that carried weight without requiring explanation. Harry walked a step slower than usual, the slight drag in his gait giving him away no matter how much he tried to disguise it with that stupid half-smirk of his. Louis noticed it anyway. He always did.

As they turned down the row toward Zayn's tent, Harry let out a quiet breath, almost like it'd been sitting in his chest all morning. "How's your leg?" he asked, not looking over, just watching the gravel shift beneath his boots.

Louis gave a lopsided shrug, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket. "Hurts more than it has in a while," he admitted, tone somewhere between nonchalant and sheepish, "but that's probably 'cause I ran full speed at you like a bloody idiot."

Harry glanced sideways then, one brow lifted. "You ran at me?"

Louis shot him a look. "Don't make it a thing."

Harry's grin tugged higher on one side, a small huff escaping him. "It's already a thing."

"I thought you were dead," Louis muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice quieter now. "Forgive me for reacting like a human."

There was a beat of silence, then Harry's voice softened in that way it sometimes did, like he was trying not to press too hard. "Well... I guess now we've got matching limps."

Louis glanced over despite himself, eyes meeting Harry's for a fraction too long before he scoffed, trying to shake the emotion off his face. "Great. We'll start a club."

When they ducked into Zayn's tent, the air inside was a little warmer, thicker with the scent of burnt paper and dust and whatever Zayn had been smoking earlier. The cot had been pushed back, leaving more room for the large map sprawled across the center of the floor, weighted at the corners by canteens and ammo boxes. A few sections of the map had been circled in red and blue marker, some crossed through already, others lined with little notations in Zayn's tight handwriting.

Zayn looked up when they entered, flicking the end of his pen against his thigh. "Took you long enough."

Harry flopped down onto the edge of the cot, exhaling heavily. "Some of us are limping with style."

Louis stayed standing, arms crossed loosely over his chest as his eyes dropped to the map. "What've you got?"

Zayn didn't waste time. He gestured to a cluster of marks near the northwestern edge of the region. "Alright, first up is a ranger station up past Hollow Creek. Small, probably built to house six or seven people max, but it's tucked up in the hills. Defensible. Issue is, the road there's dodgy as hell—half washed out, and the rest's crawling with infected last I heard."

Harry's eyes tracked the spot, nodding slowly. "What about water access?"

"Stream nearby. Might be seasonal though, depends how long we plan to stay." Zayn tapped the next circle, further south. "Second's an old school. One story, wide open layout, decent amount of rooms. Downside? It's a fucking school. Not exactly subtle. Lotta ground to cover, a lotta windows."

Louis leaned over the map, pointing to a third mark. "This one?"

"Abandoned farmstead," Zayn said. "Good distance from the main roads, plenty of land if we wanna plant anything later, solid fencing already up. But I'd bet anything it's already been claimed. People were swarming rural spots early on."

"Still worth checking," Harry said, his voice steady but a little strained as he shifted to lean over the map with them. "We can't keep putting this off."

Louis's eyes flicked toward him. "You sure you're up for it?"

Harry met his gaze head-on. "Are you?"

There was something there—underneath the question. Not a challenge, not exactly, but something rawer, more open. Maybe it wasn't even about the scouting. Maybe it was about everything else they hadn't said last night, everything sitting under the quiet moments and the long stares and the way Louis hadn't hesitated to run full speed at him even when it hurt.

Louis didn't look away. "Yeah. I'm sure."

Zayn cleared his throat. "We hit two tomorrow. School and the farm. Just recon. No settling yet."

Harry nodded, fingers dragging along the side of the map. "We'll keep it tight. In and out. No hero shit."

Louis snorted, turning to glance at him again. "Bit late for that speech coming from you."

Harry's smirk was faint but fond. "Says the guy who tried to knock me over with a hug."

Zayn muttered something about "Jesus Christ, just make out already," under his breath as he leaned over to adjust one of the markers, but neither of them flinched. They didn't rise to it. They didn't joke it off.

They'd only just rolled the map back up when Harry ran a hand through his curls, glanced between the two of them, and said with a smile curling into his voice, "We'll touch base with the others later, yeah? I made a promise to a certain tiny dinosaur lover."

Louis gave a small nod, watched the way Harry's limp was still there—though less pronounced—as he turned and ducked out of the tent with a light wave over his shoulder. "Tell him I said rawr," Zayn called out, earning a crooked grin from Harry just before the flap fell shut behind him.

And then it was just the two of them again, the quiet settling quick and easy in the wake of Harry's departure.

Zayn raised an eyebrow, arms folding lazily across his chest. "You've been moving like a ninety-year-old man since yesterday. You might wanna brush up on some training, get some strength back in that leg."

Louis scoffed, one corner of his mouth twitching upward as he leaned back a little. "I'm fine."

Zayn tilted his head in that unimpressed, long-suffering way he'd perfected over the last year. "Yeah, well, humor me."

He didn't wait for permission—just turned and led the way out the back of the tent toward the makeshift training area. A collection of weights, mats, kettlebells, and salvaged gym gear had been tucked away behind the canvas, a little oasis of routine in the middle of everything else that had fallen apart. Some of it was rusted and worn, but it worked, and that was all that mattered.

Louis followed without complaint, because truthfully... he missed this. The simplicity of it. Muscle and sweat and motion. He'd spent so many hours here with Zayn, especially in those hollow weeks after Darcy—just trying to outrun the quiet, trying to feel something. And now, he moved with a slower rhythm, but the same weight settled in his chest when he stepped into the space. Memory held onto this place like a bruise.

Zayn gestured for him to sit down and start stretching, dropping down beside him and grabbing Louis's ankle to help pull the leg gently into place. "You and Harry've gotten close," he said after a moment, casual and not-casual at the same time.

Louis let out a breath, lowering into the stretch. "We've been on a lot of runs together. We get along."

"Mmm." Zayn's fingers shifted, easing the pressure in Louis's thigh. "I didn't expect to find you sleeping with him in the med tent."

Louis rolled his eyes, biting back a groan as his hamstring tensed. "I wasn't sleeping with him. I was next to him. On a chair. Head on the cot. That's different."

Zayn didn't answer at first. Just gave him a look that was far too knowing, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a grin. "Still unexpected."

Louis huffed. "Well, yeah. I didn't think it'd happen either."

Zayn raised an eyebrow, silent encouragement.

Louis swallowed, eyes flicking up toward the treeline behind the tent. The wind carried a faint rustle through the branches, something calm in the way it all moved. "Ever since what happened with Lottie," he began slowly, "and how Harry was with me through all of that... I guess I just started seeing him different."

Zayn didn't interrupt. Just kept stretching Louis's leg out, steady and patient.

Louis rubbed at his jaw, voice a little quieter now. "Before that, I dunno... I always thought he was just the tough guy. The leader. All sharp edges and bossy moods. But he's not. He's actually really soft, when it counts. Gentle. He never pushed me when I wasn't ready, he never made it weird. He just... took care of me. And he didn't have to. He barely even knew me."

Zayn pulled back after a moment and stood, walking over to grab a padded mat and toss it down with a soft thud. "Alright. Kick this."

Louis stood too, rolling his shoulders and wiping his hands on his hoodie. "You're really gonna make me train like this?"

Zayn smirked. "It's good for the leg. C'mon, don't be a baby."

Louis lined himself up, shook out the tension, then lifted his leg and kicked, the pad bouncing slightly with the impact. He did it again. And again.

Zayn watched for a few reps before laughing under his breath. "Can't believe it."

Louis grunted. "What?"

"Even during the goddamn apocalypse," Zayn said, grinning now, "Louis Tomlinson has managed to fall in love."

Louis froze mid-step, arms dropping to his sides, heart thudding just a bit faster as he looked at Zayn like he'd been slapped. "Shut up."

"I'm serious."

"You're delusional."

Zayn leaned on the mat, smug as ever. "You're not denying it."

"I'm not—" Louis bit off the words, jaw flexing. "I haven't even said anything like that."

"You didn't have to," Zayn replied, voice softening just a fraction. "You said enough."

Louis exhaled harshly, turning away slightly, his hand coming up to scrub at the back of his neck. "It's not like that. I mean—it isn't supposed to be."

Zayn just nodded, not pushing, not teasing anymore. "You don't have to explain it to me. Just... whatever it is, don't run from it. That's all I'm saying."

Louis glanced back at him, the weight in his chest pressing a little heavier. He wasn't sure if it was guilt or longing or the kind of fear that wrapped itself around the soft parts of you, daring you to open up and risk it. But it was there, and he didn't have the words for it—not yet.

So instead, he turned back to the mat, lifted his leg again, and kicked harder.

—

Zayn adjusted the mat with the side of his foot, arms folding as he looked Louis up and down, something unreadable settling behind his smirk. Louis was still catching his breath, half-sweaty from the training, half-wrecked from the things he couldn't put into words. He was still dodging the ache in his chest, like kicking it out of him might help, but all it really did was rattle everything loose.

"I'll let you in on a little secret," Zayn said after a long moment, voice quieter now, more weighted.

Louis arched a brow, brushing a bit of hair off his damp forehead. "This the part where you tell me you've been secretly in love with me all along?"

Zayn snorted, flipping him off without even glancing away. "No, dickhead." Then his expression shifted, something softer taking its place. "Me and Niall... we hooked up a few times. Nothin' serious. Few times before the outbreak. Once during."

Louis blinked, mouth parting in surprise. "Oh."

"Yeah."

He processed that, then let out a breathy laugh. "I mean... I kind of had a feeling. You two have always had that look. Like... chemistry, but with smirks."

Zayn grinned, shaking his head. "I knew you were a perceptive little shit. Didn't wanna assume?"

Louis shrugged. "Didn't know if I'd be dead the next day. Figured you'd tell me when it mattered."

Zayn was quiet for a beat, then nodded, glancing toward the trees like maybe the answer was hanging somewhere in the branches. "Point is... even though the world's gone to hell, even when it's loud and broken and nothing's ever easy anymore—it still feels good. Being with someone. Touching someone. Feeling something."

Louis looked down, his thumb brushing the side of his jeans, smearing a streak of dirt. The quiet stretched again, but Zayn didn't fill it this time. He let Louis sit in it.

Then, softly, Zayn added, "So if being around Harry makes you feel good? Don't run from that. Even tough guys need love. And someone like Harry, who keeps throwing himself into the fire every chance he gets... he definitely needs it."

Louis let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head once, as if to knock the emotion out before it settled too deep. "It's not that simple."

Zayn tilted his head. "Isn't it?"

Louis met his gaze, jaw tense. "I don't want to make things weird. I don't want to push. He just lost Jackson. He's not—he's grieving. The last thing he needs is me catching feelings like a fucking idiot."

Zayn stepped forward, resting a hand on Louis's shoulder, grounding him. "You don't have to confess your love right this second. You don't even have to tell him yet. Just... let yourself feel it, yeah? For a little bit. Stop holding it under water. See if it floats."

Louis blinked a few times, his throat thick. "You're getting real philosophical lately."

Zayn smirked. "Blame Niall. He says I'm hot when I talk with my feelings."

That got a weak laugh out of Louis, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Because the thing was—Zayn was right. He was feeling it. All of it. And it scared the hell out of him. It wasn't just a crush. It wasn't just a flutter of something that would burn out in a week.

It was the way Harry had looked up at him with soup in his hand and half a smile, and Louis had felt it in his chest. The way Harry had made Ben laugh when nothing else could. The way his name sounded when Harry said it, soft and low like he didn't even realize he was being gentle. The way Louis had watched him change his bandages and seen not just pain or strength, but resilience. Fragility tucked under scarred skin. A heart that kept beating even when everything else had stopped.

He wasn't supposed to fall for someone like Harry. Not now. Not here. But he had.

And he didn't know what to do with that yet.

So he did what he always did. He kicked the mat again, a little harder this time, and whispered, "I'll think about it."

Zayn just smiled. "That's all I'm asking."

Chapter Text

The sun was already climbing by the time they reached the outskirts of the school, the light casting long shadows across the cracked pavement, stretching them thin and spindly like ghosts waiting just outside the fences. The air was heavy with the lingering scent of damp earth and something sourer, the faint whiff of decay curling beneath the breeze. Zayn led the way, his machete drawn, his eyes scanning every line of the perimeter like he could will the danger into visibility before it crept close.

Louis walked beside Harry, their steps syncing without effort, the shuffle of boots against gravel rhythmic, steady. Harry was favoring his leg again, his limp a little more noticeable than yesterday, but he waved Louis off every time his gaze dipped worriedly toward him. "It's fine," Harry had murmured under his breath, voice low enough just for Louis. "Don't hover." And Louis had rolled his eyes but kept near anyway, his own leg aching in solidarity, his muscles tight from the last few days of tension and restless sleep.

They reached the fence line first, pausing beneath the rusted metal links, where ivy had long since claimed most of it, weaving thick green veins through the gaps like the earth itself was trying to stitch it closed. Zayn ran a gloved hand along one of the weaker spots, testing it with a tug, his mouth pulling into a frown. "This'll need reinforcing," he said, glancing back at them. "Not a dealbreaker. But we'd need materials."

Luke was already scribbling notes down in the battered notebook he carried everywhere, his pen scratching across the paper with quiet urgency. "Northwest corner's the weakest," he muttered. "We could repurpose some of the bleachers from the field. Use the metal."

"Yeah," Louis said, stepping closer, his gaze sweeping along the fence line until it met the distant goalposts, half-collapsed in the overgrown grass. "And we could clear that side first. Funnel 'em away while we fix it."

Harry's hand brushed his shoulder as he passed him, a light touch, grounding, fleeting. "We're thinkin' ahead. That's good." His voice was rough, tired around the edges, but still carrying that calm steadiness that Louis had come to lean on more than he'd ever admit.

They made their way around the side of the building next, where the shadows deepened, and the air felt cooler, quieter, the silence pressing against them like a held breath. It wasn't long before they spotted the first cluster of infected, huddled near a loading dock, slow and slack-jawed, their limbs twitching with that unsettling half-life.

"I got it," Louis murmured before anyone else could move, slipping his knife from its sheath and stalking forward, quick and quiet, each step measured. His heart thudded a little louder in his ears, but his hands were steady, his aim precise. One by one, he took them down, the slick sound of the blade sliding into soft flesh, the weight of their bodies crumpling into the dirt.

When he turned back, Harry was watching him, his expression unreadable, something flickering behind his gaze like smoke curling behind glass. "Show-off," Harry said quietly, but there was a warmth in it, a thread of pride beneath the teasing.

Louis wiped his blade clean on his jeans, offering a crooked grin. "Just pulling my weight."

Inside the school, the air shifted again, cooler, dustier, the faint smell of old paper and mildew lingering like a memory. Their footsteps echoed down the empty halls, mingling with the creak of lockers and the distant drip of water somewhere deep in the building's bones.

Classrooms stood frozen in time, desks still arranged in neat rows, papers scattered across the floors like abandoned stories. A chalkboard bore the remnants of a lesson half-finished, words fading beneath a thin layer of dust. Louis ran his fingers along one of the desks, pausing at the name carved into the wood—Olivia + Ben 4ever—the heart etched around it faded but stubborn.

"We could use this wing for sleeping quarters," Louis said softly, glancing at Harry beside him. "Smaller rooms. Easy to section off. Could fit a few beds in each."

Harry nodded, stepping deeper inside, his hand brushing the doorframe, fingertips dragging along the chipped paint. "Windows'll need to be boarded. But yeah. Could work." He turned toward Louis then, his eyes softer in the dim light. "You're good at this."

Louis huffed a quiet laugh, looking down. "Just... thinking out loud."

"That's what I mean." Harry's voice was gentler now, a flicker of something deeper threading through it, like gratitude or something heavier, something neither of them had found the right words for yet. "You're always thinking ahead. You see things I wouldn't."

Louis swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well. Somebody's gotta keep you alive."

They moved through the rest of the school room by room, clearing stragglers, checking closets and storage areas, finding old supplies left behind—canned food in the teacher's lounge, half-empty first aid kits, a battered walkie-talkie with a dead battery. Harry's hand lingered near Louis's elbow every time they turned a corner, a silent tether, like he wasn't ready to let the distance stretch too far.

When they reached the gym, Louis paused at the threshold, taking in the space—the high ceilings, the faded basketball lines, the bleachers that still stood mostly intact along one wall. A deflated ball rested in the corner like it had been waiting all this time.

"This could be a gathering spot," Louis mused aloud, his voice softer now, thoughtful. "Like... if we need to get everyone together. Meetings. Meals."

Harry stepped beside him, following his gaze. "You'd make a good leader, you know," he murmured.

Louis scoffed, shaking his head. "Nah. I'm better in the background."

Harry's eyes didn't leave him. "Maybe. But people follow you anyway."

Louis felt the words settle in his chest, warm and unsettling all at once, like embers catching on damp wood. He didn't know what to say to that, so he just looked away, pretending to focus on the bleachers, the peeling banners, the sunlight filtering through cracked windows like golden veins splitting the shadows.

They stayed there a moment longer, standing side by side in the quiet, the world outside distant and muffled, as if the building itself was holding its breath, waiting. And Louis wasn't sure what they'd decide yet, wasn't sure if this place could be a new home or just another temporary stop on a road that never seemed to end—but for now, standing here with Harry beside him, it felt a little less impossible.

Harry nudged his arm lightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "C'mon, Lou. Let's finish the sweep."

They made their way down the stairwell into the lower level, the concrete steps slick with old water stains, the fluorescent lights overhead long dead, leaving only the thin beam of Louis's flashlight slicing through the dark. The air down here felt heavier somehow, thicker, like it carried the ghosts of a thousand footsteps that used to run this corridor. Their boots echoed louder against the tile, a hollow sound that seemed to bounce off the walls and crawl back toward them.

The locker rooms sprawled out in two directions, doors yawning open like mouths mid-scream, the smell of mildew and rust curling around the corners. Louis swung his light across the benches and broken lockers, the scattered gym clothes that had turned to rags, the faint glint of an old whistle still hanging from a hook. He stepped inside first, knife already drawn, his shoulders tense beneath the weight of the silence.

"Clear this side," Zayn called from behind them, already peeling off toward the showers with Luke trailing close.

Louis kept his focus ahead, sweeping through rows of lockers, his pulse steady but his chest tight in that familiar way, like every breath here had to be earned. Behind him, Harry followed, his footsteps deliberate, quieter than usual. There was a pause in the air before Harry spoke, voice low enough it barely scraped the surface of the quiet.

"D'you think this place would be... good for you?"

Louis froze mid-step, his hand braced against a locker door, head tilting back toward Harry with a puzzled frown. "What d'you mean?"

Harry's lips pressed together, his brow creasing slightly. "Just... it's a school." He stepped closer, his gaze tracing the lines of the room, the old banners drooping above them, the peeling mascot decal half-lost to time. "You were a teacher, Lou. Before all this." His voice softened more, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to ask. "Just wonderin' if it'd... bring things up. Bad things."

Louis swallowed, his throat tight around something jagged. His flashlight tilted down, illuminating the floor littered with broken pencils, a snapped ruler, a pair of old sneakers left behind like someone had kicked them off mid-run and never come back.

He turned back to the locker, resting his forehead against the cool metal, letting the silence stretch a beat too long. "Yeah," he said quietly, the word slipping out like it didn't want to be heard. "It kinda already does."

Harry's footsteps crept closer, his presence a weight at Louis's back, quiet but steady.

"When we were upstairs earlier," Louis went on, his voice rougher now, scraping a little more raw, "in that classroom... the desks, the carvings... fuckin' papers everywhere..." He let out a shaky breath, his hand curling tighter around the knife hilt. "It felt like mine. Like my classroom. Like I'd just stepped out for a minute and came back too late."

He dragged his palm down the locker door, feeling the grooves and dents beneath his skin. "I kept thinkin' about my kids. Whether they ended up somewhere safe. Whether they even had a chance." His throat worked around the words, his eyes flicking back toward Harry, guarded but shimmering beneath it all. "That room hurt to stand in. I'm not gonna lie."

Harry's gaze softened, his lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he held back, letting Louis fill the space himself.

"But," Louis added, squaring his shoulders, forcing himself to straighten, to lift his chin like it could bear the weight better if he just faked it long enough, "maybe... maybe that's not such a bad thing."

Harry frowned, stepping beside him now, his hand brushing the edge of the locker, fingers ghosting close to Louis's but not quite touching. "Why?"

Louis let out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "I dunno. Guess it's... familiar, in a way. Even if it stings. It's still... mine. Part of who I was. And maybe if we stay here, if this ends up being the place, I won't feel so... lost in it."

Harry watched him, eyes dark and searching, his hand finally settling against the locker, his knuckles brushing Louis's. "You're not lost, Lou."

Louis's mouth twitched into something between a smirk and a grimace. "Feels like it, sometimes."

Harry's gaze held his, quiet intensity burning beneath the softness. "Not to me."

Louis looked away first, clearing his throat, pretending to focus on the next row of lockers, even though his chest felt like it was pulling tight around the quiet honesty of Harry's words. "We better finish sweeping," he murmured, his voice a little steadier now, a little less cracked at the edges.

Harry lingered beside him a moment longer before pushing off the locker, his footsteps falling into place beside Louis's as they moved deeper into the room, their flashlights sweeping in tandem, carving light through the dark.

And maybe it would always ache a little, Louis thought, as he scanned the last line of lockers, his hand brushing old stickers and names scratched into metal. Maybe there'd always be ghosts in these walls, reminders in every corner—but maybe, just maybe, that was okay. Maybe it didn't have to be a clean slate to still be something worth building from.

—

The truck rumbled down the cracked stretch of highway, tires crunching over loose gravel and weeds that had broken through the asphalt like the world itself was trying to forget what roads were. Inside, the air felt both still and heavy—drowsy with the scent of dust, engine oil, and old leather—but charged too, like something quiet was building underneath it all.

Zayn leaned forward from the passenger seat, elbow resting on the edge of the window, fingers tapping absently against his knee as he glanced over at Luke. "Alright, just so you're caught up—this place we're headed to now's a farm a few miles out. Good distance from any main roads, which helps us stay off radar. There's a lotta land—could be useful if we ever wanna plant or raise anything long term. And it's already got fencing, like proper fencing, not the makeshift stuff. But," he added, the weight of it landing like a stone between the seats, "I'd bet anything it's been claimed already. First few months, people were swarming to the rural spots like it was instinct."

Luke nodded slowly, eyes narrowing out at the horizon like he was trying to see it already. "You think they're still there?"

"Only one way to find out," Zayn murmured, and the silence after that sat for a while.

In the back, Harry had one leg stretched out stiffly, the other tucked beneath him as he leaned in closer to Louis, who was hunched over his notebook, scribbling with a cracked pen that skipped sometimes but still held on. Louis had his tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth, the way he always did when he was focused, tapping the page now and then as if he were solving a puzzle only he could see.

"You look pretty sure about the school," Harry said, voice low, almost coaxing.

Louis didn't look up right away, just scratched one last note in the corner of the page before dragging his thumb along the bottom edge and nodding. "It's... manageable. Solid structure, good layout. We'd need to reinforce the entrances, maybe use the cafeteria as the common area. I think we could make it feel like a home, eventually. It's got bones."

Harry smiled faintly, watching him. "You sound like you're already nesting."

Louis scoffed but didn't disagree, eyes flitting toward the window. "It's not about nesting," he said, voice quieter. "It's about being smart. The walls are already there—we just have to make 'em better. Safer."

Harry leaned his head back against the seat with a small grunt, gaze slipping to the ceiling before settling on Louis again. "I dunno. I like the idea of a little farmland. Something with open air. Maybe a bigger house. Something that smells like wood and sunlight instead of concrete and bleach."

Louis glanced at him then, soft around the eyes. "You want a porch swing too?"

"Wouldn't mind one," Harry replied, lips tugging upward, not quite a grin but close enough. "Maybe a rocking chair. Sit out front like an old man while you cook or whatever it is you do."

Louis rolled his eyes, biting back the smile that tried to rise. "Fuck off. I'm not cooking."

"Fine," Harry sighed dramatically. "Guess I'll just have to keep surviving on canned peaches and broken dreams."

They didn't say anything else for a while, just let the hum of the truck and the slow passing of countryside fill in the blanks.

The drive stretched on longer than the last, the world unraveling into more and more open space. The further they got from the remnants of town, the quieter it all became. Trees thickened in some places, wide pastures opened in others, golden in the sunlight, dotted with half-collapsed sheds or rusted tractors that hadn't moved in months. It was beautiful in a kind of haunted way—like the earth had reclaimed itself, but hadn't forgotten what it cost.

When they finally turned down the gravel path leading toward the farm, the shift was palpable. There was a kind of hush that settled over all of them, the tires crackling against the dirt as they rolled through a series of wide, hand-built gates, most still intact. The fencing stretched out in lines, layered and long, surrounding sections of land that had clearly been maintained, or at least built with that intention. Pastures to one side, a broken-down barn in the distance, and up the hill—partially obscured by a cluster of trees and tall grass—was the farmhouse.

It was tall, whitewashed with the paint peeling off, the porch sagging slightly at the left corner, but it still stood. Still looked like something someone once loved.

"Looks like a normal place," Louis murmured under his breath, and Harry let out a soft huff of agreement.

"You think someone's still living here?" Luke asked, his voice lower now, like speaking too loud might disturb the stillness.

Zayn was already scanning the windows. "Hard to say. No visible infected, no fresh tracks out front. Could be abandoned. Could be a trap."

Louis reached for the strap on his pack, clicking it into place. "Only one way to find out."

They parked a little ways back, just in case, stepping out into the sun-warmed silence, every creak of the truck door sounding louder than it should. The grass whispered around their boots as they moved in formation, eyes sweeping from fence to roof to treeline. It smelled like dry hay and old wood, and something under it all—faint, lingering—like smoke long gone cold.

They took their time moving toward the house, checking the barn first. It was mostly empty, a few tools left behind, a rusted wheelbarrow tipped on its side. No signs of life. No bodies either. That alone felt like a small miracle.

Inside the farmhouse, the air was stale but not rotted. Dust danced in the light coming through slatted blinds. The living room had been cleared of furniture except for a single rocking chair and an overturned bookshelf. There was an empty fireplace and a picture still hanging on the wall, crooked—two kids with wide smiles, a dog sitting between them. Louis stared at it for a beat longer than he meant to.

Upstairs was quiet, bedrooms with sheets still tucked, closets open but undisturbed. The kitchen had a few empty cans on the counter, some cookware scattered in the sink. It felt like whoever had been here had left in a hurry, but not violently.

"I like this place," Harry said, leaning against the counter, gaze sweeping across the room like he could already see it repurposed.

Louis nodded, arms crossed loosely, his shoulder bumping Harry's lightly as he joined him. "Feels like it remembers how to be lived in."

Harry glanced at him sideways, something gentle in his face. "Think you'd miss the school if we picked this instead?"

Louis hesitated, then shook his head. "No. I think I'd miss whatever place you weren't in."

Harry blinked, caught off guard, but he didn't say anything. Just smiled, slow and warm, like the sun rising through cracked blinds.

And somewhere outside, a bird called into the quiet, the wind lifting dust off the porch like the house had been holding its breath, waiting.

The last light of the day had drained from the sky by the time they finished sweeping the house. The rooms stood hollow and quiet behind them, each step leaving a faint imprint in the dust that coated the floors like the memory of lives long gone. Outside, the wind had settled, trees creaking gently beneath the weight of the coming night.

Zayn adjusted the strap on his shoulder, glancing out the smudged window toward the darkening fields. "We should stay here tonight," he said, his voice carrying the edge of practicality but softened by exhaustion. "No point risking the road in the dark. We'll head back first thing in the morning."

Luke, who'd been quietly pacing near the door, nodded once and hoisted his rifle onto his shoulder. "I'll take first watch," he offered, already stepping toward the porch, boots thudding against the old wood with a steady rhythm. "Shout if you need me."

Zayn gave him a grateful look before rummaging through his pack, pulling out the small bundle of supplies he'd tucked away for moments like this—a bundle of sticks, a bit of old cloth, the makings of a fire. "Gonna get something going in the fireplace," he muttered, more to himself than anyone, heading toward the living room where the hearth stood waiting, empty and cold.

The house gradually dimmed, shadows curling into the corners as the last threads of sunset vanished behind the hills. The faint crackle of flames started to fill the silence, warmth blooming slowly from the hearth, casting flickering shapes along the faded walls. Zayn settled near the door, leaning back against the frame, his eyes half-lidded but watchful.

Louis sat beneath the overturned bookshelf, legs stretched out in front of him, head tipped back against the wood. His eyes traced the beams overhead, the cracked ceiling paint, the way the firelight made everything look a little softer, a little less haunted. His hands were idly tracing invisible patterns on his thighs, mind drifting somewhere between now and before.

A shuffle of footsteps approached, gentle and familiar, and then Harry was lowering himself beside him, a small smile tugging at his lips, holding something behind his back like a secret. "Brought you something," Harry said, pulling his hand forward.

It was a can of peaches.

Louis blinked, brows lifting in surprise as he let out a short, breathy laugh. "You're joking."

Harry's grin widened as he handed it over. "Whole cupboard full of 'em in the kitchen. Guess whoever lived here had a thing for canned fruit." He settled in next to Louis, shoulder brushing his as he leaned against the shelf too, watching as Louis cracked open the lid and plucked out a golden slice.

Louis popped the peach into his mouth, the syrupy sweetness blooming across his tongue like a brief, stubborn reminder of normalcy. He chewed thoughtfully, then glanced sideways at Harry, his lips quirking into something soft. "Not bad," he admitted around the fruit.

Harry hummed in agreement, reaching over to swipe a slice for himself, biting into it with a satisfied sound. "Honestly? Could eat these forever."

Louis snorted quietly, licking syrup from his thumb before wiping it on his pant leg. "You say that now. Give it a week."

Harry nudged his knee playfully before leaning back, gaze sweeping toward the dark windows. "What d'you think of the place?" he asked, voice dipping quieter.

Louis followed his gaze, taking in the low fences stretching out beneath the stars, the shadowed outline of the barn, the layers of barriers between them and whatever was still moving out there in the dark. "I like it," he said after a pause. "Feels safe. I mean, nothing's ever really safe anymore, but—multiple fences, natural high ground, space to see things coming. I could rig up my can alarms along the wire. We'd hear anything before it got too close."

Harry's lips curved thoughtfully. "As long as we don't get any of those crawling bastards like last time."

Louis grimaced, shooting him a warning glare. "We're not talking about that."

Harry chuckled lowly, the sound wrapping warm between them as the fire flickered brighter across the room, throwing gold against their faces. For a moment they just sat there, listening to the wind sift through the gaps in the boards, the distant creak of the porch as Luke shifted his weight outside.

Then Harry's voice softened, a thread of something raw beneath it. "Thanks again, by the way."

Louis frowned faintly, turning his head toward him. "For what?"

"For staying with me," Harry said, his gaze fixed on the fire but distant, like he was seeing something far away. "That night. In the tent. When I... wasn't doing so great."

Louis's chest tightened unexpectedly. He shrugged, but it was small and almost sheepish. "I didn't really mean to. I just... kinda knocked out next to you."

Harry looked at him then, his eyes warm and earnest in the glow. "Still. It helped."

Louis swallowed, his throat feeling thicker than before. "I'm glad it did," he murmured. "I—" He hesitated, his fingers curling slightly over his knee. "I got scared when you didn't come back from that run. Like... properly scared. Thought you might've—" He exhaled hard, shaking his head. "I was about to go out after you myself. Gate or no gate."

Harry was quiet at that, but his expression softened, his gaze tracing Louis's face like he was memorizing it. Without fully realizing, he shifted closer, his knee pressing against Louis's, his body angling subtly inward as if gravity itself had started pulling him closer.

Louis hardly noticed, his own eyes still fixed ahead, lashes dipping low as he spoke. "I couldn't just sit there waiting. Not for you."

Harry's hand brushed lightly against Louis's arm, the contact feather-soft, tentative. "You didn't have to wait," he said gently, his voice barely above a whisper now, the words wrapping around them like the hush of the night. "But I'm glad you did."

And Louis, only half turning his head toward him, felt the weight of Harry's gaze settle on him fully, warm and steady, patient as the dark stretched deeper around them, the fire crackling softly between breaths that neither of them seemed in any rush to fill.

Harry didn't pull back. He stayed right there, close enough that Louis could feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough that Louis could count the freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose even in the flickering firelight. His knee pressed more firmly against Louis's, a quiet tether grounding them both to the floor beneath them, to the battered world still spinning outside.

Louis could feel the shift before he even looked up—could feel the way the air around them seemed to hum a little louder, the way Harry's breathing slowed but deepened, like he was holding himself still, like he was waiting for something neither of them wanted to name just yet.

And when Louis finally lifted his gaze, when his eyes finally met Harry's, it felt like everything else softened. The weight in his chest, the ache in his shoulders, the restless buzz that never really left his bones—just... quieted.

Harry was watching him with that look again, the one Louis had caught glimpses of a dozen times before but had never really let himself hold onto. It wasn't loud or showy or demanding. It was quiet, steady, impossibly gentle. Like Harry was seeing every cracked, jagged part of him and wasn't flinching away.

Louis felt his throat go tight, a small breath slipping out without permission as Harry leaned in closer, just a fraction. Louis could feel the ghost of it across his cheek, the warmth of it against his lips before it even happened. His heart thudded painfully beneath his ribs, loud and messy and alive, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn't try to shut it out.

Harry's hand lifted, slow and uncertain at first, brushing the back of his fingers along Louis's jaw, a touch so careful it nearly undid him. His thumb traced just beneath his chin, tilting his face up, their noses almost brushing now, their breath mingling in the small space left between them.

"You okay?" Harry whispered, voice rough with something that sounded a lot like hope and fear all tangled together.

Louis's lips parted, his breath catching against the question, and for a moment he just let himself look—really look—at the boy in front of him, at the soft green of his eyes lit warm by firelight, at the quiet tremble in his mouth like he wasn't sure if this was real, at the way he was still waiting, even now, giving Louis every chance to pull away.

And Louis didn't want to pull away.

He shook his head, the smallest movement, a breath of a laugh escaping him, shaky and real. "Yeah," he murmured. "Yeah, I'm okay."

Harry's smile flickered at that, brief and beautiful, before it fell away again, replaced by something softer, something deeper. He leaned in the rest of the way, his lips brushing Louis's like a question, like a promise he wasn't sure he deserved to make.

Louis met him halfway.

The kiss was slow at first, tentative, as if they were both still afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing had been building between them. Louis's hands lifted, curling into the fabric of Harry's shirt, holding him close without pulling, grounding himself in the solid warmth of him.

Harry's other hand slid to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, thumb pressing against the hollow just beneath his ear, and he kissed him again—this time a little firmer, a little more certain, like he was finally letting himself want it.

Louis's chest ached in a way that felt good, felt real, felt alive. Every part of him was humming, electricity sparking beneath his skin, and when he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, when Harry let out the quietest sound against his mouth, something inside him broke open in the best way.

It wasn't perfect—it was messy and a little desperate, breaths hitching and mouths fumbling, the kind of kiss that tasted like all the things they hadn't said yet, like all the nights they'd sat too close without crossing the line, like all the fear and hope and stubborn love pressed into the spaces between them.

When they finally parted, Harry's forehead rested against Louis's, both of them breathing hard, eyes still closed, lips still brushing with every shared breath.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," Harry whispered, his voice trembling around the words, like he couldn't believe he'd finally said them aloud.

Louis's lips curved into the smallest, softest smile, his hands still fisted in Harry's shirt, his pulse still racing wild beneath his skin. "Me too," he breathed back, his thumb tracing lazy circles against Harry's chest. "Me too, H."

Outside, the night stretched quiet and wide around them, the world still broken, still dangerous, still waiting. But in that moment, with Harry's heartbeat beneath his fingertips and the warmth of his breath ghosting against his skin, Louis felt something he hadn't dared to feel in a long time.

Hope.

And he wasn't ready to let it go just yet.

Chapter Text

The wind was sharp that morning, but it carried the kind of clean, biting chill that meant snow had fallen overnight. Not heavy—just enough to dust the ground in a thin, patchy layer of white, like the world had exhaled and left a quiet hush over everything. The sun hadn't fully risen, just a pale smear behind the clouds, and the frost still clung stubbornly to the grass and fence posts as the group worked. Boots crunched over frozen earth, shovels and hammers echoed in steady rhythm, and their breath plumed in the air like steam off tired engines.

It had been a couple of weeks since they chose the farm.

They hadn't all agreed at first—there'd been back-and-forth, especially about security, about proximity, about whether isolation would be more risk than reward—but in the end, the land spoke for itself. And it was working. Better than any of them had really dared to hope.

The main barn, once empty and half-collapsed on one side, had been reinforced with scrap wood and salvaged beams until it stood proud again, a makeshift pantry and smokehouse humming with quiet purpose. Hooks lined the inner beams now, curing meat hung in neat rows, while one corner stored crates of tinned food, bags of dried beans, bundles of kindling. That barn felt like the beating heart of the place.

Out in the paddock, two horses grazed near the fence line, their warm breath rising in clouds. Zayn had been the one to find them—half-starved and skittish, wandering just beyond the tree line like ghosts. It had taken patience, coaxing, days of quiet effort, but now they had names. Mags and Ember. They weren't just useful—they were a reminder. That some things could still be saved.

The second barn had become housing—partitioned with sheets and repurposed wood, lined with blankets and stacked with sleeping bags, it gave a little warmth and a lot of privacy. Not luxury, but comfort. Something to hold onto when nights turned cruel and the world howled outside.

And then there was the shed. Just a tiny old thing leaning against the far end of the fence, but Eleanor had claimed it the second she saw it. She'd brushed the dust from the windows and swept out the cobwebs, and now it held chalkboards, salvaged books, little makeshift desks made from crates. Kids sat in a semi-circle most mornings, wrapped in coats and scarves, listening to her voice as she taught them math and stories and songs. Louis would pause sometimes when he passed, just to listen, just to see it.

Today, though, the schoolhouse was empty. The kids were tucked inside, too cold for lessons, and the rest of the camp was quiet except for the five of them working out by the outer fencing—Niall hammering in the last support beam, Zayn dragging another plank into place, Liam checking the spacing between posts with the tip of his boot while Louis and Harry moved together, synchronized and silent in the way they always were when they worked side by side.

The short wall wasn't much, just an extra line of defense just before the two layers of fencing they'd reinforced weeks ago. But it was something.

Louis wiped his nose on his sleeve, breath puffing visibly, and leaned against the new post to catch his breath. His gloves were worn thin, fingertips stiff with cold, but he didn't complain. Across from him, Harry was kneeling in the snow, hammer in hand, jaw clenched against the cold. He glanced up as Louis looked over.

"You good?" Harry asked, voice low but carrying.

Louis nodded, pushing off the post and walking over. "Yeah. Just takin' it in. Looks better than I thought it would."

Harry offered him a half-smile and scooted over, giving him room to crouch beside him. "It's starting to feel like a real home, huh?"

Louis looked up at the house, at the small curls of smoke coming from the chimney, at the line of laundry frozen stiff on the ropes, at the shape of someone moving inside. "Yeah," he murmured. "It kinda does."

Harry kept hammering, rhythmic and sure. "You ever think we'd get this far?"

Louis huffed, and it turned into a laugh, small and honest. "Nope. Thought we'd all be dead in a ditch by month three. And now we've got fuckin' horses and a schoolhouse and a whole camp of weirdos I actually care about. Wild."

Harry grinned at that and nudged his shoulder. "You're one of the weirdos, you know."

Louis looked over, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me. I'm a deeply charming anomaly, thank you."

"You're a menace," Harry countered, but there was fondness under every word.

Louis reached down and grabbed a plank, shifting into position to hold it steady while Harry nailed it into place. Their gloves brushed. Neither of them moved.

For a moment, it was just the sound of wood and metal, wind and breath.

Then, quieter: "This feels different," Louis said.

Harry paused mid-swing, letting the hammer fall loose in his hand. "What does?"

"This place. Us. I dunno. Maybe I'm just waiting for it all to fall apart again."

Harry didn't answer right away. He finished the nail, set the hammer aside, and rested his gloved hands on his knees. "It might," he said, honest and soft. "But we've got something to lose now. That's gotta mean something."

Louis looked at him then, and he knew exactly what Harry meant.

It wasn't about the fencing or the barns or the food stored up for winter. It was about the quiet that wrapped around them now, the warmth in the glances passed across a campfire, the way people looked after each other like it was the only thing left to believe in.

It was about Harry. About standing here beside him, building something not just for survival but for the chance—just the chance—at something like peace.

Louis nodded, just once, as the wind picked up and blew a curtain of snow off the fencing.

"Yeah," he said, barely more than a breath. "It does mean something."

And he went back to work.

—

The house was always warmer than it looked from the outside. Drafty, sure, and creaky in ways that made you swear it was alive some nights—but it was solid. Dry. Thick walls and decent insulation from the wind, which had grown sharper over the past few days. Snow still fell in fits and starts, gentle but persistent, the sky locked in that pale grey stretch that always made the world feel suspended in time. Everything slowed in winter. Even grief.

Louis was on his knees by the bed, folding a worn jumper that still smelled faintly like woodsmoke and soap. He wasn't good at folding—always left one sleeve tucked in and never really cared if the edges lined up—but there was a strange comfort in the act of it now. Just doing something normal. His hands were raw from the cold and the washbasin hadn't exactly done the clothes any favors, but they were cleaner than they had been, and that was enough. He reached for the next shirt and smoothed it over his thigh, humming absently.

In the corner, there was a cot with layers of blankets that had once belonged to Zayn and probably still smelled like his cologne. Ben always insisted on sleeping in their room—never with the other kids in the barn. Said it felt safer here. Louis didn't blame him. The cot wasn't much, just some stacked mats and an old army blanket Harry had found during one of the recon runs, but it was better than a tent in the frostbitten field. Louis never complained. In fact, he was thankful for this part of the house—tucked in the back corner, away from the wind. Quiet, too. Safe.

He was half-listening to the storm outside when Harry knocked gently on the doorframe.

"You comin' on the run tomorrow?"

Louis didn't look up right away, just kept folding. "Still snowin'. Why the hell would we go out in that?"

Harry stepped in, brushing the snow from his curls. "Running low on tinned stuff. Zayn's been rationing again, and the crops aren't gonna give us anything 'til spring."

Louis sighed, lips tightening as he glanced toward the window. The glass was fogged, white with frost around the edges. He stared at it for a beat before nodding. "Yeah. I'll come."

There wasn't much more to say about it. They both knew the stakes. No food meant no strength, no warmth, no defense. They had horses, sure, but those needed feeding too. And kids to keep alive. The whole camp to protect. It wasn't optional.

Harry hovered near the bed for a second, watching him. The light from the hallway cast a soft halo around him, and Louis felt it before he saw it—that familiar shift in the air, the way Harry's presence always made things feel a little less heavy.

They hadn't really talked about the night they'd kissed. The first night at the farm, when nerves had been shot and everything was so sharp with possibility. They'd been quiet about it since. Not cold, not distant—just... cautious. It didn't need a label. Not when the world had gone to hell and every day felt like a coin toss. They knew what they were to each other. That was enough. For now.

Harry walked over slowly, like he didn't want to startle him, and wrapped his arms around Louis from behind. His chest was warm against Louis's back, his chin resting against his shoulder. He breathed in.

"You smell nice," Harry murmured, voice rough with the day and soft with affection.

Louis let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "I smell like sweat and dirt."

Harry shrugged, nuzzling closer. "Still nice."

He pressed a gentle kiss to Louis's shoulder, lips brushing against fabric and skin in a way that made Louis' eyes fall shut for just a second. When he turned in Harry's arms, their bodies naturally realigning like pieces of the same old puzzle, it felt instinctual—easy, earned. Louis tilted his chin up, eyes locked on Harry's, the world narrowing to the space between them.

And then—footsteps. Fast ones.

Ben burst into the room like a gust of wind, jacket too big, hair mussed, eyes wide with excitement. "Harry! Can you help me build a snowman?"

There was no hesitation in Harry. He smiled—warm, crooked, that soft, familiar one that always made Louis' chest ache in ways he never really knew how to admit—and he pulled away gently.

"Course I can," he said, tousling Ben's hair as he followed him out the door.

Louis stood there a moment longer, hands still cold from the water, shirt half-folded on the bed. The warmth of Harry's arms lingered like a ghost around his ribs, like a memory he didn't want to shake. He let out a breath, quiet and uneven, and finally turned back to the laundry.

There were things they couldn't control. But this—this fleeting softness, the strange kind of hope that came in the smallest forms—a folded shirt, a snowman, a kiss not yet finished—it was something to hold onto. Something real.

—

The sky had gone the color of old wool, soft and pale and threatening more snow, though for now it only drifted in delicate sheets across the yard, catching in the tangled limbs of the bare trees and settling like quiet ash on the roof of the house. The wind had stilled, for once. It was just cold now, deep and quiet and still.

Harry knelt beside Ben in the packed snow, the boy's gloved hands red at the fingertips as he pressed together the beginnings of a snowman. They were just off the porch, a few feet past the first ring of fencing. The space between the barn and the house stretched wide, all of it blanketed in white, the world momentarily softened by winter's hush.

"This is the trick," Harry said, brushing the snow off his sleeve before reaching for another pile. "Gotta wait until it's dense enough—like this." He patted a clump into a ball, tight and solid, and helped guide Ben's hands around it, showing him how to pack it without crumbling the shape. "Used to do this with my sister, when we were kids. There was this hill behind our house—never melted, even in the spring, or at least it felt like it didn't."

Ben squinted, brow furrowed as he tried to place the second ball of snow on top of the first. It wobbled, then toppled sideways with a soft thump, landing half-broken at their feet. His face pinched in frustration.

Harry didn't laugh, didn't tease. Just leaned in again, reaching out to help, his fingers careful as he pressed snow back into the shape, guiding the boy without taking over. "We'll fix it," he said gently. "It's better when it's heavy, see? Holds its shape longer. Just needs some time."

Ben nodded, quietly, and they worked for another minute in companionable silence, the only sound the shuffle of their boots and the crinkle of Harry's coat when he moved. Then, without warning, Ben's gaze dropped to Harry's thigh, to the pistol holstered there, worn leather against the black of his cargo pants. The boy didn't speak right away, and Harry could feel the moment building in the stillness between them—something tugging at the edges.

"Can you teach me how to shoot?" Ben asked. The question wasn't loud or demanding. It wasn't even particularly bold. It just was. Small and heavy, like everything else these days.

Harry looked over at him, startled only for a second. Then his face settled into something softer, more cautious. He let out a slow breath and tilted his head. "How old are you?" he asked.

Ben didn't blink. "Ten."

Harry's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "When's your birthday?"

"February."

He blinked again, surprised this time. "Really?" he asked. "Me too." A beat passed, then another, and he ruffled the back of Ben's knit cap. "Alright. I'll make you a deal. I'll talk to Louis. After your birthday, maybe we can figure something out."

Ben didn't look reassured. His mouth turned down, and his eyes narrowed like he was preparing for an argument. "Louis isn't my dad."

Harry nodded, steady. "I know. But he's the one who's been taking care of you." He glanced toward the house, just briefly. "He worries. It's only fair he knows what's going on. That he has a say."

Ben turned back to the snow, his gloved hand crushing a bit of it absentmindedly. "I already asked him," he muttered. "He said no."

Harry's voice dropped a little, low and sincere, the way he talked when things really mattered. "I'll talk to him anyway," he said. "I'll tell him it was my idea. I'll offer to teach you myself. Just... let me try first, alright?"

Ben didn't respond right away. Just nodded, once, and looked back at the snowman they were rebuilding, his shoulders a little less tense.

There was a quiet between them again, not uncomfortable, but thoughtful, like the stillness of the farm around them had settled into their bones. Harry reached over and adjusted the snowball one last time, carefully pressing it into place. It held. Ben stared up at it, the shape tall and crooked, but upright. His face didn't quite smile, but it softened.

Behind them, a horse let out a quiet snort from the stable, and a bird cut across the pale sky, its shadow stretching thin across the snow. The farmhouse loomed behind them, windows glowing dimly against the grey. From somewhere inside, there was the clatter of a pot or a boot hitting wood, maybe Louis walking through the kitchen, maybe someone else.

The snow kept falling. Thin and slow, like the day was trying to pause. Like the world, for just a moment, had given them enough space to breathe.

Eleanor’s voice drifted from the porch, warm despite the bite in the air. “Ben! Come inside, love. Come warm up with the others—I found some hot chocolate in one of the cabinets, believe it or not!” She laughed a little, the sound carrying over the still yard, bright as it folded into the cold.

Harry glanced toward the house, eyebrows raised in a mild sort of wonder. Hot chocolate. It sounded like a fairytale now, some myth from a time when winter meant snow days and not frozen fences and checking your boots every morning for mice.

He nudged Ben’s shoulder gently, chin tilting toward the porch. “Go on, then. That’s a rare offer,” he said, voice low. Ben hesitated just a beat, like maybe he didn’t want to leave the half-finished snowman behind, but then he nodded, pulling his gloves tighter and beginning the trudge back toward the house, boots sinking into soft patches of white. Harry watched him go, something quiet flickering behind his eyes. The boy’s too-small coat, the way he walked with his head a little forward, bracing. It did something to him. Twisted something in the chest, that old ache that lived beneath everything else.

He barely registered the sound of Zayn's boots crunching behind him until a soft voice came close to his ear. “South side. Small group,” Zayn said, barely audible, like he didn’t want to disturb the snow. “We should handle it before they get curious.”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Just breathed out, slow, watching the fog of it curl in the cold. Then he nodded, shoulders shifting as he adjusted the weight of the gun in his holster. “Where’s Liam?”

“Already moving,” Zayn murmured. “Told him to scout ahead a bit. They’re slow.”

They slipped along the edge of the field, boots careful, the hush of winter stretching around them like a net. Past the second fence, out into the space where the farm met the overgrown tree line, the world was still, holding its breath. It wasn’t the kind of silence that comforted. It was watchful.

They found Liam near the edge of the frozen ditch, crouched low, his breath visible as he gestured. A small cluster of them—maybe six or seven—dragging themselves sluggishly through the snow. One was missing a leg, arms pulling its body forward like some grotesque swimmer through slush. The others walked in uneven lurches, movements stiffer than usual. Like their joints wouldn’t bend properly anymore.

Zayn leaned close to Harry. “They're slower in the cold. Almost frozen. You see that?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, eyes narrowed. One of the infected paused mid-step, swaying on brittle legs before resuming its slow march. “Barely holding together.”

“Could be migration,” Zayn muttered. “Like… I don’t know. Birds. Or deer. Moving toward warmth. Shelter. Something.”

Liam scoffed under his breath. “Are they even smart like that?”

Harry tilted his head, considering. “I don’t know if it’s smart. Could be instinct. Muscle memory. Same direction every time the air shifts. Doesn’t take much thought to want to survive.” His voice was calm, but there was a line of tension around his mouth, the kind that didn’t always show unless you were close.

The three of them moved like they’d done it a hundred times—because they had. Liam flanked to the left, circling wide with a knife already drawn, breath shallow. Zayn waited until the nearest one shuffled close enough to be taken down quickly, the silence of his strike more intimate than violent. No wasted bullets. No noise. Just precise, practiced motion.

Harry caught one by the shoulder as it turned too late, its jaw opening in a half-snarl, more reflex than rage. He didn’t flinch. Just plunged the blade into its temple and let it drop, catching it by the coat so it didn’t hit the ground too loud. His hands came away slick, but the cold made everything feel distant, dulled at the edges.

They worked like that—methodical, efficient—until the snow was disturbed and red and still again.

Zayn straightened slowly, scanning the treeline with narrowed eyes. “That’s the third group this week. Small, yeah, but… all coming from the same direction.”

Liam wiped his blade on his coat and shook his head, breath hitching out in short bursts. “We’re gonna have to start patrols again. Regular ones.”

Harry was quiet, eyes still fixed on the limp forms in the snow. Something twisted in his gut—less fear, more knowing. A creeping sense of what might come, just beneath the surface. “Yeah,” he murmured. “We can’t assume winter’ll do the job for us.”

None of them moved to head back right away. The cold clung to their skin, and the sky overhead hung heavy with another promise of snow. Somewhere behind them, the farmhouse glowed faintly through the trees, and Harry thought of Ben inside, fingers curled around a chipped mug of hot chocolate, maybe laughing at something Eleanor said, maybe glancing out the window toward the fence line, unaware.

He exhaled, long and even, the sound barely carrying beyond the space between them.

—

The farmhouse had gone still in the way it only did late—when dinner was long done, the youngest kids had melted into sleep, and even the grown-ups had nothing left to say that couldn’t wait till morning. The wind scraped soft against the windows, and somewhere out past the fencing, boots crunched faintly, part of the rotating watch.

Harry pushed the bedroom door open with his shoulder, fingers working at the laces of his boots, the exhaustion of the day starting to settle in properly now that adrenaline had gone flat. His shoulders ached from tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. The moment his gaze found Louis already curled up in the bed, back propped against the headboard with a threadbare blanket tucked around his legs, Harry’s whole expression softened, something easy and familiar moving behind his eyes.

“Third group this week,” he murmured as he toed off his boots with a wince, socks damp from melted snow. His voice was low, worn down by the cold and the quiet, like anything louder might disturb the fragile balance of the room. “We’ve gotta be careful on the next few runs. Could be more out there than we thought.”

Louis looked up from where his hands were folded loosely in his lap, brows pulling together slightly, though he didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded once, jaw tense. Harry crossed the room, peeled off his layers one at a time, folding the heavier ones in a neat stack by the foot of the bed. When he finally slid in beside Louis, the mattress dipped gently under his weight, and he exhaled, long and slow, rubbing the heel of his hand over his face. “I’ll definitely need you on the run tomorrow,” he added, voice gentler now, almost careful. “Wouldn’t feel right without you there.”

Louis hummed, soft and unreadable.

Harry glanced toward the corner instinctively, eyes drifting to the cot they’d dragged in for Ben weeks ago. It was empty, the blanket crumpled, pillow unused. “Where’s Ben?”

“In the farmhouse,” Louis said, voice quieter now. “Fell asleep with the others. Eleanor was reading them some story she found in a busted bookshelf—he didn’t make it past the second page.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on the empty cot a moment longer before nodding and sinking further into the bed, the warmth beside Louis already chasing away the worst of the chill. He leaned back against the headboard, arms resting loosely over his stomach. “He asked me about learning how to shoot,” Harry said after a beat, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “Didn’t seem scared. Just… curious.”

Louis stiffened slightly beside him, the pause after his answer speaking volumes. “No,” he said eventually, firm but not unkind. “He’s just a kid.”

Harry turned his head to look at him, something unspoken flitting across his features. “So were half the kids at the last camp. They all learned to defend themselves. You saw it—hell, we taught some of them.”

“That was different,” Louis said sharply, then caught himself, voice leveling out again. “They didn’t have a choice. We were overrun half the time. That place was chaos. This place—” he gestured vaguely toward the window, where the fields stretched out beneath snow and stars—“this place isn’t that. Not yet.”

“I don’t think it’s a bad idea,” Harry said softly, not looking away. “He’s smart. Careful. He asked because he’s thinking about it. About what would happen if something went wrong and we weren’t there.”

Louis looked at him now, gaze darker than before, jaw working. “He shouldn’t have to think like that.”

“No,” Harry agreed. “He shouldn’t. But he does.”

They sat in the silence that followed, not cold, but taut—like the tension between two tree limbs bowed under snow, holding on because there wasn’t much other choice. The fire from the hearth in the next room flickered faintly across the floorboards, and Louis rubbed at a spot on his thigh through the blanket, his thoughts too loud behind his silence.

“I just…” Louis’s voice cracked slightly, more from restraint than anything else. “I don’t like it. Any of it. I don’t like that these kids have to grow up so fast. That they feel like they have to be strong all the time. Ben’s ten. He still laughs at fart jokes.”

Harry watched him carefully, his own expression softening further, like something was pulling loose inside him. “I don’t like it either,” he said, low and honest. “But we can’t stop the world from being what it is. And maybe learning now—it could give him a better shot later. He won’t be alone forever, but he’ll be alone sometime. They all will. Sooner or later.”

Louis looked down at the blanket in his lap, picking at a frayed thread near the edge. “I don’t want him carrying around a gun.”

“I told him we’d wait till after his birthday,” Harry said gently. “Said I’d teach him myself. Keep it low pressure. Just the basics. Safety. Awareness. How to aim. No trigger unless it’s necessary. You know I’d never let him be careless with it.”

Louis didn’t answer at first. Just sighed, long and tired, like it was coming from a deeper place than just his lungs. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and sat back, letting his head thud lightly against the wall behind the bed. “I know.”

Harry reached out and laced their fingers together beneath the blanket, the contact grounding. “I’ll talk to him again,” he added, voice gentler than it had been all night. “Make sure he understands it’s not a game. That it’s about survival, not strength.”

Louis nodded slowly, thumb brushing absently over the back of Harry’s hand. He didn’t say anything more after that, and Harry didn’t push. The quiet came back in, not the same one from before, but something more settled, even if not entirely soothed. The kind of quiet that lingered between two people who’d long since stopped pretending this world hadn’t changed them, who’d learned instead to hold space for the ache of it, to carry it together even when it felt too heavy alone.

There was something about the silence between them—comfortable, but taut at the edges. Not strained. Just suspended. Like if either of them shifted too much, it’d all break apart into pieces that wouldn’t slot back together quite the same.

So when Harry turned his head slightly, pressing his lips to Louis’s temple, it felt like something fragile given reverence. A gesture not just of love, but of apology—for the world, for the day, for the kind of conversations they had to keep having. Louis tilted toward him without hesitation, mouth already finding Harry’s in a kiss that started soft, slow, like they had all the time in the world to remember what it felt like to be whole.

And then Louis deepened it, the quiet need behind it pressing forward in a way that nearly made Harry’s chest ache. But just as Harry was shifting to meet it—hands lifting, mouth parting, something deeper starting to rise between them—there was a knock at the door.

A fast one. Not panicked, but not casual either.

Louis pulled back first, brows drawn in as he twisted toward the sound. Harry ran a hand over his face with a quiet sigh, already reaching for the layers he’d folded at the foot of the bed.

“Hey,” came the voice from the hallway, muffled but clear. “There’s someone at the wall.”

That snapped Harry to full attention. He was already pulling his jacket back on, boots forgotten until he felt the cold floorboard bite at his toes. “What?”

Ash’s voice came again, more rushed. “Luke’s up there now. Says they’re asking for refuge.”

Louis sat up straighter, dragging his sweater over his head. “They?”

Ash hesitated just long enough for Harry’s gut to turn. “It’s just one person,” he said finally. “Tried waking Zayn and Liam but they’re dead asleep. Niall’s with Clara in the shed, helping with that fever kid.”

Harry swore under his breath, buckling his holster back on, his pulse already picking up in that low, deliberate way it did when the unknown came knocking.

He looked at Louis, who was already moving, already tying his laces and throwing on his coat. They didn’t need to say it—of course they’d both go. Of course they wouldn’t risk leaving it to chance.

Ash was waiting in the hallway with his rifle slung across his chest, still in the hoodie he’d slept in, face pale under the hallway light. The three of them didn’t speak as they stepped out into the brittle night, the cold cutting sharp and immediate against their skin. Snow crunched underfoot, the kind of crusted, half-melted snow that snapped beneath your weight. The stars above were smeared against the dark like pale dust, too far away to warm anything.

When they reached the edge of the wall, Harry’s breath was already fogging in front of him, vision narrowed to the dim shape of the ladder that led up to the watch platform. Luke glanced down from the top, silhouetted by the mounted floodlight nearby.

“She’s just standing there,” he called softly. “Hasn’t moved since she knocked.”

Harry climbed first, each rung creaking under his boots, Louis right behind him. When they got to the top, Luke shifted aside, wordless, and gestured down toward the gate. Harry braced a hand on the railing and leaned forward, squinting into the low light cast by the lanterns strung along the fence line.

A lone figure stood just beyond the outer perimeter, wrapped in what looked like a patched jacket too thin for the cold, arms held slightly out from her sides—not threatening, but not passive either. Her posture was stiff, cautious, like she didn’t quite trust her feet to stay beneath her. Her hair was matted, tangled over her shoulders, but her face was upturned, straining toward the wall.

Harry’s breath hitched. Not at the sight of her, not yet. But at the small voice that followed a second later, ragged and disbelieving.

“Louis?”

Louis jerked like he’d been shot.

Harry turned, saw the way every inch of Louis froze in place—his fingers clamped on the rail, lips slightly parted, breath fogging out like he didn’t know whether to speak or not. His eyes were locked on the girl below, wide and unblinking.

Then—

“Lottie?” he said, barely above a whisper, like saying it too loud might make it untrue. His voice cracked anyway.

And the girl flinched at the sound of it, her body trembling with a kind of recognition that carried across the cold air like something sacred and broken.

There was no mistaking it now. That face. That voice. The weight in Louis’s chest that dropped like a stone.

Chapter Text

The cold hadn't eased. Not even a little. If anything, it had turned sharper in the silence that followed Louis's voice, the way it echoed slightly against the wall like it didn't know where to settle. No one moved at first—not Ash, not Luke, not even Lottie. Just the wind brushing through the trees, and the distant crackle of frost shifting over old snow.

Louis's hands tightened on the railing, knuckles pale beneath the leather of his gloves. "Let her in," he said, louder this time.

Harry's breath left him in a slow, steady drag, vapor curling from his mouth in a thick cloud. He turned slightly, shifting enough to block Louis's path without actually touching him. "Louis."

There was no accusation in it. Not yet. Just quiet, just tired. The way someone spoke when they already knew the argument but had to say it anyway. Because they loved you. Because it mattered.

Louis didn't look at him. "It's cold," he said, barely above a murmur. "She's freezing."

Harry's jaw tensed. "Think about this," he said, soft but firm, his voice pitched low enough that Ash and Luke wouldn't hear it properly. "Just for a second. Think about what the hell she's done."

The pause hung there between them, all the heavier for the weight behind it. The memory of old betrayals. Of too many near-misses. Of trust shattered like glass and never fully swept up.

But Louis finally turned to him, eyes rimmed red from the wind, from the hour, from everything he wouldn't say out loud. "That's my sister," he said simply. "I can't—" He swallowed thickly. "I can't just leave her out here."

Harry didn't move for a long second. Then, slowly, he stepped back, his hands curling at his sides. He didn't nod, didn't agree, didn't say another word. Just let Louis speak again.

"Luke," Louis called down, voice raw now. "Let her in."

The gate creaked open with a groan that seemed to scrape across the air. Louis didn't wait. He was already descending the ladder, boots hitting each rung with the urgency of someone who couldn't afford to hesitate. Not now. Not when her silhouette had already stepped inside the fence line and was making her way forward on trembling legs.

Harry stayed where he was, watching from the top of the wall as Lottie crossed into the light. Her face looked thinner than he remembered. Skin pale, cheeks wind-burnt, hair tangled in a way that wasn't even deliberate anymore. She moved like someone held together by sheer will, barely a thread left in her limbs. But her eyes were the same—big and familiar and too full of something he couldn't name.

Louis met her halfway.

There was no hesitation, no anger. Just arms opening, wrapping around her, pulling her in as she nearly collapsed into him. Harry watched as Louis gripped her like he could shield her from everything that had already happened, murmuring something into her hair as she clung tighter, small sobs shivering through her chest.

It wasn't trust, not exactly. It wasn't even forgiveness. It was instinct. Family. And Harry understood that even as something uneasy twisted beneath his ribs.

He climbed down slowly, each step deliberate, hand brushing against the holster strapped to his thigh. Just in case. He didn't want to use it. Didn't even want to think about needing to. But after everything—after the last time—he wasn't about to pretend he wasn't wary.

Louis helped Lottie across the field with one arm around her shoulders, guiding her past the sleeping quarters and toward the main house, boots crunching over ice-glazed gravel. Harry followed a few paces behind, footsteps steady, eyes never straying far from either of them.

Inside, the kitchen was still warm from the earlier fire, though it had burned down low. A faint, lingering smell of cinnamon and ash hung in the air, like someone had tried to make the place feel like something closer to home. The hearth was nearly dead, but a few coals still glowed at the center.

Louis brought her to one of the chairs at the table, helping her ease down with a gentleness that struck something deep in Harry's chest. He stayed by the door, shoulder leaned against the frame, arms crossed tightly. Watching. Always watching.

Lottie sat hunched over, arms wrapped around herself. She looked smaller somehow. Not just from the cold or the weight loss, but from something in her eyes. That edge she used to carry—the flash of manipulation, of quick lies and quicker smiles—wasn't there. At least not in the way Harry remembered it. Still. He didn't move.

"What happened?" Louis asked, kneeling briefly to tug off her gloves, his touch careful, like he was scared she'd break apart.

Lottie blinked up at him, eyes glassy but focused. Her voice was hoarse. "My group... they all scattered. We lost each other a few days back." She sniffed. "Marcus—he was with me. He said we should check out your old camp. Thought maybe someone would be there. But it was empty."

Harry felt his jaw twitch, but he didn't interrupt.

"I just... I kept walking," Lottie went on, fingers twisting in the frayed hem of her coat. "Didn't think anyone would be here, really. Just hoped." She glanced toward the floor, swallowing hard. "I didn't have anywhere else to go."

Louis exhaled shakily and stood, walking to the counter. He unscrewed the cap of one of their water cans, pouring some into a mug, and rummaged through the cabinet for a few pieces of the jerky they'd managed to preserve. He brought it all back to the table, setting it in front of her before sliding into the chair beside her.

As she ate, slow and cautious like she wasn't sure it was real, Louis stayed close, elbow resting on the table. His posture was tight. Not closed-off, but tight. Protective.

Harry's eyes never left them. He knew Louis could feel it—the way his gaze hovered like a shadow. Not accusatory. Just ever-present. Watching for cracks. Watching for the past to rear up in the shape of the girl across the table, no matter how tired or broken she looked now.

It wasn't fair, and Harry knew that. But he also knew better than to let his guard down.

Louis reached for her mug, helping her drink, and his fingers brushed against hers, still ice-cold. He didn't say anything else, not yet. Maybe didn't know how. But his chest rose and fell with a weight Harry could feel from across the room, like he was trying to hold something in and keep it together at the same time.

And Harry... Harry just stood there, hand resting lightly near his holster. Watching the two of them like they might disappear, or worse—like something already had.

The fire had settled into a steady rhythm, low and golden, casting a soft flickering glow across the walls as the house quieted around them. The last of the night's movement had dulled into silence, footsteps long since faded into creaking floorboards and the occasional distant cough or shuffle of someone turning over in sleep. Louis moved slowly, deliberately, the weight of the evening drawing his shoulders forward as he helped Lottie from the kitchen, one arm looped gently beneath hers.

She leaned on him more than she probably realized. And though her body was thin beneath the layers, trembling slightly with exhaustion, there was still a sharp, instinctive tension just beneath her skin. Louis felt it, the way she hesitated at thresholds, the way her fingers clutched at his sleeve like something might still go wrong. But she followed him without protest, and that alone felt like something.

He guided her to the couch, helped her lower herself onto it, and bent to grab one of the thicker spare blankets from the trunk near the door. He shook it out gently, the fabric heavy and rough, and draped it over her shoulders before tucking it around her legs, smoothing the edges over her knees the way his mum used to do when any of them had been sick. She looked up at him, her eyes half-lidded, soft in a way he wasn't used to. She didn't say thank you, but she didn't need to.

"I'll be in the corner if you need anything," Louis murmured, nodding toward the small chair against the wall. It was far from comfortable, but close enough to keep an eye on her, to make sure she didn't wake cold or confused.

She didn't say anything back—just let her head fall to the side, curls spilling over the pillow he slid beneath her. The blanket rose and fell with each shallow breath, her fingers curled lightly at her chest. Within minutes, she was asleep, chest moving slow and steady, the warmth of the fireplace catching on her cheeks.

Louis straightened slowly, watching her for another long moment, then turned to grab a second blanket for himself from the cabinet. He hadn't even reached for the latch before a hand settled on his shoulder—firm, not rough, just enough to still him.

He didn't have to look to know it was Harry.

"You sure about this?" Harry asked quietly, close enough that Louis could feel his breath warm against his neck.

Louis let his eyes close for a beat, his jaw tightening as he sighed through his nose. "I already told you. She's my sister."

Harry's fingers flexed slightly against his shoulder, a tremor of something deeper threading his voice now, not anger exactly—but not nothing either. "Yeah, I know that," he said. "But she's also your sister who had a knife in your fucking leg. Who was convinced you killed your whole family. And now she's just... sleeping here? On the couch? In a camp full of kids?"

There was no venom in his tone, not really. But the disbelief was there. The ache of someone trying to understand something they couldn't reconcile with what they'd lived through. Louis turned to face him, his mouth set in a line that trembled at the edges.

"Come on," he muttered, curling his fingers around Harry's wrist and tugging him gently into the kitchen, further from the crackle of the fire, further from the shadows that might carry their voices back into the room. The air felt colder in here. Or maybe it just felt realer.

"She's bipolar," Louis said, not wasting time with preamble. "Has been since we were kids. Back then we just called it mood swings, but it was more than that. Always was. Sometimes she'd cry for hours. Other times she'd just... disappear in her head, say shit she didn't mean. Mum tried to help. But it wasn't—"

He broke off, rubbing a hand over his face. "There's no medication anymore, Harry. No psychiatrists. No doctors. Just her. Dealing with it the only way she knows how. On her own."

Harry's eyes stayed steady on him, but something in them softened, the lines around his mouth easing just slightly. He looked like he wanted to say he understood. And maybe part of him did. But that didn't mean he trusted her.

"You think that's enough?" Harry asked quietly. "You think that's a reason to let your guard down?"

"No," Louis said, just as soft. "But it's a reason not to leave her out in the cold."

The silence after that wasn't empty. It filled the room like water, heavy and pressing in. Harry looked away for a moment, then back again, dragging a hand down the front of his jacket, as though trying to wring out the tension in his chest.

"I'm not trying to fight you on this," he said. "I'm just trying to protect you."

"I know." Louis swallowed. "I know that."

Harry glanced toward the doorway, toward the dim orange light bleeding in from the living room. "I don't trust her," he said. "Not yet. Maybe not ever."

Louis didn't reply. Didn't fight him on it. Because some part of him didn't fully trust her either. He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But there was a reason his muscles still tensed whenever her voice lifted too quick, a reason he hadn't sat too close while she ate. He just—he had to try.

"I'll stick around in the living room tonight," Harry said after a beat, voice quieter now. "Whether you want me to or not."

Louis looked at him, tired, grateful, conflicted in ways he couldn't untangle. He gave a small nod, more of a breath than anything, and let his hand rest for a second on Harry's arm before pulling away again.

—

The hours had a way of stretching long in the quiet, each second pulled thin and soft like taffy, the warmth of the fire ebbing slowly into the walls. Louis settled into the chair with a sort of resigned stubbornness, knees pulled up close, a blanket tucked half-heartedly around his shoulders, arms crossed more for protection than comfort. His eyes never left the couch.

Lottie hadn't stirred. She lay curled in on herself, face turned slightly into the pillow, one hand limp near her chin. Her hair was still damp around the edges from the melted snow, cheeks flushed from heat or exhaustion—it was hard to tell. She looked younger like that. Not the girl with blood on her hands and betrayal written across her knuckles, not the sister who had screamed at him through gritted teeth in another life, in another camp, in another world that had long since collapsed. Just a girl again. Just Lottie.

Harry watched from the kitchen doorway, the chair creaking softly under his weight as he leaned back, one boot planted against the leg of the table, his arms loose but ready. The distance between them wasn't far, but it felt like a whole camp's worth of unspoken thoughts. His eyes stayed fixed on Louis more than Lottie, gaze tracing the tired set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders even as his body tried to relax. Louis wasn't fooling him. Wasn't fooling himself either.

They had the run tomorrow. Supplies to gather, risks to weigh, people depending on them to make it back with full hands and fewer injuries than last time. Harry knew the hours slipping through their fingers now would cost them come morning. But still, he didn't move. Didn't close his eyes. Didn't let the heaviness in his limbs win. Not with Lottie lying just feet away. Not with Louis sitting so still he might shatter.

The fire crackled again, the sound sharp in the silence, and Harry let his hand fall near his hip, not gripping his gun but not straying far from it either. It wasn't that he thought something would happen. Not exactly. But it wasn't that he didn't.

He didn't trust her. Maybe he couldn't. And if anything happened—if she tried anything—he would never forgive himself, not if Harry had closed his eyes and missed the signs.

So Harry stayed where he was, eyes open, watching the boy he loved watch his sister sleep.

—

The light bled slowly across the windows, a gray, reluctant sort of dawn that seeped through the cracks rather than spilling in like it used to in safer lives, warmer ones. Louis moved quietly through the house, his boots laced, jacket already pulled over his shoulders, one hand still tugging at the strap of his bag as he hovered in the hallway. Lottie stood near the hearth, her blanket bundled in her arms now, posture small but collected, eyes darting up toward the sound of footsteps. She looked rested—at least physically. There was still that flicker behind her gaze, a residual tremble, a storm coiled too tight to be trusted just yet.

Louis offered her a small, soft smile, one he rarely gave anyone these days. The kind that spoke of history rather than hope. "This is Eleanor," he said gently, ushering Lottie toward the woman in the kitchen. "She's a saint. Proper miracle, really. She'll look after you today."

Eleanor wiped her hands on a towel, already halfway through slicing through stored root vegetables for the stew she was planning. Her nod was warm, inviting even, but Harry had seen her guarded before, and she wore it now too, like a quiet second skin beneath the kindness. She said something sweet to Lottie—gentle, affirming—but Harry caught her eyes as he passed through the archway, and without needing to say much, he stepped in closer, voice pitched low for only her.

"Keep a watchful eye," he murmured, eyes flicking briefly toward the couch where Lottie had slept. "You know she can't entirely be trusted."

Eleanor's gaze didn't falter, but the smile tightened a fraction, pulled taut at the corners. "Wasn't planning on blinking," she whispered back, not unkindly. "I'll play nice. But I won't play dumb."

Harry gave the smallest nod, one of those rare ones that meant more than a full sentence might've. He could trust Eleanor—more than almost anyone here—and she was more on his side than Louis's, even if she'd never say it out loud. Especially not now. Not with Louis clinging to the idea that this was still his sister. That love alone would be enough to keep everyone safe.

Outside, the air bit at the edges of their skin, sharp with early frost. Their breath fogged in the air as the boys gathered at the gate, the metal creaking beneath gloves and boots. It had been a while since all five of them were together on a run like this—Louis, Harry, Zayn, Liam, and Niall—each of them older now in the ways that mattered, wearier, sharper around the edges. There was a silent understanding among them, laced through the zip of bags and the checks of weapons, the way no one had to ask where they were heading or what the risks might be.

They left the camp in Luke and Ash's hands, both of whom stood tall at the edge of the path, armed and ready. Luke gave a subtle nod, chin tipped forward like a promise. Ash didn't say much, but his eyes flitted briefly toward the farmhouse window. Watching. Always watching.

The gate groaned open, and the five of them stepped out beyond the fences, boots crunching over hardened snow, the woods yawning wide ahead. They moved like a unit—tight-knit, practiced—but quieter this time, something unsaid curling in the air between them. Something about old ghosts. Something about the girl still asleep inside.

The road south stretched quiet, powdery snow crunching beneath their boots as they moved, heads low, wind tugging soft and sharp at their jackets. The shops emerged like ghosts through the tree line—just a string of them, old signage peeling, windows blown out in places, skeletal remnants of a world that once held convenience and color. Now they just looked hollow. Looted, but maybe not gutted.

Zayn was already talking low, gesturing with two fingers toward the buildings ahead. "We clear these first," he said, voice calm and sure. "Me, Niall, and Liam'll take the one on the corner. It looks deeper. You two—" he glanced at Harry, then Louis, "—take the one by the road. Could be something useful still stashed behind counters or up in the ceiling tiles."

Niall was thumbing over his gun again, checking the clip for the third time like he didn't trust his own memory anymore. It was muscle memory now, that kind of paranoia. The kind that kept you alive.

Liam piped up just behind him, voice lower than usual, a furrow forming between his brows. "Keep an eye out for behavior," he said. "If any are close. We've been seeing patterns in those groups lately. I just wanna know if they're the same."

Harry nodded, glancing to the sky where clouds hung heavy like they were debating snow. "Slower in winter," he muttered. "But still dangerous."

The group moved into formation, weapons drawn but not raised, and then, quietly, they split.

The gas station was smaller than it looked from the outside, the signage half-buried in snow, the red paint dulled to rust. Glass crunched underfoot as Harry pushed open the door, letting Louis in first. The air inside was stale, heavy with the thick smell of fuel and time. Dust hung like fog in the golden morning light slanting through what was left of the windows. Shelves were mostly bare, save for a few bloated cans and forgotten wrappers, some long-expired energy bars curling in on themselves like dead bugs.

"It reminds me of that first gas station we hit," Harry said quietly, sweeping a glance down the aisle, gun still loose in his grip. "You remember? First run you ever came on?"

Louis gave a quiet snort, moving past the counter, his eyes flitting lazily over the broken snack shelf. "When I nearly pissed myself and collided with a rack of gum and beef jerky?" he asked, amused. "Yeah. Vividly. Thought you were gonna shoot me just out of embarrassment."

Harry smiled softly, steps light as he moved behind Louis. "Nah. That was a good day."

Louis raised an eyebrow as he rifled through a crate near the floor. "Pretty sure I almost died."

"Yeah," Harry said, "but you didn't. And I think that might've been the day I started falling in love with you, so."

There was a pause. A delicate, stilling moment where Louis's hand stilled inside the crate, and Harry's words lingered in the air like dust motes. Not heavy, not meant to collapse anything. Just... there. Honest. Like breath on glass.

Louis stood up slowly, brushing his palms off against his jacket. He looked at Harry for a second too long, like he was trying to place him in a timeline. Then he looked away, cheeks red with cold, but maybe something else.

He moved toward another shelf, fingers trailing down what was left of the labels. "So," he said finally, voice quiet, "what is this, then?"

Harry tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"This," Louis said, hand motioning vaguely between them. "Us. Whatever it is we're doing."

Harry leaned against a half-collapsed cooler, crossing his arms over his chest. "It can be whatever you want it to be," he said. "It's the apocalypse, Lou. There doesn't need to be a label."

Louis bit his bottom lip, nodded a little. Then he shrugged, almost like it didn't matter, except it clearly did. "Boyfriends," he said. "I think I want it to be boyfriends."

Harry didn't smile. Not exactly. But there was something in the way his face softened, in the quiet breath he let out as he stepped a little closer. "That's fine," he said simply, steady as ever.

Louis just nodded again and went back to the shelves, his back turned but his posture different now. Lighter maybe. Or just a little more anchored.

Harry stood still for a moment, like he was weighing something unspoken, then crossed the short space between them. His boots didn't make a sound against the worn linoleum, only the soft creak of his jacket filling the hush as he came to a stop right in front of Louis.

His hand came up slowly, deliberate and unhurried, his knuckles brushing against Louis' cheekbone with the gentleness of someone touching something precious and half-forbidden. There was a slight scrape of dirt on his skin, a mark from the wind maybe, or the shelf Louis had bumped earlier, but Harry didn't mind. He just took him in. Looked at him like he was remembering something he never wanted to forget.

Louis blinked up at him, a little breathless even though he hadn't moved. His eyes flickered across Harry's face like he was searching for a warning sign—like the comfort still hadn't fully settled in his bones, even now, even after everything. There was always this bit of hesitation in him, this quiet question in his chest: Is it really okay to want this? To want him? And Harry always answered it without words. Always with his hands, his eyes, the tilt of his head when he was about to kiss him.

But this one wasn't slow.

Harry leaned in, the weight of something rising in him pushing forward all at once. His mouth caught Louis' without warning, the kiss immediate, pressing, as if the breath between them had simply been too long. His lips were chapped, warm, familiar—but there was urgency in the way he kissed him, like it was necessary, like if he didn't touch him right then, he might shatter into pieces too small to find again.

There was always a little desperation in the way Harry kissed—this edge of fear that maybe, one day, he wouldn't get to do it again.

Louis exhaled against him, the sound more like a whimper than a breath, his fingers bunching into the front of Harry's shirt like he was anchoring himself. His back hit the shelf behind him, a quiet clatter of some old metal tins shifting, but neither of them flinched.

Louis tilted his head, mouth parting, letting Harry in, letting the kiss stretch longer, deeper. He let it pull at his ribs, sink into the spaces that always ached for something steady.

And maybe this was steady. Even if it didn't look like it. Even if they were pressed up against broken shelves in an abandoned gas station while the threat of the infected loomed outside. It was steady in the way Harry held him, in the way his thumb brushed beneath Louis' jaw, firm and grounding.

It was steady in the way Louis kissed back, like this wasn't just a moment stolen between fear and survival, but something real. Something lasting.

Harry kissed him like he was reminding them both they were still here.

And Louis kissed him like he believed it.

"What was that for?" Louis breathed, voice barely there as he pulled back just enough to speak, lips swollen, eyes dazed like he'd just been yanked out of some half-dream.

But Harry didn't answer. Not with words, anyway. He leaned in again, stealing another kiss, slower this time but no less needy, hands sliding down to Louis' hips like he couldn't quite help himself. Just one more. Just—fuck it—one more.

When he finally pulled back, breath brushing against Louis' cheek, his voice came quieter, rougher, threaded with something heavier than guilt but softer than regret.
"Just wanted to," he murmured. "I came off a little harsh last night, I think. And I'm sorry."

"You were just protecting me," Louis said quietly, eyes flicking up but not quite holding. His voice was steady, even if the air around it felt brittle. "I don't blame you. Not after what my sister did before."

Harry didn't speak right away. His jaw clenched first, like the words were heavier than he meant them to be, then finally—

"That day..." he started, voice low, almost like he was remembering it in real time. "I told her if she laid a hand on you—or if I ever saw her again—I'd kill her." His eyes found Louis then, sharp and unflinching. "And I meant it, Lou. If she tries anything, you won't be able to stop me."

Louis didn't flinch. Didn't argue. Just nodded once, voice barely a breath.

"I know."

Chapter Text

Back at the farm, the sun had shifted just enough to cast everything in a soft, diffused glow—the kind of light that made even the dust in the air look warm and gentle, suspended in time. Eleanor moved quietly through the house, her touch tender but firm as she handed Lottie a change of clothes and gestured toward the washroom. It wasn't much, just some leggings and an oversized jumper, but they were clean, and in this world, that was a luxury.

Lottie had seemed quieter that morning. Less guarded than she'd been the night before, though not completely at ease either. There was a wariness behind her eyes, something that lingered even when she smiled. Still, she let Eleanor help her into the new clothes without complaint, standing still while Eleanor brushed her hair out and worked it into a simple braid.

"Your hair's super long," Eleanor remarked gently, fingers weaving with quiet efficiency. "And blonde. You must've had it like this a while, huh?"

"Not natural," Lottie murmured, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. "Bleached it years ago. Roots are coming in now, though... not exactly something you can find in the apocalypse, is it?"

Eleanor huffed a soft laugh, tying off the braid at the bottom. "Doubt anyone's looting for hair bleach these days."

Lottie glanced at her in the mirror, head tilted like she was trying to recognize the person looking back at her. "My natural colour's closer to Louis's, actually," she said, quieter now. "Always thought he had better hair anyway."

Eleanor smiled at that, brushing a loose strand behind Lottie's ear. "Who's older? You or him?"

"Louis," Lottie said immediately. "He's the oldest. I'm second. Then the others..." Her voice trailed off, but she didn't seem ready to fall apart, just a little lost for a moment.

Once Lottie was dressed and her hair was neat, Eleanor led her across the yard, the path between buildings muddy from the snow, boots sticking slightly as they walked. The shed that had been converted into a little classroom wasn't much—just a few shelves, some old books, chalk, a few child-sized chairs and a large wooden table—but it functioned. The kids didn't complain. They liked the routine. So did Eleanor.

She brought Lottie in with her partly because Harry had asked—told her, really—but also because she didn't mind. A second set of eyes was never a bad thing, and the kids were curious enough to behave better with a new adult around. Lottie sat in the corner as they filed in, arms crossed loosely, eyes scanning each small face that came through the door like she was trying to solve something invisible.

Eleanor started with some basic math—simple equations scribbled onto the board with the stub of a white chalk, little hands working through them at their desks with hushed concentration. Lottie didn't speak at first. Just watched. Her gaze was still sharp, but softened with something that looked like nostalgia. Regret. Maybe both.

Eventually, after the math lesson ended and the kids moved into silent reading, Eleanor crossed the room and sat in the empty chair beside her.

"You're good with them," Lottie said quietly, almost like she was surprised. "Louis must've taught you how to do this. He was always into teaching, back before everything went to shit."

Eleanor glanced down at her hands, thumb grazing the edge of a small nick on her palm from earlier in the week. "I love doing it," she said. "Always did. Louis let me take over after—" She stopped, blinking once like the word had caught in her throat. She looked up. "He just didn't want to do it anymore. Wanted to be more hands-on. Learn how to protect himself."

Lottie looked at her carefully, like she was mentally parsing each syllable. "After what?" she asked, tone level but her eyes narrowed just slightly.

"Nothing," Eleanor said too quickly, smiling like she could erase the question with kindness. "It's just... it changed. Things changed."

And Lottie, sharp as ever beneath the calm, didn't press. But the way she watched Eleanor after that—quiet and thoughtful, her fingers twined together in her lap—made it clear that she didn't believe it. Not really.

Lottie sat still in the corner, one leg crossed over the other, fingers tracing patterns across the worn fabric of her borrowed jumper as her eyes drifted slowly around the room. The children were scattered in pockets across the mismatched chairs and low tables, small bodies curled into postures of focus, their heads bowed over battered books.

The books themselves looked like they'd survived a war, which—technically—they had. Spines cracked, covers faded, some pages dog-eared so many times the corners had peeled away entirely. A few still had name stickers inside, written in bright crayon or marker—remnants of normalcy from before everything collapsed. Lottie wondered if they'd come from a looted schoolhouse or if some of these kids had managed to cling to their backpacks when the world ended. She imagined a little girl holding onto a book like it was her only inheritance, or a boy stuffing his favourite one into a bag before running from something too big to understand.

She glanced toward the window, light spilling in through the dusty glass, hazy and gold. It touched the tops of their heads, painting halos over them. Innocence, or something close to it. And in the middle of it all, Eleanor stood like an anchor, moving quietly through the rows, checking on their work, offering smiles that were tired but sincere. There was something achingly tender in how she held this space for them, how she kept it safe. But it was Louis who haunted the walls most of all. Lottie could feel it—his fingerprints in every stack of books, every hand-built shelf, every quiet rule that kept this little world running. He'd done this. He'd made this. Not just for himself, but for them.

It was strange—stranger still to admit it—but she envied him. Envied the way he'd carved out something almost gentle in a world that chewed people up. Even if it was a fragile kind of sanctuary, even if it hung by threads. He was doing what she never could. He'd built something that looked like peace.

Her eyes moved again, drifting lazily across the room until they landed on a boy near the back. He was smaller than the others, shoulders slumped low like he was used to making himself small, brown hair falling into his eyes in messy tufts. There was a sadness to him, a kind of distance. Like he was there but not really. Lottie blinked slowly, her body suddenly alert with something she couldn't name. There was something familiar in the tilt of his head, the soft line of his mouth, the way his hands held the book too carefully, like he thought it might disappear if he blinked.

He must've felt her staring, because his eyes flicked up and locked with hers—and just for a moment, her breath caught.

She didn't know why. Not really. But there was something behind his eyes, something that tugged at a corner of her mind. Recognition, maybe. But of what?

His eyes widened just slightly, a flicker of something startled, and before she could say anything, she smiled—soft, gentle, almost apologetic—and lifted her hand in a small wave.

He didn't wave back. Just looked back down at his book, shoulders curling in tighter, like maybe he regretted looking up at all.

Lottie shrugged to herself, heart still tapping too fast for her liking. She leaned back in her chair again, gaze floating elsewhere now, but her thoughts remained suspended—unsettled. She couldn't place it. Couldn't quite shake it. That boy. Something about him...

She folded her arms over her chest and leaned her head against the wall behind her, letting her eyes fall half-shut. Letting the hum of the quiet classroom settle into her bones. Letting herself wonder.

—

Louis barely got the front door closed behind him before his voice called out, a natural lift of hope curling into it. "Lottie?"

Harry was behind him, arms full of the heavier load—thick, slightly damp blankets, bundled tight and draped over his shoulder, a paper sack of tins in the crook of his elbow. Eleanor was standing by the sink, drying off her hands with a dishtowel, and when she met Harry's eyes, there was no need for words. She just nodded. Calm, cautious, steady. Harry nodded back, but there was something clipped in the movement, something sharp just beneath the surface. His jaw ticked. He set the bag down. Didn't say a thing.

From the far end of the kitchen, footsteps approached soft over the wooden floorboards, and then Lottie appeared, still in the worn jumper Eleanor had found for her, sleeves pushed halfway up her arms. Her hair was in a thick braid over her shoulder, and her cheeks were pink like she'd been laughing, or maybe just warm from the fire. She smiled. It was easy, confident—disarmingly so.

"Hey, you're back," she said, eyes flicking from Louis to Harry and back.

Louis stepped closer, gaze scanning her with the practiced concern of someone always half-expecting something to fall apart. "You look better," he told her, gentler than he'd meant to sound. "Must've really needed the rest."

Lottie shrugged. "I feel good, actually. Spent the day with Eleanor in the classroom."

Harry's head snapped up. Not dramatically—but it was sudden, and it was visceral, and the shift in his body said more than he probably wanted to give away. "Classroom?"

The word was hollowed out by suspicion, loaded with questions he hadn't voiced. Eleanor didn't flinch, but she did straighten.

"She just helped me out with the kids," she said calmly, as if that were all it was. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't.

Harry's lips parted like he was going to say something else—maybe ask who was in there, maybe accuse someone of something—but then he just sighed. One long breath, heavy and worn thin. And then he was turning, slow, deliberate, and walking up the stairs.

Louis blinked after him, confused, heart tightening without warning. He looked back at Lottie briefly, saw the way she pretended not to notice, and then mumbled, "I'll be back," before following Harry up.

He found him in their room, not pacing, not unraveling—but still restless. Harry was standing near the window, the sleeves of his jacket half-pulled down, like he couldn't decide whether he was staying or going again.

"What the hell was that?" Louis asked quietly, because the house still felt full, even if the hall was empty.

Harry didn't turn around right away. "I don't trust her with Ben."

The response hit Louis like a slap that didn't land where it should've. He blinked. "Ben doesn't even know what she looks like."

Harry turned at that, face tired, mouth tugging into something that wasn't quite a frown. "He does, actually. And he knows her voice."

Louis' body stilled. All the air felt like it left the room too fast. "How?"

Harry rubbed at his jaw, a hand dragging down his face. "That day. Back then. When she—when she had you in that room. When she—" He stopped, and for a moment his eyes burned. "Ben was with me. He was right outside. You were screaming, Lou. He heard it all. And there was a fucking window. He saw her."

Louis' mouth opened, but nothing came out. He sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, shoulders folding forward, hands gripping his knees. He looked like he was trying to come up with a solution, like there had to be one. "I'll talk to him," he said eventually, soft, almost childlike. "Tell him there's nothing to be scared of right now."

Harry moved closer, slow steps over the floorboards. "That won't work."

Louis looked up.

"Here comes this woman—the same one who hurt you," Harry said, voice tighter now. "Who Ben heard. Who Ben saw. Who was part of the camp that kept his infected father locked up in a goddamn shed like some science experiment. And now she's just sitting in the same room as him, watching him read books like it's all fine?"

Louis looked down again. He didn't argue.

Harry crouched, arms resting on his knees, voice lowering. "Ben's gonna freak out. You think he won't say anything because he's quiet, but he's holding it in. It's gonna boil over, and it's gonna hit hard. So I'm talking to him. Not you."

Louis just sat there, silent, the weight of it settling in his chest like wet cement. He didn't fight it. Didn't say Harry was wrong. Didn't say anything at all.

He lingered a while upstairs, but eventually let out a breath and rose from the edge of the bed, dragging a hand through his hair. He moved on autopilot down the stairs, his boots sounding softer than usual, like he didn't quite want to be heard. The moment he hit the kitchen again, he glanced around—half-expecting, half-hoping.

"Where'd she go?" he asked Eleanor, trying to keep it casual, but it came out quieter than he meant.

Eleanor didn't look up from where she was sorting through the tins they'd brought back, stacking them into a neat row along the counter. "Said she went back to the classroom," she replied. "Something about wanting to help clean it up." There was no judgment in her voice. Just information, measured out like a ladle of soup.

Louis nodded, barely, then turned and slipped back out the door.

The sun was starting to fade behind the treeline when he reached the shed. There was still enough light filtering through the crooked windows to cast soft shadows on the walls, and through the open door, he spotted her almost immediately—walking slowly around the room, like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to touch anything.

He paused for a second in the doorway, watching her. Lottie didn't seem to hear him at first. She was looking up at the walls, her gaze catching on the edges of papers, faded crayon marks, childlike lettering. She wasn't just glancing—she was taking it in, all of it. Her expression unreadable.

Louis stepped inside. "What're you up to?" he asked, his voice lower now, as if anything louder might break something.

She turned at the sound of his voice but didn't startle. "Just looking around," she said, then let her hand drift across the wall, fingers brushing a taped-up drawing. "Seeing what you've built for these kids."

Her voice wasn't sarcastic. Wasn't performative. It sounded... quiet. Honest. She looked back at him for a moment, then turned back to the wall, eyes settling on a small heart-shaped piece of construction paper, curling slightly at the edges. A name was scrawled across it in shaky pink marker.

"Who's Darcy?" she asked.

Louis froze.

It wasn't a long silence, but it was long enough to change the air between them.

He took a breath, his jaw tensing once before he could speak. "She was..." His voice cracked halfway through and he swallowed around it. "Back at the first camp. A little girl—one of my students before everything. We used to do lessons out here too, back then. She was always the first one in the door."

Lottie didn't interrupt. She didn't move.

"There was a breach in the wall," Louis continued, voice barely above a whisper now. "Couple of 'em were out playing near the edge of the field, and we didn't—we didn't hear it in time." His hand rubbed at the back of his neck, fingers trembling slightly. "She didn't make it."

He looked away as the words landed, blinking hard, like that might shove the tears back. "I was close with her. She reminded me of you, actually. Just—full of fire. Always asking questions. Always looking for something to fix."

There was a pause—soft, stretched.

"I'm sorry," Lottie said finally, gentle and careful. "That must've been really hard."

Louis didn't answer. He didn't need to. It was written across his face, in the way he kept staring at the floor, in the way he clenched his jaw like it might keep his grief from slipping out too easily.

"This place you've made," she added, after a moment. "It's... it's something, Louis. It's a real home. I think Darcy would've loved it."

He blinked again, steadied himself, then looked at her—this stranger, this sister, this shadow from another life—and something in him softened just a little.

"What's your deal?" he asked. Not cruel, not defensive—just tired. "What're you really doing here, Lottie? What do you want?"

She didn't flinch. Just looked at him, lips parted as if trying to find the words, like maybe she'd already gone over them in her head a hundred times. "I just want my brother," she said. "I don't wanna be out there anymore. Alone."

Louis nodded slowly, almost like he understood, but then—"Can we talk about what happened? At the station."

Lottie stilled. Her mouth twisted a little, jaw tightening.

"I don't really wanna talk about that," she said, already stepping away, already bracing for a fight.

"Well," Louis said, "we kind of have to. You stuck a knife in my leg, Lottie."

"I know," she said, voice climbing with guilt. "I know, alright? I was having an episode, I was panicking—I didn't know what I was doing, I thought—I didn't mean to hurt you, Louis, I swear I didn't. I wasn't thinking straight, and everything was happening so fast and—"

She broke off, running her hands through her hair like she could smooth out the memory by force. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never wanted to—I thought you were someone else, or I thought you were lying, or—fuck, I don't even know, I just—"

Her voice cracked then, the words all tangling together like they didn't want to come out but couldn't stay in either.

And that was enough. Louis didn't say anything. He just moved forward, one careful step at a time, and wrapped his arms around her.

She stiffened for half a second before folding into him.

"It's okay," he murmured, voice low and rough. "It's okay, Lot. Just... breathe."

She nodded against his chest, eyes shut tight, and he held her there, hands splayed over her back like he was anchoring her in place.

After a minute, he pulled back enough to meet her eyes. "I'm gonna have to talk to the others," he said, not unkindly. "About you staying here. A lot of people... they don't trust you. Not after what your people did to Harry at the camp."

Lottie didn't argue. She just nodded. "I'll do whatever I have to," she whispered. "I'll earn it."

Louis gave a tight nod, something unreadable flickering in his expression.

—

Zayn had been the one to suggest the barn.

It was the only place far enough from the house to speak freely, without the possibility of curious ears wandering too close. The top hatch gave them air, at least, and a view of the woods curling in dark around the edges of the farm. Cold wind sliced through the gaps in the wood, bitter enough to sting if you weren't dressed for it, but none of them had mentioned going back in.

Not yet.

Louis stood with his hands braced on his hips, the last of the golden dusk catching in the tired strands of his hair. His jaw was set. He wasn't yelling. Not yet. But he wasn't backing down either.

"I think we should take her in."

The silence that followed wasn't silence, really—it was the pause between the spark and the explosion.

"You've actually gone insane," Harry said, eyes narrowing. "Have you lost your fucking mind?"

Zayn and Liam both looked up at that, Niall's head swiveling between them like he was already bracing for the fallout. Louis turned to Harry, didn't flinch, didn't look away.

"No," he said. "I haven't. I know what I'm saying. I think we should take her in."

"That psycho of a so-called sister nearly killed you," Harry snapped, stepping closer, voice rising with every word. "Do you remember that part? Or did the knife in your leg not leave enough of a mark?"

"I already explained it," Louis fired back. "She's fucking bipolar."

There was a pause—sharp, sudden. Niall blinked. Zayn tilted his head. Liam's brows creased slowly. Louis rolled his eyes like he could feel the weight of their surprise without having to look at them.

"Yes," he said again, voice lower now but no less firm. "My sister is bipolar. She was having an episode. She's unmedicated, she's been alone, and yeah, it was dangerous—but if she's here, if she's with me, her brother, I can help her. I know how to handle her highs and lows."

Harry stared at him, jaw tight, chest heaving like he was trying to keep his words from coming out too fast, too loud. "It's a bad idea," he said eventually. "You can't trust her."

"You don't know her," Louis said, stepping forward now, the tension between them stretching taut. "You know what happened at the station, and you know what she did, but you don't know her. Not like I do."

Harry shook his head, mouth twisting. "She stuck a knife in your leg, Lou."

"And she was out of her fucking mind when she did it."

"She still did it!"

"She wasn't trying to kill me!"

"Are you hearing yourself right now?"

Niall cleared his throat gently. "Look, it's a risk," he said, glancing between them. "But if Louis is confident—if he's saying he can manage it—then maybe it's not the worst idea in the world."

Zayn nodded, slow and cautious. "It's his call. It's his sister."

Harry turned sharply. "It's not just his life on the line. Marcus betrayed us. Jackson got killed. Her people nearly killed me and a bloody child!—we let in the wrong person and it costs us."

Louis's voice cracked out before he could stop it. "If she can't stay here, then I'm leaving with her."

The words dropped like a stone, and the air seemed to thin around them.

Zayn blinked. Liam's head jerked slightly. Niall stopped breathing altogether.

"What?" Harry said, low and disbelieving.

"I'm serious." Louis wasn't shouting anymore. But his voice was iron. "She's all I have left. We're it. The only family we've got. And I'm not gonna sit around and watch you all treat her like she's a ticking bomb when she's just—she's just sick. And scared. And trying."

"Louis..." Harry's voice had softened now, the anger slipping out of it like air from a torn balloon. "Don't do that. Don't—don't threaten to leave. I'm not letting you go. I'm not—"

"Then let her stay," Louis said, stepping in closer, searching Harry's face, trying to make him see. "Let her prove herself. She can help Eleanor in the classroom, or maybe help cook or sort supplies, or even work with Clara. I don't care what she does—just give her a chance. Please."

There was a long, stretched pause. The wind whistled through the slats in the wood above them. Somewhere below, a crow gave a dry, broken cry.

Liam shifted his weight. "It's worth a shot," he said quietly. "She's already here."

"Better she's under our roof than someone else's," Niall added. "If we can keep eyes on her, keep her steady..."

Harry still didn't look away from Louis. His jaw was clenched, teeth working together like he was fighting every instinct. He dragged a hand over his mouth, then looked at the others, then back at Louis.

"Fine," he muttered. "She can stay."

Louis exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing, just barely.

"But that doesn't mean I have to like her," Harry said, "or trust her. Because I don't."

Louis gave a small nod, the kind that said he'd take what he could get. For now.

Chapter Text

Louis hadn't spoken much since the meeting.

He'd spent most of his time tucked away in the far barn, sleeves rolled and head down, clearing out the forgotten back stall for Lottie to stay in. It wasn't perfect—nothing ever was anymore—but he'd managed to get a cot up off the ground, patched up a few holes in the boards where wind might slip through, and pulled together enough worn blankets and hay to create something warm enough, safe enough. Good enough.

He liked working with his hands. It gave him somewhere to put the tightness in his chest, the gnawing frustration that hadn't eased since that night on the hatch. He knew Harry meant well, he knew it in that rational part of his brain that hadn't shut down, but it still scraped at him. The suspicion. The way Harry looked at Lottie like she might snap at any moment. Like Louis couldn't see the difference between an episode and a threat.

So Louis had kept his mouth shut. Let the silence stretch. It felt safer than the alternative—safer than saying something he might not be able to take back.

The barn door creaked softly behind him and he turned, expecting maybe Eleanor or even Lottie with some question about the room—but it was Harry. Standing just inside the frame, hands tucked into his jacket, smiling like maybe he hadn't noticed the cold tension lingering between them.

Louis straightened slowly, wiping the side of his hand on his jeans. "What's up?"

"I talked to Ben," Harry said, voice careful.

Louis blinked. "Yeah? About what?"

Harry shrugged lightly, moving closer but not too close, as if he knew better. "About the whole Lottie thing. I kept it simple—told him she's staying here a while, explained what happened in the clearest way I could for a nine-year-old."

Louis gave a tight nod, eyes flicking back to the cot. He smoothed the corner of a blanket unnecessarily, more to keep his hands busy than anything else.

"Good," he muttered. "That's good."

Harry lingered. "I wanted to say I'm sorry," he said, quiet now, and maybe a little raw. "For the way I handled it. I—I should've trusted you more."

"I'm busy," Louis said, not looking up. His fingers curled around the edge of the cot, pressing into the frayed canvas. "We can talk about it later."

There was a beat. A breath that might've turned into something else if either of them had let it. But Harry just nodded, even if it didn't feel like he wanted to, even if he stayed there for another few seconds like maybe he was waiting for Louis to change his mind. He didn't.

The barn door eased shut again, and Louis exhaled slowly, shoulders hunching just slightly.

He finished what he could, packing in the last bundle of hay under the cot and double-checking the corner seams. The space wasn't anything special, but it was hers. Something he could give her. Something that wasn't fear or guilt or cold.

When he stepped outside, the wind bit at his cheeks and he tugged his coat tighter across his body, fingers stiff from work and weather. Snow clung to the bottom of his boots, and he kicked at it with a few dull stomps once he reached the porch, wiping his feet before pushing the door open.

The warmth inside hit his skin like a whisper, and he called out as he pulled off his gloves, "Lottie? Your room's ready."

Her voice came from the kitchen, light and distracted. "Okay! Thank you!"

"It's not much," he said as he leaned in the doorway, watching her stir a pot alongside Eleanor. "I packed in some extra hay for heating but the insulation's held up most of the winter. Should be alright for the next few weeks."

She glanced back at him with a quick smile, sleeves pushed up and face pink from the stove's warmth. "It's more than enough."

"Glad you think so," he murmured, nodding once before glancing to Eleanor.

She was seasoning something in a chipped pot, trying to make sense of the scraps they'd scraped together. "It's stew," she said with a slight grin. "Sort of."

He snorted. "Anything warm is a win."

Eleanor hummed her agreement, then looked over her shoulder. "Zayn's been asking for you."

"Yeah?" Louis arched a brow.

"Something about training," she said, elbow deep in their makeshift meal. "Or working out. You know how he gets when he's bored."

Louis sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Alright. I'll go find him."

Louis made his way across the snow-dusted stretch behind the house, hands tucked deep into his coat pockets, boots crunching beneath him in a rhythm too slow to call purposeful. He wasn't avoiding anything, he told himself, even if his legs moved like they didn't want to be taking him toward Zayn and whatever kind of impromptu workout the guy had conjured up this time. He spotted them just past the side of the medical shed—Zayn in his usual stance, relaxed but alert, and someone smaller standing beside him.

"Oi, Z," Louis called out, lifting a hand halfway before stuffing it right back into his pocket. Zayn turned and waved him over, grinning, and it was only then that Louis noticed the kid standing with him was Ben.

The boy gave a shy kind of smile, his fingers fidgeting at the hem of his jacket, eyes darting between the two of them.

Zayn gestured lazily. "Got a new recruit. Says he's interested in training."

Louis arched a brow, gaze dropping to Ben. "Oh yeah?"

Ben straightened his shoulders a little, clearly trying not to squirm. "Since I'm not allowed to have a gun till I'm ten, maybe I can at least get a bit stronger."

Louis blinked, trying not to let his face show too much—amusement, maybe a bit of that ache that settled in his ribs whenever he thought too long about how grown this kid had to be. "Is that so?"

Ben nodded seriously, then looked up at Zayn. "Zayn's buff. Maybe he can help."

Zayn laughed, throwing an arm around Louis's shoulder. "Hear that? Buff."

Louis snorted, shaking his head. "Nah, Liam's definitely more buff. But yeah, Zayn works too."

"Prick," Zayn muttered with affection, giving Louis a light smack on the arm.

Ben giggled, and it was a small sound but not insignificant. Louis hadn't heard that sound from him before.

Zayn stretched, cracking his knuckles. "You joining in or just here to supervise?"

Louis considered, then shrugged. "Why not. Just don't make me run laps or some shit."

They started slow—intermittent sets of squats and sit-ups, modified for Ben, who tried to follow along with determination that made Louis smile to himself more than once. Zayn kept things light, tossing out teasing comments, correcting posture when needed, all while keeping one eye on Ben to make sure the kid didn't overdo it. And Louis—Louis didn't mind the burn in his thighs, or the stretch in his arms, or the way his lungs started to sting in a way that wasn't from the cold. It felt good. It felt almost normal.

Across the way, Harry stood against the side of the main barn, arms folded, jaw tight. His eyes tracked Louis more than he probably meant to.

Footsteps padded softly up beside him, and without turning, he already knew who it was.

"You really know how to pout, huh?" Lottie's voice was lighter than usual, like maybe she wasn't trying to pick a fight for once.

Harry sighed, eyes still on the field. "Not in the mood, Lottie."

"Didn't say you were." She came to a stop beside him anyway, hugging the oversized cardigan closer around her body. It looked like something Eleanor had scrounged up for her—yellowed at the sleeves, a button missing, but still soft. Familiar.

Lottie followed his gaze, brows raised when she saw Louis. "So what's up with you and my brother?"

Harry didn't answer right away. His shoulders tensed slightly, lips pursing. "Don't really know. Boyfriends? Only talked about it once."

"Seems like you care. Maybe even love him."

Harry gave a short laugh under his breath, something caught between uncomfortable and unamused. "Something like that. Wouldn't use that word yet."

"I saw it," she said simply. "Back at my camp. That day you barged in after what I did... you looked like a man ready to burn the place down. And not because you were angry. Because you were scared. You looked terrified."

He glanced at her now, sharply, and she just shrugged.

"That kind of fear only comes from loving someone," she added, quieter now, picking at the frayed cuff of her sleeve. "Even if you don't wanna admit it."

Harry leaned his head back against the barn's siding, closing his eyes for a second too long. "I'm just... caring."

"It's okay to not know what it is yet," she said, more gently this time. "And it's okay to not like me. After what I did. I get it."

Harry looked at her again, really looked at her. And she wasn't challenging him or begging for approval. She was just there, her shoulders hunched against the cold, not trying to take anything away from him.

He exhaled through his nose, gaze falling back to Louis. "I don't trust you," he said, and it wasn't cruel, just honest.

Lottie nodded. "That's fair."

—

Ben wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his coat and beamed up at them both when Louis told him to head in and get some stew. His grin was still all baby teeth and dirt, and Louis couldn't help the soft tug it pulled at the corner of his mouth. The kid didn't hesitate, boots thudding as he darted off toward the house with all the eager energy of someone who hadn't yet been worn down by the weight of survival.

Louis exhaled, leaning back against the side of the medical shed with a huff as his breath fogged in the cold. Zayn came to stand beside him, silent for a moment, arms crossed as he stared out toward the fields.

"Kid's a quick learner," Zayn said eventually, tilting his head.

"Yeah," Louis nodded, eyes still on the distant shape of Ben as he disappeared into the house. "He is."

There was a lull again, just long enough for Louis to think the conversation might've ended there, but then Zayn's voice cut through, low and casual but too deliberate to be passing.

"You still givin' Harry the silent treatment?"

Louis snorted, not even bothering to glance over. "I've never done that."

Zayn turned his head and raised a brow, just one, unimpressed. Louis caught the look from the corner of his eye and grimaced.

"I'm not," he muttered, then, softer, "I'm just... annoyed. He didn't even try to see reason when it came to Lottie."

Zayn didn't jump in right away, which was worse. It meant he was actually thinking it through, picking his words. That always meant a proper dressing down was coming. Louis braced for it.

"Gotta cut him some slack, mate," Zayn said finally, voice even. "He watched her stick a knife in your leg. Heard you scream. You think he forgot what that sounded like?"

Louis opened his mouth, already forming some flimsy defense—but she was having an episode, but it wasn't who she really is, but that wasn't the point—but Zayn didn't give him the space.

"And I get it," Zayn continued, a bit firmer now, still calm but not soft. "I get that it's easier for you to understand her. She's your sister. You've got history. You've got context—years of it. Before all this." He gestured vaguely, toward the woods, the house, the world they'd patched together with broken scraps. "But we don't have that. Harry especially doesn't have that. She's just the woman who tortured you to him. Just the person who made you bleed and beg."

Louis's jaw tightened. He looked down at his hands, fingers rubbed raw from hauling supplies and hammering together Lottie's makeshift bed. It wasn't that he hadn't thought about it—he had. He'd thought about what it looked like from the outside, how impossible it must seem to trust someone like her. But there was something so intimate about trauma shared with blood. About knowing how messy someone was and loving them anyway because you had no other choice. Because you were the only two left. Because no one else knew the version of her who used to braid her hair with ribbon, who cried at night when the dog went missing, who had a laugh like wind chimes when she got tickled too hard.

Zayn shifted beside him, nudging his shoulder. "You've gotta give him space to catch up to you, Lou."

"I know," Louis murmured, after a beat. His voice cracked on it just a little. "I know. I just... I want her to have a chance. Even if it's small."

"She will," Zayn said, confident in a way Louis couldn't quite muster. "But you can't drag everyone into forgiveness at your pace. Especially not Harry."

Louis nodded faintly, swallowing thick. His eyes stayed on the door of the house, half-hoping Ben would poke his head out again. But it remained closed. Probably for the best.

He pressed his palms to the wood behind him and leaned harder into it, spine aching in that dull, chronic way it always did after a long day. He didn't say anything else, not for a long while, and Zayn didn't ask for more. Just stood there beside him, steady and warm, letting Louis think without having to fill the silence.

Louis had barely pushed himself off the shed when Zayn's voice caught him again, quiet but clear, tugging at his spine like a string.

"Hey—before you go," Zayn said, still leaned back with his eyes squinted toward the snow-crusted trees. "About what you said before... about Lottie."

Louis turned, hand half-raised to wave a goodbye that didn't land. "What about it?"

Zayn scratched at his stubbled jaw. "That she's bipolar. Look, I know we ain't got proper meds anymore, but there's a hospital not too far. Might be picked over, probably is, but... maybe something's still there. Something to get her by, just for a bit. Long shot, yeah, but could be worth a look."

For a second, Louis didn't say anything. Didn't quite move. Then his mouth curved into something soft, grateful. Almost childlike in its relief. "Thanks, mate," he murmured, voice low, sincere. "Seriously."

Zayn just gave a nod, like it was obvious. Like of course he would.

Louis didn't say anything else, just offered a small smile as he turned and headed back toward the house. His boots pressed into the half-frozen mud, fingers brushing absently over the latches of his coat until he reached the door. He kicked the worst of the slush from his soles, slipped inside, and took the stairs two at a time, each step heavier than it should've been.

The bedroom door was already open. Harry sat at the edge of the bed, shoulders slightly hunched, his fingers steady as they guided a cloth over the dismantled barrel of his gun. It was laid out across his knee like something sacred—tender and mechanical all at once. He didn't flinch when Louis entered, just glanced over his shoulder and then looked back down, quiet.

Louis didn't speak either. He just peeled off his coat and tossed it to the side, the fabric landing with a muted thud on the trunk by the wall. He made his way over, boots clicking faintly on the floorboards, and settled beside Harry, their knees bumping before stilling into silence.

His hand drifted across the back of Harry's shirt—worn cotton, warm from skin—fingertips trailing with slow familiarity until they curled over Harry's shoulder. A soft squeeze. Grounding. Then Louis leaned in and let his head rest there too, his temple just above the curve of Harry's collarbone, chest finally loosening with the contact.

"You alright?" Harry asked, not quite pushing. Just enough.

Louis breathed in, voice muffled. "Just tired. Long day."

Harry's hand paused on the cloth, fingers curling over the edge of the weapon before letting it fall to his lap. "Y'know... I could've helped. With the room."

Louis didn't lift his head. "Didn't think you'd want to, not if you don't even like her."

There was a stretch of stillness after that, not angry—just honest. Louis felt Harry shift beneath him, the slight draw of breath, and then fingers on his chin, guiding his face upward until their eyes met.

"I never said I didn't like her," Harry said, his thumb brushing under Louis's jaw. "I just don't trust her."

His voice didn't carry judgment, only weight. The kind of truth that ached to say out loud.

"But I'm sorry. I mean it," he added, firmer now. "And I'll try. For you."

Louis stared at him for a moment, lips parting slightly, but no words came. He just leaned in again, this time tilting his face until his cheek pressed against Harry's shoulder, his breath settling there like a secret.

He didn't say thank you. He didn't need to. It was in the way his fingers stayed curled around Harry's wrist. In the way his body sank just a little closer.

—

Louis hadn't meant to fall asleep. He never did anymore, not really—not without trying, not without grinding down every thought until exhaustion finally won. But this time it just happened. Somewhere between Harry's hand on his back and the quiet weight of the room pressing in around him, his eyes had fluttered shut and stayed that way.

By the time he stirred, the light was gone. Darkness coated the edges of the walls, and the soft, distant creak of the house told him the others had long since finished with the day. He blinked slowly into the quiet, disoriented by how deep he'd fallen. Harry wasn't next to him anymore. The sheets beside him were still slightly warm, so he couldn't have been gone long. Probably downstairs now, finally letting himself eat after everyone else had taken their share. That was always how Harry was—waiting until there was no one left to feed.

Louis sat up, bones aching in that particular way that came from sleeping in patches. He reached for his coat where he'd tossed it hours earlier, tugging it over his shoulders and shoving his arms into the sleeves with practiced ease. His boots were at the foot of the bed, already unlaced. He couldn't even remember taking them off. Harry must've done it for him. That thought curled warm in his chest, stayed there even as he stood and slipped them back on.

The stairs creaked under his weight, quiet but not silent, as he made his way down. From the kitchen came the low murmur of voices, the warm glow of lantern light flickering faint across the wall. Liam was sitting with Niall, both of them leaned over chipped bowls, still talking through tired smiles. Harry stood by the counter, leaning one hip against it as he spooned the last of his meal from the bowl like he barely noticed doing it.

Harry glanced up when Louis entered, something soft in his eyes. "Where you off to?"

Louis tugged his coat closer. "Gonna check on Lottie."

He didn't wait for a response, didn't need one. The words had come out matter-of-fact, edged only by the slight tension that might have still lingered between them. He heard Harry's quiet hum of acknowledgment as he walked past, and he didn't look back.

The air outside bit at his neck, but he didn't mind it. The walk to the barn was short enough, and the cold gave him something to feel. Something that made sense. He slipped inside without too much noise, careful not to wake anyone who might already be settled in. The barn was quiet in the way places often were when they held sleeping people—a hushed kind of reverence, fragile and dense.

He made his way to the end stall where Lottie had been staying, pausing just outside and tapping his knuckles gently on the wood.

She looked up immediately. A whetstone was in one hand, the other gripping a knife she was slowly honing to a sharp point. Her fingers didn't falter, but her gaze softened.

"How's the room?" he asked, stepping inside and sitting down beside her on the edge of the cot.

"It's good," she said simply, her voice low, tired but steady. "Warm enough. Not bad for a barn."

He smiled faintly and let his gaze settle on the knife in her hand. She wasn't being threatening, wasn't even holding it with intention—just routine. Like something to do with her hands while the silence filled in.

"I talked to Harry a bit today," she said after a pause. "He really does love you, you know."

Louis let out a breath through his nose. "We're not that serious."

Lottie scoffed. "You always say that. Every time it's real, you act like it's not. But you'll get there. You always do."

He didn't respond to that. He just let the words sit in the air between them, warming slightly in the closeness. It wasn't worth arguing. Maybe she was right. Maybe she didn't know anything. He wasn't even sure which it was himself.

Lottie glanced at him again. "The little boy—what's his story?"

Louis's jaw tensed before he answered. "That's Ben. Me and Harry found him at a hunting lodge, not far from your camp, actually. We were looking for your people. Didn't find you, but we found him."

She nodded slowly, her brows pulling slightly. "I think I remember him. He peeked into the room when Harry stormed in. Just for a second."

Louis went quiet. He looked down at the dirt-covered floorboards, then at her again. "When the guards put Harry and Ben in that room—with the infected. One of them was Ben's dad."

Lottie stopped moving. The whetstone in her hand stilled completely.

Louis's voice was low, raw. "Why the fuck was there a room full of infected in the first place?"

She looked like she might shatter. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Her eyes flickered across the walls like she was searching for words, or maybe somewhere else to be.

"It was for training," she said finally. "Some of the older kids—they needed to learn how to defend themselves. So we kept a few of the infected chained up, rotated them out. Found stragglers, brought them in."

Louis's stomach turned.

"I didn't know who any of them were," Lottie said quickly. "We never... we never checked. I didn't know he had people. That he had a son." Her voice cracked near the end, barely holding it in. "I didn't know. That poor little boy."

Her eyes were wet now, but she blinked fast, like she could shove it all back inside before it spilled out.

"I want to apologize to him," she whispered. "Not for everything, but... for that. For not knowing."

Louis rubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"I know," she said. "But... if you could just talk to him. Ask if he'd want that. I'd be grateful."

He watched her for a moment, her shoulders slightly hunched, her hands finally still. There was guilt in every line of her face—guilt and grief and something deeper, older, that probably had no name.

"I'll talk to him," Louis said, his voice gentler now. "No promises."

She nodded, mouthing a quiet thank you.

Louis stood, brushing off his hands on his thighs before reaching for the stall door. "You should get some rest."

"I will."

He paused in the doorway. "Goodnight, Lotts."

"Night, Lou."

Chapter Text

Ben sat near the back, legs crossed beneath him on a threadbare rug, book open but his eyes drifting every so often to the front of the room. Lottie was making her quiet rounds, moving from one kid to the next, checking posture, running her finger across a page now and then, murmuring a soft correction or encouragement. Eleanor was leaned back in her chair with her own book, one leg crossed over the other, glancing up occasionally but clearly trusting the rhythm of the space.

Louis stood just inside the door, watching without stepping in right away. He took it in slowly—the quiet shuffle of pages, the still focus of little bodies curled over stories too old and worn to be complete. His eyes landed on Lottie, and something in his chest eased. She looked... not normal, not like before, but she looked lighter. Like maybe she was remembering how to be something other than afraid.

And Eleanor. Still reading but keeping her eyes on everything. That was exactly why Harry had asked her to keep close.

He finally stepped forward, boots scuffing soft over the floor, and knelt beside Ben. "Hey, kid," he whispered, tapping a gentle knuckle against his shoulder. "Mind stepping outside with me for a sec?"

Ben looked up, blinking once before nodding. He slid his coat on and tucked the book between the floorboards and the wall for later, then followed Louis out the door without a word.

They didn't go far—just around the side of the shed where the cold could bite at their cheeks without being unbearable. Louis didn't speak right away, let the silence settle first. Sometimes Ben needed a minute. Sometimes Louis did.

He finally crouched beside him, bracing a hand on his knee. "Did Harry talk to you about Lottie?"

Ben nodded once. "Said she's gonna be here a while."

"That's right." Louis scratched his jaw, fingers catching a rough patch near his chin. "She, uh... she wants to talk to you. Wants to say sorry."

Ben's head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed. "Sorry for what?"

Louis hesitated. The words stuck for a moment—dry and bitter, like they didn't want to come out. "It's about that day. At the camp."

Ben's shoulders dropped, gaze falling to the patchy frost beneath his shoes. He didn't say anything right away, just picked at a loose thread on the cuff of his coat. His fingers trembled once, briefly, from either the cold or the memory, Louis wasn't sure.

But then Ben nodded. "Okay."

Louis blinked. "Yeah?"

Ben still didn't look up, but there was a tiny shrug of his shoulders. "Okay."

Louis breathed out, relief loosening something in his ribs. He reached over and ruffled Ben's hair, gentle and quick. "I'll have her talk to you after dinner. Just for a minute, alright? You don't have to say anything back if you don't want to."

Ben finally looked up at that, eyes serious. "Okay."

"Alright." Louis gave his knee a light pat, standing back up. "Now go on—get back to your reading before Eleanor finds out I corrupted your learning time."

Ben's lips tugged up into a smile, and he turned to go, small steps crunching softly through the frost. Louis watched until he disappeared back into the shed, the door creaking open and closed behind him.

Louis made his way towards the outer wall and climbed steadily, boots finding each rung of the ladder with practiced ease, though the cold made his fingers stiff and uncooperative. He reached the top, pulling himself over the edge of the wooden platform and immediately squinting into the harsh bite of wind. It cut against his skin like needles, quick and sharp, and he tugged his coat tighter around himself with a muttered breath.

Harry was already up there, leaned into casual conversation with Luke, his hair windswept and cheeks tinged red from exposure. Louis made his way over, boots dull against the planks, and stood beside them without needing to say anything at first. Harry glanced toward him, subtle warmth in his eyes even with the sharp air between them.

Louis finally spoke, gaze trailing along the tree line beyond the wall. "Any increase?"

Luke shook his head, gloved hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets. "Small groups now and then. Nothing too bad. I think we're far enough out that they're not bothering. Probably sticking to bigger camps. More noise, more heat, more people."

Harry nodded, not taking his eyes off the horizon. "I think they stay dormant in the cold. Slower, stiff. Less of a threat. For now, anyway."

Louis's jaw tensed as he considered that, then relaxed just enough to respond. "As long as they stay away from the outer perimeter, don't make it in... we've got time. Maybe we'll get through winter."

Luke shifted on his feet and gave a small nod, clearly chilled to the bone. Louis turned slightly toward him. "Go warm up. I'll take over."

Luke didn't argue, just handed off the rifle and began his descent, boots thudding down the ladder one at a time. When they were alone, Louis stepped closer to Harry, resting the barrel of the rifle against the platform floor and letting his weight lean just slightly toward the other boy.

Harry glanced down at him with a half-smile tugging at his lips. "This your excuse? Just wanted to get me alone in the cold?"

Louis hummed, soft and unapologetic, resting his head against Harry's chest and letting his eyes close for a second. "Maybe."

Harry's arms folded around him instinctively, chin brushing the top of Louis's hair. "You're fucking freezing," he murmured. "Shouldn't be up here."

Louis didn't move. "I'm not fragile."

"Didn't say you were," Harry replied, and kissed the top of his head anyway, a gentle press of warmth against the chill.

They stood like that for a while, watching over the treeline, the empty stretch of land, the brittle quiet that came and went with the breeze. Conversation drifted between them in low murmurs—half of it meaningless, the other half unspoken but understood.

And then a sound—barely a rustle—made Harry tense. His hand lifted in a silent command, and Louis instinctively stilled.

There it was again. Shuffling. To the right, just inside the woods.

Louis moved toward the edge of the platform and raised the rifle, but Harry stepped in front of him, voice low and firm. "Don't waste the ammo. There's only four."

Louis blinked, but before he could argue, Harry was already scaling down the ladder with a knife clutched tight in his hand. Louis watched with a knot in his stomach, heart picking up as Harry hit the ground and started toward the movement in the trees.

It wasn't the silence that made it hard to watch. It was the precision. The eerie calm of it. Harry moved like he'd done this a hundred times—and he had. One infected dropped, then another. His knife carved quick arcs through the air, wet sounds following, bodies falling. The third went down with a brutal slam against a tree.

The fourth, though—that one lunged faster than the others. Harry stumbled, a rare misstep. Louis's breath caught, half a step from calling out, but Harry righted himself with a sharp twist and drove the knife upward into the infected's neck, holding it there until the thing stilled.

A beat passed, then Harry looked back toward the wall, breath visible in the air, cheeks flushed from the close call. He gave a grin. A goddamn grin.

Louis leaned over the ledge, arms braced on the wood. "You're reckless."

"I'm skillful," Harry called back, wiping his blade on the coat of the thing that nearly took him out. "Big difference."

Louis didn't answer right away, just shook his head with the smallest of smiles and muttered something to himself. Harry made his way back toward the ladder, fingers already cold again, and Louis's hands tightened just slightly around the rifle as he watched.

—

Harry didn't say anything for a while. Just shifted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and let his eyes follow the treeline, fingers flexing slightly like they itched to be doing something. The quiet between them wasn't uncomfortable, exactly, but it pressed in close, tight in the way only worry could be. He finally spoke after a while, voice low, rough. "What're we gonna do when she has another episode?"

Louis didn't answer immediately. The words sat heavy in his throat. He rubbed at his neck, fingers brushing the faint ridge of a scar that never quite faded from last spring's run gone wrong. "I'll handle it," he said eventually, like it was simple, like it was obvious. "Take her away from the house, away from the kids. I'll calm her down."

Harry still didn't look at him. "Is that normal? For people with bipolar—" he paused, like the word itself felt foreign in his mouth, something too clinical to belong in their world, "—to get that violent?"

Louis breathed out through his nose, slow and careful. "No. Not usually." He ran a hand through his hair, pressing at the back of his skull like he could squeeze the tension right out of his bones. "But everything's different now, innit? It's not just the illness anymore. It's this whole fucking world. The things she's seen. I've got no idea what she was doing after the rest of our family turned. She never told me. Could've been days, weeks, alone with them, running from them. Living next to it, smelling it. That kind of thing... it can rot your brain even if you're healthy."

Harry let that sit between them for a second, then finally turned to look at Louis. "And if she lashes out again?"

"I'll handle it." Louis met his gaze, steady this time. "She's my sister, Haz. My baby sister. She used to beg to sleep in my room during thunderstorms. I'm not just gonna throw her out like she's one of the infected."

"I'm not saying that," Harry said quickly, almost defensively. "I'm not. I just..." He looked back at the trees, jaw clenched. "I don't want anyone else getting hurt. Don't want you getting hurt."

Louis nodded, because he knew that. Of course he did. He'd known it from the minute Harry showed up with blood in his eyes and a knife in his hand, ready to gut anyone who came near him. "I get it," he murmured. "But Zayn told me something yesterday. Said there's a hospital not far. Most of it's probably picked through, but maybe not everything. Might be some meds left. Something to stabilize her, even for a little while."

Harry didn't respond right away. He shifted his weight, rubbing a hand down his face like he was trying to smooth the whole situation out of his skin. "A hospital's risky. Could be people holed up there, and people..." He paused, then said it quieter. "People are worse than the infected half the time."

"I know," Louis said, voice low. "But it's worth it. She deserves a chance at some kind of peace. She didn't ask for her brain to work against her. And I've gotta do something, Harry. I didn't protect her then. I didn't even know where she was. I've got a shot now, and I can't waste it."

Harry exhaled slowly, head falling back a little as he looked to the sky, then back down to the tree line. His jaw ticked, and when he finally spoke, the edge in his voice was gone. "Alright," he said. "We'll plan a run. Maybe next week. But we do it careful, and we do it right."

Louis nodded, his eyes tracking the slow sway of the trees. He didn't say anything else. Just stood there beside Harry, shoulder brushing his, the weight of it all settling into the quiet once more.

—

After the last bowl was scraped clean and the low hum of dinner conversation faded into quiet, Louis rolled up his sleeves and started helping Eleanor with the dishes, his hands moving automatically, familiar with the motions. Niall was beside him, cracking some offhand joke about stew and the lack thereof, which made Eleanor huff a laugh under her breath. Louis smiled a little, but his mind was elsewhere, eyes occasionally drifting to the living room where Ben lingered uncertainly, his small frame dwarfed in the doorway like he wasn't sure whether he was dismissed or just forgotten.

Louis dried his hands and nudged Niall to take over, then turned to Ben, offering a soft nod before tilting his head toward the couch. Lottie sat there, legs tucked under her, her fingers absently stretching and curling, eyes flicking toward the fire like she didn't quite know how to sit still anymore. She looked up at the sound of Ben's hesitant steps, and when she saw him coming toward her, she sat up straighter, her face shifting into something warm, but fragile.

"Hi," she said gently, like she didn't want to startle him. She patted the spot beside her. "You can sit. If you want."

Ben hesitated for half a beat, then moved slowly to her side, perching on the edge of the couch like he might spring up again at any second. Harry, who had been leaned up in the corner, arms crossed and watching like he didn't quite trust the fire not to turn to smoke, didn't shift his gaze.

"I'm Lottie," she said after a moment, a faint, apologetic smile forming. "I know you already know that, probably. But I wanted to say it anyway."

Ben didn't respond, not right away. His fingers picked at the seam on his sleeve.

Lottie looked down at her hands, then back at him. "I wanted to talk about... what happened. Back at the camp."

Ben's body stiffened just slightly, a twitch in the shoulders, the kind you might miss if you weren't watching carefully. But Lottie caught it.

"I'm sorry," she said. "For what you saw. With Louis. That shouldn't have happened. And I'm sorry about—" her voice faltered for a second, but she pushed through it. "—about seeing your dad like that. I didn't know who he was. I didn't know he was... a dad. Or that he might've been trying to find food. Or find you. I just—"

Ben looked down at his lap, his thumbs pressing hard into one another. He didn't say anything, and for a second, she thought maybe he wouldn't.

"I'm really sorry, Ben," she said softly. "You shouldn't have had to see any of that. I wish I could take it back, or change how things happened. But I am glad you're safe now. That you're here. And I just..."

She reached out slowly, like he might flinch away, but when he didn't, she gently took his small hand in hers. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "I'm really sorry."

Ben sat still for a long moment, long enough that the quiet between them started to press against her chest, but then he gave the tiniest nod. "It's okay," he mumbled, not really looking at her. "It's what the world is now."

That broke something in her. Just a little. A kid—a kid—saying something like that. Lottie swallowed around the lump in her throat and blinked quickly, fingers curling more securely around his.

"I guess," she said carefully, "but I still think it shouldn't be. And I think you deserve better. Louis—he's strong, you know? Really strong. He'd do anything to protect you."

Ben looked up at her then, eyes glassy, but clear.

"And I get if you don't trust me," she added. "Not after what I did to him. What you saw. I wouldn't trust me either." Her voice cracked just slightly. "But I'm gonna try to fix that. I want to."

Ben didn't say anything to that, just nodded again, slow and unsure. Lottie gave his hand one last squeeze before letting go, folding her fingers into her lap as he leaned back into the couch, not relaxed, not yet—but not running either.

From the kitchen, Louis watched quietly as he dried the last bowl, eyes softening as he saw Ben stay seated, saw Lottie hold herself just a little smaller, a little gentler. He caught Harry's gaze across the room, something unreadable passing between them before they both looked away.

Ben didn't say much after that. He just stood up, quietly, brushing his hands down the front of his shirt in that way kids do when they aren't quite sure what to do with their hands. Lottie thought maybe that was it—that she'd said too much, pushed too hard, and he was going upstairs to tuck into the cot in Harry's room where he usually slept, where it was safe and warm and far away from her. She didn't blame him, not really. She stayed on the couch, let her hands fall loosely into her lap, told herself not to be disappointed.

But then she heard the soft sound of footsteps again—light and fast—and her eyes lifted just in time to see Ben coming back down the stairs, a book clutched tightly to his chest. He didn't look at her right away, just padded back over with a quiet sort of purpose and sat beside her again, the same spot he'd left only a minute before.

Lottie blinked, surprised, but didn't say anything at first.

Ben held the book out toward her. "I read this sometimes," he said, eyes still on the worn edges of the cover. "When I'm sad. My dad used to read it to me before everything... you know."

Her chest pulled tight. She reached out and gently took the book from his hands, careful with the creased edges, the water-stained spine. She looked down at the cover and smiled.

Charlotte's Web.

"Do you know," she asked, voice soft, "what Lottie is short for?"

Ben tilted his head, brows pulling together slightly. "No?"

"It's short for Charlotte."

He stared at her for a second. And then—then he laughed. Just a little one. A breath of a laugh, but real. It bubbled out like it surprised him too.

"Really?" he asked, voice still cautious, but there was a spark of something lighter underneath it.

Lottie nodded, smile tugging higher. "Yep. Charlotte Elizabeth Tomlinson. But no one calls me that except my brother when he's mad."

Ben laughed again, even softer this time, and then looked down at the book, fingers playing with the hem of his sleeve. "Wanna read it with me?"

Lottie didn't even hesitate. "Of course."

Ben scooted in closer, tucking his side gently against hers, his shoulder barely brushing hers as he pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and threw it over their legs like muscle memory. Lottie carefully opened the book, fingers brushing the yellowed pages. She glanced down at Ben as his head dipped to rest slightly against her arm, and something fragile but deep settled in her chest.

She began to read, slow and steady, like she imagined his dad might've done. And for the first time in a long time, her voice didn't shake.

—

Lottie didn't remember closing her eyes, didn't remember the moment her voice went quiet or when Ben's breathing turned soft and steady beside her. But the book had slipped open in her lap, pages curled where it had sagged slightly from her hands, and Ben's head was still against her shoulder—warm, heavy, somehow reassuring. She might've stayed like that all night if the floorboard hadn't creaked, a soft sound that nudged her from sleep.

Her eyes blinked open just in time to see Louis approaching, crouched low as he reached across to tuck something beneath Ben's small arm.

She looked down and saw it—a little green dinosaur, its tail tucked into Ben's elbow now, his fingers curling over it reflexively like it'd never left his side.

"Sorry," Louis murmured when he caught her eyes. "Didn't mean to wake you. He just... he doesn't sleep great without that thing. Harry picked it up for him on a run. Kind of a ritual now."

Lottie blinked a few times, the warmth of sleep still in her limbs. She glanced down at Ben again, his face slack with sleep, cheek mushed slightly against her bicep.

"It's okay," she said quietly. "I wasn't expecting this."

Louis gave her a small smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes but was soft anyway. "Me either."

The smile lingered between them a beat too long before hers faltered. Her fingers tugged slightly at the edge of the blanket draped over their legs. She looked down, then back up at him with a flicker of something more fragile behind her eyes.

"Can I talk to you?" she asked.

"Course," Louis said immediately, moving to kneel in front of her without hesitation. His eyes flicked once to Ben, then back to her, watching as Ben's small hand wrapped tighter around the toy like even in sleep, he knew what grounded him.

Lottie swallowed and looked down again, jaw tightening like she had to physically brace herself just to get the words out. "I'm scared," she whispered. "I know I act like I'm not, like I've got it all under control, but I don't. I'm scared all the time. Scared I'll have another episode. Scared I'll hurt someone. Hurt myself. I don't even know."

Her voice cracked slightly. Louis didn't interrupt. He just waited, steady and still.

"I'm scared I'm going to mess everything up," she said, breath catching. "You built something here. Something good. It's safe, and... kind, even with everything happening outside. I don't want to ruin it."

Louis nodded slowly, reaching for her hand and squeezing it gently. "I know. I know you don't want to. That's why I'm trying to keep close. Watch for signs, you know? When you're going depressive, or anxious, or anything that looks like it's spiraling. You're not alone in it, okay?"

Lottie blinked hard and gave a shaky nod, her free hand moving to rest lightly over Ben's small back.

"I've got a run planned next week," Louis went on, voice quieter now. "There's a hospital not far. Maybe there's some meds left. Something that'll help. Maybe not much, maybe not forever, but something. Even just a little relief."

Her mouth parted slightly. "Really?"

Louis nodded again. "Yeah."

She shook her head a little. "You don't have to do all that just to keep me from going insane or some shit. I'm not worth—"

"You are," Louis cut in before she could finish. "And it wasn't just me. Zayn thought of it. We're all trying, Lotts."

She didn't respond right away. Her eyes drifted down again, shoulders slightly hunched, like she didn't know how to carry that kind of care. Like it made her feel guilty.

Louis leaned forward a bit. "You want to come with?"

Lottie's head snapped up. "What?"

"The run," he clarified. "You could come. Help out. Watch my back. You're good at that."

She scoffed under her breath, self-deprecating. "I'd slow you down."

Louis rolled his eyes. "You took me down in a barn in two seconds flat, remember? You're strong. Probably even better at killing infected than me. You've had more practice."

Lottie gave a crooked smile at that, small and unsure but real. "That's... not exactly something to be proud of."

"Maybe not," Louis said softly. "But it's something we need. Something we could use."

She glanced down at Ben one more time, then back to her brother, the faint trace of purpose flickering behind her tired eyes. "Alright," she murmured. "Maybe."

And Louis just nodded, resting his hand on her knee before standing again. "We'll figure it out."

Lottie yawned into her wrist, trying to stifle it but failing, and Louis just smiled gently, eyes warm as he took the hint. "Alright," he murmured, reaching to tug the blanket a little higher over Ben's small form before glancing back at her. "I'll let you get back to sleep."

She nodded, blinking slowly, but before he could fully pull away, her fingers brushed lightly against his sleeve. "Wait."

He paused, his body still angled toward the door. "Yeah?"

She looked up at him, something thoughtful in her gaze. "Who's going on the run?"

Louis hesitated, not because he didn't know, but because he hadn't quite decided how much of it to lay out just yet. "Me," he said, then added, "Harry too. Maybe Liam, depending on if Clara needs him to stay. And... you, if you're coming."

Lottie held his gaze for a second longer, searching it like she wanted to be sure he wasn't just offering it to make her feel useful. But Louis didn't flinch. He didn't look away. It was real. It always was with him.

She smiled then, soft and a little lopsided. "Alright. I'll let you know in the morning."

"Fair enough," he said with a slight nod, hand curling briefly around the edge of the couch before letting it go. He gave her one last look, like he wanted to say more but didn't want to keep her from sleep again. So instead, he just said, "Goodnight, Lotts."

"'Night," she replied, voice faint as her gaze drifted back down to Ben—small and still tucked against her side, his hand still gripping that battered dinosaur like the world outside didn't exist, like he was just another kid again for the night. Her fingers smoothed over his hair once before she let herself lean back again. And Louis watched for one more breath before turning away, quiet as he disappeared back into the dark.

Chapter Text

Lottie hadn't said much since they left the truck—none of them had, really—but it wasn't the kind of quiet that felt safe. It was the kind that stuck to her skin. That pressed against her ears. The kind that made every breath feel too loud. The run had felt different from the start. Something in the air. Something in the way the engine stuttered more than usual before they abandoned the truck behind a collapsed overpass. Maybe it was the season—first real winter run. Or maybe it was just what they were going toward. The word hospital had a certain kind of weight in this world. Like the bones of something too big to bury.

They made it there eventually. Longer than planned—though no one could really say by how much. Time moved strange now. Stretched and snapped back again. Louis had guessed thirty-five minutes off the route, but no one could tell if that was generous or grim.

Lottie stepped carefully, breath catching in her throat every time her boot hit something too solid beneath the snow. She tried not to look down too often. The shapes were there, half-submerged and half-forgotten, ridges in the white that looked too human to be ignored. Some were curled in on themselves like they'd laid down for a nap and just never got up again. Others were spread out, limbs awkward, unnatural, the snow hiding just enough to leave the rest to imagination. She couldn't tell who had died before and who had died again. Couldn't tell if it was infection or desperation or starvation or maybe just bad luck. It didn't matter now. But her stomach still turned.

Louis was close, silent beside her. He walked a step ahead sometimes, always glancing back—not obviously, just quick flickers of his gaze that she'd learned to recognize as care. The rifle in his hands looked heavier in this cold. His coat was pulled close, but his fingers were exposed, knuckles flushed raw from the air. She wanted to say something, maybe you okay? or we can turn back, but the words dried out in her throat before they ever had a chance.

Behind them, Harry and Liam hung back. Liam was muttering something under his breath—counting steps maybe, or listing supplies they needed. He had that way about him when he was anxious, always working something over in his head like he could logic away the fear. Harry, by contrast, was too quiet. Eyes sharp and jaw tight. One hand rested near the handle of his knife, his boots making clean tracks behind Louis's.

When they got to the outer fence, they all stopped.

The hospital loomed ahead of them like a memory someone didn't want to keep. It was huge—taller than they expected, wide and almost windowless on the lower floors. The front face was weather-worn, streaked with dirt and snowmelt. Icicles hung like broken teeth from the overhang above the main doors. Most of the windows had been shattered, jagged glass like eyelids frozen mid-blink, sharp and still. The letters on the sign above the entrance were rusted and fading. The word Memorial had lost most of its meaning. Just "-MORIAL H" remained, swinging slightly on twisted brackets every time the wind changed.

The entrance was partially blocked by an abandoned van, its front end smashed against the cement steps, long since picked clean. A wheelchair lay on its side nearby, wheels half-buried in snow. Old blood stained the snow around the doors, but it had been there a long time. Brown now, not red.

Liam moved first, checking the fence's weak point, and Harry followed, eyes never leaving the door. Louis touched Lottie's elbow before nodding forward, guiding her gently but firmly, the way he always did when he didn't want to spook her but also didn't want to leave it open for debate.

She followed. Of course she did.

They moved quietly through the entryway, Louis shifting the weight of his rifle as he led Lottie down a narrow corridor. The overhead lights had long since gone dead, but there was just enough gray light bleeding through the broken windows to see the outlines of faded signage. Louis glanced back at her once, his eyes flicking over her face like he was trying to make sure she was still steady, and then looked ahead again, his hand tightening on the stock of his gun. He didn't speak much, but the silence between them wasn't cold—it was protective. Measured. Lottie stayed close, boots crunching lightly behind his.

Harry tapped at walls as they passed closed doors, pausing and tilting his head slightly to listen. Nothing. No shuffling, no groans, no slow thuds from something barely animated. Just the sharp inhale of winter air every time he moved. He nodded once and turned back toward the reception area, letting Louis and Liam know before disappearing around the corner. Louis didn't stop him—just jerked his chin in acknowledgment—then turned to Lottie and gestured down the hall toward a sign that read Laboratory in peeling blue lettering.

"Let's check there," he said quietly, eyes already scanning.

Lottie nodded, brushing her fingers over the worn strap of her bag as she followed him. Her boots echoed differently in the corridor, the sound dull against the scattered remnants of a place that once held purpose. Liam stayed near the stairwell behind them, arms crossed and ears tuned like a hound's, his figure unmoving as they slipped deeper into the belly of the place.

Louis pressed the lab door open with the edge of his rifle, letting the hinges moan just enough to announce them. The sound carried, sharp and long, but nothing stirred. No movement. No breath that didn't belong to them. He held there for a second, then stepped inside, sweeping his rifle slowly across the space. The lab was cluttered—papers turned to pulp on the floor, shattered vials glinting like sugar in the dust, rusted cabinets half-cracked open like broken teeth.

Lottie followed him in and began checking the shelves along the left wall. Her hands moved carefully, pushing aside containers and boxes, peering into drawers already torn through by desperate hands. Louis knelt by a cabinet near the back, the light catching his cheek as he dug through an upturned bin, muttering to himself about labeling being shit in a place like this.

"Would lithium even still be here?" he asked after a while, voice low but clear.

Lottie shrugged a little, still sifting. "It's hard to say. Most places don't keep it out in the open—usually locked up. And uh, it could also be expired."

Louis huffed, pulling a bottle toward him. It was something unrelated. He tossed it into his pack anyway. "So you think it'd be picked through?"

"Probably not picked through," she said, glancing at him. "Not everyone even knows what it is. But we still might not find it."

"Doesn't mean we shouldn't try," he replied, almost sharply.

Lottie stilled for a moment, then closed the drawer in front of her. "I just mean, you didn't have to come all this way for me," she said gently. "Especially if it's a long shot."

He straightened up and turned toward her, jaw tight. "You're my sister."

"I know that."

"You're my baby sister, Lottie," he added, like the word meant more now than it did before the world ended. "I'd do anything for you."

She folded her arms, voice soft. "Even when I put a knife in your leg?"

He exhaled through his nose, gaze dropping for just a second. "Even then."

"Louis, you don't have to—"

"Don't tell me what I have to do." His voice wasn't angry, not exactly, but it cracked at the edges, weathered and thick. "You were alone. You lost everyone. You lost yourself for a while. I can't fix that. I know that. But I can try to help now. I can try to do something."

Lottie looked away, eyes stinging, fingers curling around the strap of her bag again.

"I just don't want to be the reason something goes wrong here," she whispered.

"You're not," he said quietly. "And you won't be."

—

Harry let his fingers drift over the brittle corners of the papers strewn across the reception desk. Most of them were stained from water damage, smudged beyond legibility, but a few still held onto words like they had been waiting for someone to notice. He didn't really care about what was on them—he wasn't looking for supplies, or meds, or anything remotely helpful. That was Louis and Lottie's task. They'd find something, or they wouldn't. He wasn't good at the scavenging part anyway. He was better at watching backs, listening for danger, keeping hands steady.

Still, he reached for a folder and tugged it open, flipping through what looked like patient intake forms. A name caught his eye. William Howard. He blinked at the appointment slip clipped inside.

"Hey, Liam," he said, voice casual as he held up the yellowing page, "you think William Howard knows he had an appointment on Thursday at 9 a.m.?"

From the other side of the room, Liam snorted. "Reckon William definitely missed it."

Harry let out a low chuckle and tossed the paper back onto the pile. "Poor guy."

He leaned back against the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest, eyes drifting toward the dark hallway Louis and Lottie had disappeared into. A part of him wished he'd gone with them—he hated not knowing, hated the itch of worry that always lived in his chest now. But he knew he had to stay back, watch the entrance. Keep Liam nearby, just in case.

Liam stepped closer, glancing at the same mess of papers with a disinterested frown. "You think this'll work?"

Harry looked over at him, brow raised.

"The meds. For Lottie." Liam kept his voice low, not unkind, just curious. "You think it'll help her?"

Harry didn't answer right away. He dropped his gaze, let his fingers toy with the frayed corner of the desk. "I don't know," he said eventually, voice soft. "I don't know much about... all that. Bipolar stuff. Meds. What works, what doesn't."

Liam nodded, waiting.

"But Louis believes it will. And that's enough for me."

There was no sarcasm in it. Just quiet certainty. Liam seemed to understand, nodding again before moving to glance through another drawer.

Harry stayed where he was, still leaning against the desk, still thinking about Louis somewhere back in the dark with his sister. Still thinking about how the man he loved would always give everything he had to the people he cared about, even when it hurt. Even when it scared him.

And maybe that's what made it all worth trying.

Harry's body went still as the softest scrape of movement echoed down the nearby corridor, like something dragging itself just past the frame of what he could see. His hand lifted, smooth and automatic, fingers curling around the grip of his gun without thinking. Liam had gone quiet beside him, a small shift of air as he turned toward the sound too, eyes narrowing. Harry gave a single nod, silent, before taking a breath and moving toward it.

His boots didn't crunch or echo—he knew how to step, how to move when silence mattered most. He moved past a tipped-over cabinet, past a flickering overhead light that gave nothing of use. The hallway bent, stretching further into dimness. The groaning came again, closer this time. Slower. Wet. Tired.

Then he saw it. A figure at the far end, its body bent at the middle like it had been folded and left that way for too long. It dragged one leg behind it, jerking forward in spurts like it didn't know how to move in a straight line. Harry exhaled slowly through his nose, gauging its speed, its awareness—or lack thereof. He could just shoot it. One to the head, easy. But it was only one. Waste of ammo.

He moved again. A step. Another. Careful.

His foot caught the edge of a cracked picture frame, the sound sharp against the cold tile.

The infected stopped. Its head snapped up. Dead eyes wide. And then it surged.

Harry swore under his breath, heartbeat leaping into his throat as he yanked the knife from his hip. He didn't run. Just waited. Steeled himself.

The weight of the thing hit him hard, harder than he expected, a thud of bone and rotted muscle as it pushed against his chest. He staggered back into the wall but kept his grip. The breath from its mouth was sour, its hands clawing blindly against his jacket as it tried to bite. Harry brought the knife up, teeth grit, arm shaking with the force of keeping it away just long enough.

Then with a sharp inhale and a brutal drive of muscle memory, he thrust the blade into the side of its neck. Once. Again. And again, until the sound stopped and the thing went limp against him.

He let it fall, panting, wiping blood off his jaw with the back of his sleeve as he stepped away. His hand was shaking a little.

Liam called his name faintly from behind, but Harry didn't answer yet.

He just stood there, looking down at what was left of the thing, and tried to steady his breathing.

Harry made his way back the way he came, steps slower now, more deliberate, like the weight of what just happened still sat somewhere in his limbs. The sting of cold air hit the sweat on his neck as he crossed the corner again, boots brushing over the same broken frame he'd tripped on minutes ago. He didn't look down at it this time. He didn't want to.

Liam spotted him from across the lobby, straightening from his lean against the reception desk, brow furrowed in concern. "You good?"

Harry just nodded, too quick, brushing his hand over the top of his head like it might ground him. "Yeah," he muttered, his voice rough but even. "Just one. Took care of it."

Liam watched him a second longer, maybe wanting to push, but didn't. He just nodded back. "Alright."

But Harry didn't settle. Didn't lean against the desk or fall back into easy chatter. His eyes kept drifting toward the adjacent corridor, then the other hallway beyond that, as if anything could be waiting. As if one more breath from the dark could shift everything again.

"I'm gonna do a lap," he said, already moving before Liam could respond. "Just to make sure we're clear."

He didn't wait for agreement. His boots echoed faintly as he walked off again, passing through what once might've been a waiting area—scattered chairs, a cracked fish tank long dried up, a toy truck rusted beneath a bench. He didn't glance at any of it. His grip on the knife was tighter now, a small throb pulsing through his palm where he'd held the last infected back. He hadn't cleaned the blade yet. Couldn't bring himself to, not when there might be more.

He kept his breath even, slow, the way Louis had once said helps when you feel it creeping in—whatever it is, the panic, the noise, the weight. His mind flicked briefly to Louis again, to the lab down the hallway, to the sound of his voice when he'd said he'd do anything for his sister. Harry could hear it—how steady it was, how unshakable.

He turned another corner, knife raised, but found nothing.

Another corridor. Clear.

He moved through the empty nurse's lounge, checked behind the partially open bathroom door, glanced inside a room that looked like it once held patients—dusty cots, sheets tangled, dried blood in the corner that had long since lost its story. Still nothing. Still quiet.

And yet.

He stayed out a little longer than he needed to. Kept walking, listening to the tap of his boots and the beat of his own breath, until finally, after looping back toward the lobby, he came to a slow stop and leaned against the edge of the doorway. Watching Liam from a distance. Letting his shoulders relax—just a little.

—

Louis had crouched down by one of the low cabinets near the back of the lab, shuffling through brittle paper labels and faded pill bottles, still trying to make sense of what might be useful. Lottie stood a few steps behind him, arms folded, weight shifting between her boots. She tilted her head like she was about to say something and then did.

"I'm gonna check the pharmacy across the hall. Think I saw a sign for it earlier."

Louis glanced up, brows lifting in that quiet way he always did when he wanted to ask something without sounding like he doubted her. "You want me to come?"

Lottie shook her head before he even finished. "No, I got it." Her voice was too smooth, too practiced. "If it looks bad, I'll double back."

He didn't argue, which surprised her a little. Maybe he was starting to believe she could handle things. Or maybe he just trusted her word. Either way, she gave a small nod and turned for the door, not really giving herself time to think too long about it.

Crossing into the hall, her boots echoed more than she'd expected, the sound oddly sharp. She moved slow, cautious, passing faded posters about flu vaccines and free blood pressure screenings, sidestepping an old cleaning cart that had toppled into the wall. She didn't glance back yet. Didn't need to.

The pharmacy door was just where she thought it was, pale green with a window smeared from dust and time. She stopped just before it, staring up at the crooked sign, and didn't move. Something about the word itself made her stomach twist—"Pharmacy." Like it meant something simple. Like this was as easy as walking in and picking the right bottle. As if that would be enough.

She stood there for a second, trying to summon... she didn't even know what. Nerve? Will? Hope? None of those felt right.

Her hand hovered over the handle.

Then she glanced back down the hallway toward the lab—toward Louis. Just to see. Just to maybe let his presence pull her in again. But he wasn't looking. He was still crouched down in the lab, focused, not even aware that she hadn't gone through the door yet.

So instead, she let herself drift.

She turned from the pharmacy and started walking further down the hall, past old exam rooms and dark break rooms with torn bulletin boards. She barely looked where she was going. Her fingers dragged across the faded wall just to feel something, the rough texture grounding her more than the thought of pill bottles ever could.

She glanced sideways into a dim room, half-curious. A skeleton model had been knocked over, its limbs twisted around itself. Another few steps and she paused at a door that looked like it used to be an office. Pushed it open slowly. Empty.

She leaned on the frame and exhaled, long and slow.

The truth was—she didn't want the meds. She hadn't wanted them the moment Louis brought them up. Not because she didn't appreciate the gesture, not because she wanted to suffer. But because the part of her that could believe in getting better had started dying long before the world did. She didn't know when, exactly. Maybe when she watched their youngest sister turn. Maybe the day she realized she couldn't remember her own mother's voice. Maybe the first time she felt herself slipping and no one was around to catch her.

Maybe it just didn't matter now.

Louis believed it could help. That was the only reason she was here. That belief of his. That stupid, relentless, soft-eyed hope that had always been more of a burden than a gift.

She blinked slowly, breathing in the dust of the hall, and leaned a little heavier into the doorway. Maybe she'd go into the pharmacy after all. Maybe. Just not yet.

She shook her head, jaw clenched as she turned away from the pharmacy door without another glance. The thought of standing in that room, sifting through dusty pill bottles for something that might not even work—it made her skin itch. She didn't want to owe her sanity to something as fragile as hope. Louis didn't get that. Not really. He thought he did, but he still saw her as his baby sister. Still believed she could be saved.

She pressed on, footsteps echoing in the hallway as she explored deeper into the hospital. There was a rusted metal sign hanging loosely from a frame up ahead, "Cafeteria" just barely visible under the grime and dust. Maybe there'd be something in there—supplies, or old food still sealed in vending machines. Something to make this trip feel like it meant anything.

She pushed open the door.

The air changed immediately.

Her breath caught in her throat as she stepped just inside and saw it—the whole ceiling had caved in, snow blanketing the floor in a thick, almost undisturbed layer. It glistened under the broken skylight, soft and cold and deceptively calm. A thin stream of pale light touched the powder in an almost beautiful way. For a moment, Lottie just stood there, caught in something strange. It looked like peace. Like a memory from before.

Then her boot hit something solid.

She jerked her foot back.

It groaned.

Her eyes snapped down just as a patch of snow to her left shifted—subtle, slow. The lump rose. A hand emerged. A face. Grey skin, blackened teeth. The infected staggered upright, snow falling off its shoulders like ash, and Lottie's heart spiked in her chest so hard it hurt. She moved on instinct, grabbing her knife and plunging it into the thing's temple with a wet crunch. It dropped with a sick thud.

But the snow kept moving.

Another groan. Then another. She spun around just in time to see more shapes writhing under the snow. One by the far wall. Two more by the kitchen doors. She heard snarls now, not groans—urgent, hungry. The snow rippled across the room like a living thing.

They had been sleeping. Dormant under the cold. Piled on top of each other. Dozens. Maybe more.

"No, no, no—" her voice cracked as panic flooded her system. She bolted.

The first infected lunged toward her as she hit the door and she shoved it back with a scream, its nails catching the fabric of her sleeve before she slipped away. She turned and ran, boots skidding on the tile, her breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls.

"Louis!"

She didn't even check if the hallway was clear, just ran, full sprint, her boots slapping against the floor, hands scraping the wall as she pushed herself forward. Behind her, she could hear them—louder now, echoing—more than just the ones from the cafeteria.

"Louis, Louis, Louis!"

She turned a corner, nearly slammed into a cart, and caught herself against the wall. Her lungs burned. Her vision blurred. It felt like the walls were closing in, like the sound of their snarling was filling her ears from every direction.

Where was he—where the fuck was he—

"Louis!" she screamed again, louder this time, voice tearing out of her throat like something broken.

Because they were coming. And she didn't know how many. And she didn't want to die in this goddamn hallway, in a place that smelled like bleach and ash and old lives. She didn't want to be the reason Louis got hurt trying to find her.

But she kept running, even though her legs were cramping, even though her hands were shaking. She could still hear them behind her, feet dragging, growls louder, faster, closer. Her knife was slick in her grip. Her heart threatened to shatter inside her chest.

"LOUIS!"

And this time it wasn't just panic—it was pleading. Desperate. Like maybe if she said it loud enough, he'd appear around the corner and grab her, pull her away like he used to when she was little and crying over a nightmare.

Like maybe this time, he'd show up again.

Louis nearly dropped the bag when he heard her scream—raw, ripped from her throat like it was tearing her apart. His body moved before his mind caught up, boots pounding against the tile as he ran out of the lab, swinging the door open so hard it hit the wall and bounced back.

He spotted her in the hallway just ahead, panic carved across her face, eyes wide with terror and breath coming out in sharp bursts.

"Lottie!" he shouted, running toward her. "What—"

She tried to say something, but the words got lost in the sound behind her. Louis looked past her, past the shape of her body heaving with exhaustion, and his whole chest seized.

Down the hallway.

They were coming.

Not just a few. Not even ten.

Dozens.

Snarling, crawling over each other, slipping on the floor, piling up and still pushing forward. The sound was deafening—moaning and growling and the wet slap of bare feet on linoleum. It hit him all at once, that sick, familiar panic from the earliest days. The kind that lived in his bones now. That day at the school. That breach in the wall. The screaming. The blood. Darcy.

He swallowed it down.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, heart racing, and grabbed Lottie's hand before she could fall.

"Liam! Harry!" he shouted as loud as his lungs would let him, voice cutting down the corridor like a blade.

They ran.

Down the hallway, Louis's hand tight in Lottie's, the bag slapping against his back. She stumbled once, nearly slipped, but he yanked her forward. His legs screamed at him to slow down, his lungs were already burning, but he kept going, eyes darting for any door, any exit, anything.

Then Harry appeared around the corner, wide-eyed and fast, gun already drawn. He skidded to a stop when he saw them, then followed their gaze.

His mouth dropped open.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he breathed.

Louis didn't even have to say it. Harry turned, pointed his gun, and started firing. One shot. Then another. The infected dropped like dominos but they just kept coming, the herd too thick, too determined.

Liam came up behind them, breathless and already raising his weapon. "We need to go—"

"You two get outside!" Harry shouted over the gunfire, still shooting as he stepped backward. "We'll cover you!"

Louis pushed Lottie toward the stairwell, hand still gripping hers.

"No—fuck, Harry—"

"GO!"

Liam was yelling now too, bullets cutting through the thick groans of the herd. Louis hesitated, just for a second—just to look back—but then Harry was there again, shoving at his shoulder, blood on his jaw from a near miss.

"They're not stopping—run, now," Harry said, breathless.

Louis's heart cracked as he turned away, dragging Lottie with him.

They ran.

All four of them now, sprinting through what was left of the hallway. Harry's gun clicked empty and he cursed, slamming another magazine in. The door at the end of the corridor was open—Liam had kicked it on the way out. Snow poured through, blinding for a second, but it was freedom.

Harry and Liam were the last through.

Harry slammed the door shut behind them, but it was pointless. They could already hear fists pounding on the other side.

Louis looked to the truck parked far down the snowy lot. "We're not gonna make it."

"It's our only chance," Harry said, eyes scanning the space like he was already counting every step. "We have to run."

Louis stared at him, eyes wide. "It's too far."

Harry grabbed his hand. "Then we run fast."

—

They ran.

It wasn't fast enough. It never was. Every step felt like it could be the last, like something could reach out from the white blur behind them and drag them down. Louis didn't know if it was the snow slowing them or the panic—or maybe it was Lottie's ankle rolling, the sudden sharp crack of it turning beneath her. She let out a cry, barely a second long, almost swallowed by the sound of the herd behind them, but he heard it. Her body faltered. Stumbled.

He whipped around. "Lottie—"

"I'm fine," she breathed, her voice ragged. "Keep going."

Louis grabbed her arm anyway, tugged her forward, but she braced herself and stopped. "Louis, listen to me."

"No. No, just keep going, we're almost—"

"I said listen, dammit!" Her voice cut clean through everything. He stilled.

She turned toward him, eyes wild and desperate and clear. "I can lead them off. I'm good at it, remember? Wide spaces are better for distraction. You know that. Just—just let me do it."

"No," he said, voice cracking in his throat. "No, I'm not letting you—"

"You have to."

He shook his head, blinking snow out of his eyes like it might help him make sense of this, like it might give him more time. "There's another way—there has to be."

"There's not," she said. "You know there's not."

Harry came up beside them, breath sharp, scanning behind them. "They're closing in—Liam's trying to hold them off, but it's—fuck—Louis, we gotta move."

Lottie turned to Harry. "Take him to the truck."

"What?"

"Take him, Harry." Her eyes burned with something he didn't understand. "Get him out of here. Now."

"He's not leaving without you," Harry muttered.

"I know." She didn't look away. "That's why I need you to do it."

There was no time to argue. No time to tell her that this wasn't the plan. That this wasn't what Louis had promised, not after everything, not after the fight they'd had about her belonging here and being safe and trying again.

"Even if you hate me," she said suddenly, quieter now. "Just do this one fucking thing for me. Please."

Harry froze, breath puffing out in the cold. Then nodded. "Okay."

Lottie smiled, but it was small and tight. She leaned in close, whispering something into his ear—he didn't catch it. Or maybe he wasn't meant to. Then she pulled away, turned around, and screamed into the night like she was made of fire.

"HEY! COME ON, YOU UGLY BASTARDS! I'M RIGHT FUCKING HERE!"

Her voice rang out across the parking lot, slicing through the wind, through the chaos, through everything.

And they followed.

The infected turned, one by one, like magnets drawn to heat. She bolted, slipping once but righting herself. Louis watched her disappear into the distance, running in the opposite direction of the truck.

Harry grabbed him by the arm. "Come on."

"No—no, I'm waiting for her!"

"Louis."

He stared at Harry. Desperate. Unmoving. "Did she give you a plan? Did she—did she say something—tell you what she's doing?"

Harry just looked at him. "Yeah. Yeah, she did. Now move."

He looked again. Just for a second. Just long enough to see her sprinting away, infected behind her like shadows eating the ground.

Louis let Harry pull him.

They didn't speak as they ran. Liam had already climbed into the truck and was fumbling with the ignition, swearing under his breath. The sound of gunfire had faded, replaced by the rustle and shuffle and scream of a herd on the move.

And then—

The sound stopped.

Louis's body seized with it.

No yelling. No breath. No noise at all.

He turned.

She was standing in the middle of the parking lot.

Still.

No movement.

Her figure small, framed in the snow, arms loose at her sides, shoulders bowed.

And her eyes were on him.

She smiled.

Louis's chest split open. "Lottie—"

She didn't say anything. Just held his gaze.

He started toward her. Harry lunged, grabbing him. "Louis, no."

"LOTTIE!" he shouted, voice cracking. "NO—WAIT—LOTTIE—"

She didn't move. She just shrugged. Like she was sorry. Like she was saying this is how it has to be. Like maybe she'd known it all along.

And then—

The infected reached her.

Louis watched, helpless, as they crashed into her from all sides. Her body vanished in a mess of limbs and snarls and teeth.

She didn't scream. She didn't even fight.

They took her down in seconds. Piling over her like she was nothing. Like she hadn't been his sister. Like she hadn't just saved all of them.

Louis screamed until his throat gave out, clawing at Harry's arms, fighting him with everything he had left. But Harry didn't let go.

There was nothing left to do but run.

There was no saving her.

She had never intended to be saved.

—

He didn't feel the truck moving beneath him. Didn't feel Harry's arm wrapped tightly around his chest, didn't hear Liam say something from the driver's seat about holding on, about how they'd made it out. All Louis could hear was silence. Not the peaceful kind. Not the gentle hush that followed a long day. This one was dead. Suffocating. A silence shaped like Lottie.

It rang in his ears even louder than the infected had. It chased him harder than they had. The image of her standing there, alone in the snow, smiling like she was already gone—he couldn't get it out of his mind. It was burned into the backs of his eyelids, flashing every time he blinked. She hadn't run. She hadn't flinched. She'd let them come. She'd called them.

He didn't know when he started shaking. His hands had gone cold, fingers curled uselessly against Harry's coat, and the warmth pressed around him didn't register. It could've been fire and it wouldn't have made a difference. His body was still at the hospital. With her. In that parking lot. In the open. Watching her shrug like it was nothing.

The truck rolled to a slow stop, tires crunching over the snow and gravel. Liam's voice cut into the silence. "We should be okay to stop for a minute," he said softly, like he didn't want to be loud, like he knew better than to speak too much.

Harry's hand moved gently along Louis's side, a careful pressure meant to ground him, but Louis couldn't feel that either. He could barely feel his own weight.

"Louis," Harry said.

Nothing.

"Louis," again, firmer this time, but still tender.

Louis pulled away from him. He didn't even remember making the decision. Just knew that one second he was in the truck, and the next he was stepping down into the snow, his boots sinking slightly, the cold brushing up his legs like it wanted to remind him he was still alive. He didn't want the reminder.

The sky looked the same in every direction. Grey and unbothered. No sign of what had just happened. No mark to show that the world had ended all over again. Louis turned toward the horizon, toward the direction they'd come from, toward the shape of the hospital long out of view. He stood there, his jaw tight, breath shallow. He didn't cry. Didn't scream. He just stared, like he was trying to see through the miles and snow and silence to find her. To find something.

But there was nothing.

No last words. No body. No goodbye.

Just her smile. And that shrug. And the way she looked at him like she loved him, even while the end was coming right at her.

Harry joined him. He didn't speak at first, just stood at his side, quiet. Steady. And then, gently, "I'm sorry."

Louis's eyes didn't move. But he reached into his coat pocket, slowly, like his body wasn't even sure what he was doing. His fingers fumbled against the fabric, stiff from cold and shock, and when he finally pulled out the small bottle, it rattled in his hand.

Harry glanced over. "What's that?"

Louis looked down at it. His hand shook violently now. It was a small bottle. White cap. Worn label. The letters smudged but still legible.

"Lithium," Louis whispered, the word almost catching in his throat. "I found some."

Harry was silent.

"I found some," Louis repeated, his voice cracking now. "It was in the lab. I—I shoved it in my pocket before we left, I didn't even look at the label until now." He swallowed hard. "This was it. This was what she used to take. Before everything fell apart."

And that's when he broke.

His legs nearly gave out from under him, but he didn't fall. Just staggered a little in place, gripping the bottle so tightly it might've shattered if it were glass. He stared at it like it might still work, like if he held it tight enough she might come back.

"She didn't have to—she didn't have to die, Harry." His voice was raw now, thick and messy. "We were right there. I had it. I fucking had it."

Harry moved closer, placing a hand on the back of his neck and pulling him into his chest, and Louis didn't fight it this time. He collapsed forward, breath shuddering against Harry's coat, teeth clenched so tightly it hurt, face buried in fabric that smelled like sweat and snow and blood.

"She was right there," Louis said again, voice muffled, shoulders shaking. "She was right there and I let her—I let her—"

"You didn't let her," Harry whispered, fingers gripping the back of his head like he could hold him together through sheer force. "She made that choice. You tried—Louis, you tried."

But it didn't matter.

The bottle of lithium slipped from Louis's hand and hit the snow with a soft, final sound.

And Louis wept. Not just for her. Not just for the way she looked when the world swallowed her whole. But for the ache of being the one left behind.

· · ─────── ·End of Season 1· ─────── · ·

Chapter Text

Ben kept his elbows too stiff, and Harry gently adjusted them with a nudge of his fingertips. “Loosen up,” he said softly, voice patient, steady. “If you lock your arms like that, the kick’s gonna surprise you every time.”

Ben nodded, biting the inside of his cheek like he always did when he was concentrating too hard. The gun looked too big in his hands, even though it was just a small handgun—unloaded for now, with the clip resting on the crate beside them. Harry had walked him through the safety already, made him repeat it back twice. Muzzle awareness, trigger discipline, when to use it, when not to.

“Good,” Harry said after Ben adjusted his stance again. “Now square your shoulders with the target. Look down the sights. You see the top of the post?”

“Yeah.”

“Line that up with the dot. That’s where the bullet’s gonna go.”

Ben squinted toward the target—a circle painted on a chunk of rusted metal propped up against a stack of old logs. His tiny tongue poked out between his lips as he held his breath, finger just outside the trigger guard. Harry didn’t rush him. He let the kid take his time, let him focus. The sky had that strange gray light to it, snow lingering in patches along the fence, steam curling off the livestock out in the pasture.

Louis stood further back, arms crossed tight over his chest, his weight shifting slow between his feet. He didn’t say anything. Hadn’t said anything when Harry brought the idea up last week either—just looked at him for a long moment and said, “If you think it’s worth it.” But Harry could see the tension in his jaw now, the tightness around his eyes, the way his gaze didn’t move from Ben, like he was watching him get farther and farther away with every passing second.

The recoil startled Ben even though Harry had warned him. His hands jerked back and the shot went wide, missing the metal target by a good foot. Still, Harry grinned. “You fired it,” he said, gently clapping a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Now let’s do it again, and this time, don’t flinch.”

Ben’s laughter cracked the air, unguarded and triumphant. He was proud of himself. And for a moment, Harry let himself feel it too.

But Louis had already turned away, walking back toward the house without a word.

He was different now. Not in some dramatic, cinematic way—he didn’t throw plates or scream at the wind or hole himself up in dark rooms like people might expect. No, Louis had just… dulled. Gone quiet in a way that wasn’t peaceful. Some light inside him had dimmed and never flickered back on. The first week after Lottie, Harry kept expecting the breakdown to come. Kept bracing for it, checking in too often, thinking maybe Louis just needed time to process. But the days turned to weeks, and the grief didn’t come in waves. It came in silence.

Louis worked the farm like clockwork now. He mended fences, slaughtered infected, restocked their supplies, traded when he could, always efficient, always moving—but he didn’t talk. Not really. He gave orders when necessary, made jokes that never reached his eyes. He was still Louis. Just… thinner in a way. Less of himself.

Harry had watched him bury the lithium bottle in the snow that night. He hadn’t said anything about it then, hadn’t needed to. He’d just let Louis dig the little hole with bare fingers, watched as he dropped the glass into the white, then covered it up again like it was a body.

And that was it. That was the last thing Louis had buried.

Liam had done his best to fill the quiet in the weeks that followed, trying to keep the place moving. There had been a lot of tension when they got back to the farm—Ben had asked where Lottie was the moment he saw Louis. And Louis, still covered in her blood, had just knelt down in front of him and said, “She’s gone, kid.” Nothing else.

Ben had cried. Liam had cried. Harry hadn’t slept for three days.

Eventually, they all adjusted. The world didn’t give them time to wallow. Winter came hard again. The snow didn’t let up for nearly a month straight. Their water well froze twice. Infected got into the back fence and mauled a horse before Liam took care of it. Everything stayed in motion, out of necessity. And Louis leaned into that—because the second he stopped moving, Harry could see it… the grief would catch up to him and eat him whole.

So he didn’t stop. Not when he sprained his wrist fixing the barn gate. Not when he took a deep gash to the thigh from the corner of the broken fence. Not when he caught a fever for four days and didn’t tell anyone until he collapsed mid-task, unconscious from dehydration. And even then, when Harry sat at his bedside and begged him—begged him—to let people help, Louis just blinked, eyes glazed with fever, and said, “Don’t start.”

Now, Harry watched him from the shadows, Ben still running back and forth across the field trying to reload with frozen fingers and bragging about how close his last shot had gotten.

“Did you see that? I nearly hit it!”

“You did hit it,” Harry called back, half-laughing. “You’re practically a sharpshooter now.”

Ben beamed, cheeks flushed from the cold and the excitement. Ten years old. God, it was a miracle.

But as the boy bounced with energy and pride, Louis was just a shadow on the side of the barn, hammer in hand, fixing something that didn’t need fixing. And Harry couldn’t help but think—not for the first time—how close this was to becoming irreversible. Like if Louis went just a few more steps down that path of numbness, he might not ever come back. He might just stay there, locked in whatever frozen part of himself he’d retreated to the day he watched his sister die.

Harry didn’t blame him. But he missed him. Desperately.

And still, he hadn’t tried to push. He remembered what Lottie had whispered to him just before she turned and ran—he didn’t know the exact words, just the weight of them, the urgency, the impossible selflessness. “Take care of him,” maybe. Or, “Don’t let him break.” And maybe that was all Harry had been trying to do since.

Keep Louis from breaking. Even if it meant watching from a distance. Even if it meant letting Ben grow up faster than any kid should.

Even if it meant letting this version of Louis—the one who didn’t laugh anymore, didn’t hold eye contact, didn’t let himself feel anything at all—be the only one left standing.

Ben’s small footsteps slapped the frozen dirt as he darted past Harry, the tiny holster bouncing at his hip like he thought he was one of the Avengers. Harry ruffled his hair on instinct, warm fingers brushing cold skin, a smile tugging at his mouth as Ben let out a breathless laugh and kept running.

“Inside before dark, yeah?” Harry called, not needing to, but needing to say something.

The boy nodded, the sharp nod of someone who took things seriously now. Like it meant something, even on his birthday.

Harry’s boots creaked as he walked back over, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, face twitching with the kind of careful consideration that always preceded him checking in on Louis.

“You hungry?” he asked, stopping beside him without looking right at him. “I can scrounge up some beans or something, heat ‘em on the fire.”

Louis didn't look away from the fence he’d been staring at for who knew how long. “Not hungry.”

Harry shifted his weight, his boot scraping in the dirt. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

“I said I’m not hungry. I’ll eat something later or whatever.”

A beat passed between them. The kind of pause that didn’t echo, didn’t fill itself with anything at all. Just hung there.

Then Harry gave a small nod, like he was used to it, like it hurt in a way he’d stopped reacting to. He turned to walk away but stopped just after the first step. Came back, one hand lifting. He slid his palm gently behind Louis’ head, fingers in his hair, warm and unhurried. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head—soft, unassuming, heavy in meaning.

Louis didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

And then Harry was gone again, boots crunching lightly as he went back to the house, fading into the low sounds of evening chores, the wind catching the tail end of someone’s voice.

Louis’ eyes closed for a beat too long. His shoulders dropped, just slightly. Not in defeat, not exactly. Just… released something. A flicker of softness in a body that had stayed taut for weeks, locked under grief and guilt and the kind of numbness that felt more like armor than healing.

Then he blinked back to himself, jaw tightening again, hand twitching at his side. He returned to what he was doing—what he was always doing now, fixing or reinforcing or sharpening or sorting. Keeping things moving. Keeping them safe. Keeping himself busy.

Because stillness was when it crept back in.

─ ·𖥸· ─

The birthday had been Ben’s idea. No one had remembered, not even Louis. Not because they didn’t care, but because the days all bled together now, one long grey stretch of survival and routine.

But Ben had remembered. Had brought it up with that mix of caution and hope, like asking for something too big.

“Do you think maybe… I could shoot something on my birthday?”

Harry had blinked at him, lips parting slightly, like he hadn’t expected that.

“You mean like practice shooting?” he asked, gentle.

Ben had nodded. “I’m ten now.”

So Harry said okay. And somehow, it made sense. Not the celebrating part—no one really celebrated anymore—but the learning. The skill. The kind of thing that made a kid feel capable in a world like this. That made him feel grown.

Louis had said it was fine, but hadn’t joined. Not at first. He stayed by the shed, tools in hand, eyes low. But at some point he’d looked up and seen them—Ben standing too close to the target, Harry crouched beside him, explaining how to line it up, how not to flinch, how to respect the recoil.

“Keep your elbows in. Grip it firm, but don’t strangle it. You’re not forcing the gun, just guiding it. It does the hard work for you. You just gotta tell it where to go.”

Ben’s brows had furrowed like he was memorizing scripture, nodding so solemnly it made Harry smile. He held the gun with both hands, like he’d been taught, and on the third try, hit the edge of the can.

Harry whooped and clapped his back, and Ben had flushed with a bashful kind of pride, grinning wide.

Louis watched them from the shed, hands still, something twisting under his ribs.

Lottie had once told him the scariest part of this world wasn’t losing people—it was watching how it changed the people who stayed. That’s what stuck with him. That’s what haunted him now, watching Ben hold a pistol like it was normal, like he had any idea what it meant.

Ben had always been the kind one. The silly one. The one who cried if you stepped on a worm.

Louis had nodded and said it was fine. But he hadn’t meant it. Not really.

And now the kid had a holster.

─ ·𖥸· ─

Later, when the stars came out, scattered weak and thin above them, Louis sat alone behind the farmhouse with a cigarette burning down to his fingers. He didn’t smoke much anymore, but every now and then it helped. Or it felt like it helped. Mostly it was something to do when the quiet got too loud.

He thought about the lithium bottle. How it was still in his jacket pocket long after Lottie had made her decision. How he buried it like somehow that meant burying his baby sister.

He thought about the last thing she said to Harry. The whisper none of them had heard. The shrug she gave him before it happened. That look.

And the way Harry had kissed him today.

He hadn’t flinched when it happened. Hadn’t leaned in either. But something in him had folded—something tired and starved and held together by threads. It made him feel like a person again. If only for a second.

He didn’t know what that meant. Didn’t know what to do with any of it. So he stubbed out the cigarette and went back to work.

Zayn’s voice came low, the kind of low that was deliberate, the kind meant not to startle. “It’s late, Lou. Cold as hell. You should get inside.”

Louis didn’t look up, his fingers working the twine with that obsessive precision he’d taken on lately, every knot tugged tight like the whole world might fall apart if he didn’t get this one right. “I’m fine. Just need to finish tying this part of the fence up.”

A quiet sigh left Zayn, not quite impatience, not quite sympathy—somewhere in the middle. “How much longer you gonna keep at this shit? Working on stuff all night like it’s gonna fix anything.”

The twine pulled taut in Louis’ hand, his knuckles blanching white before he loosened. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, voice sharp but thin, like even he didn’t buy it.

“Don’t bullshit me,” Zayn said, steadier now, standing still a few feet away, hands shoved deep into his jacket like he was anchoring himself.

The silence that followed stretched long, filled only with the scrape of twine against wood and the tiny sound of it threading through the slats. Louis kept his head down, kept working, because if his hands moved maybe his mind wouldn’t.

Zayn watched him, shoulders lifted like he was bracing himself before he said it. “I know you’re grieving your sister.” His words landed like stones in the dirt. Louis’ hands paused, only for a heartbeat, before picking up again, faster this time, sharper pulls on the rope. “I know it’s hard. I had little sisters too, and I lost them. I get it.”

The twine frayed against the wood where Louis pulled too hard, but he didn’t let up.

“But there’s gonna be more loss in this world,” Zayn continued, voice roughening, like he was speaking through his own ghosts. “And you can’t keep bottling it up like this, like it’s gonna fix anything. Because it won’t.”

Louis tied the knot with too much force, yanking it until the post shook slightly, the sound carrying out into the night. He stayed bent over the fence, jaw locked, every line of his body refusing to turn and face him.

Zayn’s breath misted in the cold, visible when he exhaled slow. “You’ve got a whole group here. People who actually give a shit about you. A boyfriend who’d do anything for you. And a kid who—” his voice softened, almost broke on it—“who already looks at you like you’re his dad. And what are you doing with all of that? Withering away like you’re one of the infected.”

The words hit harder than Louis wanted to admit. His hands stilled completely, fingers still clutching the rope but unmoving now, like the air had gone thick around him. He closed his eyes for a second, just long enough to feel the burn in his chest, the ache that came when someone finally said out loud what you’d been trying to bury under callouses and work.

He swallowed, throat tight, forcing his hands to move again because the alternative was turning to face Zayn, and that felt impossible.

Zayn didn’t push further. He didn’t move either, just stood there, steady and unyielding, like he could wait Louis out. Like he’d seen this before and knew the patience it took.

Louis breathed out through his nose, rough and uneven, trying not to let the sting in his eyes spill over. He tugged the rope again, tied it off, fingers trembling more than he wanted them to.

The fence post held. His chest did not.

Louis’ hands were trembling so badly he had to grip the post just to steady himself. He stood there hunched over, the rope pressed hard into his palms, the words catching in his throat until they spilled, ragged and uneven, like the knot he’d just tied.

“I’m the only one left,” he said, voice cracking on it before gathering heat, anger and grief all tangled into the same thread. “The only fucking one. I should’ve known—should’ve known she’d do something stupid like that, sacrifice herself like some bloody martyr because a herd was too big for us to handle.” His breath came sharp, cutting the cold air like glass. “And you—fuck, Zayn—you’re the one who suggested the hospital. You pushed for it. And maybe—” his voice faltered, but he bit down hard and forced it through—“maybe if we hadn’t gone, she’d still be here.”

He was unspooling too fast to stop himself, every word dragged raw out of him, guilt turned inside out until it burned at everyone nearby. “I just got her back. Do you even get that? I had her, finally, after months of thinking she was gone for good, after all the shit we went through to find each other again. And now—” he turned, finally turning, his face tight and red and wet-eyed in a way he hated himself for—“now it’s like I lost her in the same fucking breath. Do you know what that’s like? To have her for one second and then she’s—she’s—” His voice cut out, the end of it collapsing into silence because he couldn’t even form the word.

Zayn didn’t flinch, didn’t argue, didn’t try to meet fire with fire. He just stood there, the weight of it in his eyes but not in his voice. “I know,” he said, quiet. “I know.”

Louis’ breath was jagged, pulling him apart from the inside, his chest heaving like the air itself hurt to take in. He pressed the heel of his hand against his brow, wiping hard at his face as though that could erase it, but it only left his skin raw.

Zayn took a small step closer, careful, not enough to spook him but enough to let it be known he wasn’t going anywhere. “But I could also tell,” he went on, softer now, like the words weren’t meant to be sharp but to settle into the cracks Louis was splitting open, “that even if you hadn’t gone to the hospital that day… she would’ve found another way. Another chance to put herself between you and whatever danger came next. You know that as well as I do.”

Louis shook his head hard, like he could bat the thought away, like denying it could change the truth. But he couldn’t keep his hands from shaking, couldn’t keep his voice from breaking when he tried to answer and failed. It all bled out of him in silence instead, his shoulders rising and falling in shallow bursts.

Zayn didn’t move to touch him, didn’t offer some hollow comfort. He only stood there, a steady shape against the unraveling, waiting for Louis to breathe again, to let himself have even that.

─ ·𖥸· ─

Louis’ hands were still unsteady as he pushed the door open, the heaviness of the evening lingering in his chest like something he couldn’t cough up. His boots dragged against the wooden floor with the kind of exhaustion that wasn’t just physical but bone-deep, something stitched into the very fabric of his being, and he moved slowly up the stairs, mindful of every creak, careful not to wake anyone. It wasn’t until he reached the top that he felt the silence pressing in harder, and with it, the ache of knowing he couldn’t escape himself even here.

When he pushed into their room, Harry was sitting cross-legged on the bed, shoulders bowed slightly, his hands working the worn cloth over the metal of his gun. His hair had fallen forward, curls catching the dim light, and he looked up at the sound of Louis entering. He didn’t say anything, just smiled, the kind of smile that wasn’t wide but steady, meant to ground instead of dazzle. Louis’ chest tightened at it, as though kindness itself was another thing too sharp to hold.

He peeled his coat from his shoulders, the fabric heavy and stiff, and that’s when he noticed the can of beans sitting on the small crate they used as a bedside table. He frowned faintly, voice rough when he asked, “What’s that?”

Harry set the gun down carefully, the cloth still hanging loose in his hand. “Figured you’d be hungry before bed. Had Eleanor heat some up before she put out the fire.”

The words lodged somewhere in Louis’ throat, hard to swallow, but he managed a quiet, almost reluctant, “Thanks.” He lowered himself onto the bed, fingers wrapping around the tin like it might slip away otherwise. The warmth had dulled, but it was there still, and he scooped into it, chewing in silence, the taste metallic but grounding.

The quiet stretched, broken only by the soft scrape of Harry’s cloth against steel and the occasional muted clink from Louis’ spoon. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t hostile but wasn’t comfortable either, sitting thick in the air between them. Louis’ mind kept circling the same place, round and round, until the words slipped out before he could think better of them.

“When you told me Lottie had a plan… that was a lie, wasn’t it?”

Harry’s hands paused mid-polish, and then he let out a slow breath, setting the gun aside entirely. His voice was low, even. “Yeah.”

Louis’ grip tightened around the can, his eyes fixed on the beans like they could offer some steadiness. “What’d she really tell you?”

“Not much,” Harry admitted after a beat. “Just told me to take you back to the truck. Asked me to do that one thing for her, and then… then she was gone.”

Louis’ jaw clenched, the ache pushing sharp into his temples. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

Harry’s face shifted, just slightly, a shadow passing over it as he shook his head. “I had no idea she was gonna do what she did. And even if I had known… I don’t know how I could’ve stopped her. She didn’t leave me room to.” He looked straight at Louis then, his voice catching in that rare, unguarded way. “I’m sorry for lying. I just… she made me promise to take care of you, and I’m trying. I swear I’m trying my hardest.”

Louis let the words sink in, heavy and slow, and all he could manage in return was a quiet, almost hoarse, “Okay.” He didn’t look at him, didn’t trust himself to, just scraped the spoon against the bottom of the tin with more force than was necessary.

The silence returned, not quite the same as before, but laden now with what had been said. Harry shifted slightly closer, his voice careful. “I’m not gonna force you to just be okay, or to be happy right away. I know it doesn’t work like that. But I miss you.”

That cracked something small inside Louis, enough for his throat to burn as he pressed the tin down into his lap, spoon rattling against the metal. His voice was softer than he wanted it to be, almost fragile. “I miss me too. Who I was before she died.”

Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed steady on Louis’ face. “She’s not gone,” he said, quiet but sure. “She’s in your heart. She’s all around. She’s in the way the kids laugh. She’s in the way Eleanor braids her own hair now, ‘cause she liked the way a braid looked on Lottie. She’s here, Louis. You just have to let yourself see her.”

Louis sat there, swallowing hard, the taste of beans gone dull in his mouth, and for a moment he almost let himself believe him. Almost.

Harry kept watching him, searching for a way in that wouldn’t feel like pressing against a bruise, and after a while his voice broke the silence again, gentler this time, like testing shallow water. “Do you… want to go on a run together tomorrow? Niall mentioned the snow’s melting near the towns, so it should be easier to pick through.” His tone was cautious, but there was something hopeful in it, the suggestion of normalcy tucked inside the words.

Louis sat with it, his fingers still curled loose around the tin, mind circling the offer. The thought of going out, of walking beside Harry and picking through the remains of the world, sounded exhausting and strangely necessary at the same time. He hesitated long enough that it almost felt like he’d let the question drift unanswered, but then he gave a small nod. “Yeah. I’d like that.” His voice was almost flat, but it carried the weight of something honest.

He set the can aside on the crate, scraping the last bit of bean residue from the corner with his thumb before letting it go. Without another word, he shifted back, tugging at the blanket, sliding under with the weariness of someone carrying too much to fight off sleep for long. His head hit the pillow, eyes already closing as he let out a soft, barely audible, “Goodnight.”

Harry’s sigh filled the space after, not annoyed, not quite resigned either—just heavy, a sound shaped by all the things he wanted to give and couldn’t. “Goodnight,” he echoed, and leaned forward, his hand braced against the mattress for balance as he pressed his lips to Louis’ cheek. He didn’t move away quickly; instead he stayed there, lips resting against the rough warmth of skin, long enough for the moment to blur between comfort and plea. When he finally pulled back, he didn’t linger in Louis’ line of sight. His hands found the gun again, cloth dragging slow across the steel as if it could steady him, as if the rhythm could hold all the words he didn’t say.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Louis woke with the heavy, groggy certainty that he’d overslept. His chest went tight before his eyes even opened, the memory of last night’s promise snapping into place—he was supposed to go on the run with Harry today. His body lurched into motion before his head had properly caught up, blankets shoved aside in a mess as he scrambled for clothes. He pulled on the first things his hands touched, tugging an extra layer over his shirt, fingers clumsy with urgency as though moving faster might erase the guilt already gnawing at him for being late.

By the time he clattered down the stairs, heart still thudding in that uneven rhythm, the only sound to greet him was the crackle of the hearth. Ben was curled up on the couch, small body drawn in tight, his thin shoulders rising and falling beneath a blanket that had slipped halfway off. One of his arms was tucked under his cheek, face turned toward the fire, the orange glow softening him into someone younger than he had any right to be. Louis’ steps faltered, a pang sharp and unwanted pressing behind his ribs as he took him in—this strange makeshift family they’d all been forced into, the quiet reminder of what he’d rather not think about. He pulled his eyes away and pushed through the door before the heaviness could settle too deep.

Outside, he found Harry and Liam wrangling two horses, the animals shifting restlessly against the pull of the ropes. Louis blinked at the sight, his brain scrambling to catch up before he let out a disbelieving laugh that cracked in the middle. “What the hell—are we cowboys now?” The words came sharper than he meant, defense slipping in where humor should have been.

Harry’s head turned, his face calm as ever, hands steady on the rope even as the horse stamped the ground. “We can’t rely on the truck forever,” he said, like it was obvious, like Louis should have already known. “Gas won’t last, and getting more isn’t exactly a trip to the corner shop. That’s summer work. For now, this is quieter. Smarter.”

Louis blew out a breath, somewhere between reluctant agreement and stubborn refusal, the weight of inevitability sitting heavy on his shoulders. He walked closer anyway, reaching a hand toward one of the horses. The animal flicked an ear, then pressed gently into his palm, warm and alive in a way that caught him off guard. His thumb smoothed along its cheek, the steady breath against his skin grounding him for a moment in something other than dread.

They had found them deep in the farmland’s edge earlier that winter, a patch of forest they hadn’t touched when they first arrived. They’d come across them unexpectedly—half-wild but not feral, as though they still remembered the people who had raised them here. Taming them hadn’t taken long, their trust returned more easily than expected, which was why Zayn had insisted on keeping them. They were another kind of insurance, a quieter way to move if they needed to, though the silence came with its own danger. A horse could carry you faster than your feet, but if an infected came close enough for teeth, all the speed in the world wouldn’t matter.

Louis’ hand trailed down the leather strap at its side before he braced his boot against the stirrup. His chest tightened as he tried to haul himself up, body jerking awkwardly, balance see-sawing in a way that felt humiliatingly human next to such a calm, steady creature.

“Wait—hold on—bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, fumbling in a way that only made him more aware of Harry watching.

Harry was beside him in an instant, quiet but sure, his palm braced firm against Louis’ thigh. “Here. Let me,” he said, voice low, a push of steady strength behind the words.

Louis grunted as Harry gave him the extra shove, the world tilting as he managed to swing his other leg over, the awkward movement ending with him planted in the saddle, clutching at the reins like they were the only thing holding him to the earth. His breath came quick, shallow in his chest, fear prickling sharp beneath his skin, every nerve screaming how far the ground suddenly felt beneath him.

“Scary,” he muttered, voice rough with honesty as he locked his grip tighter, his body stiff and unyielding, “but I’m on it, aren’t I?”

Harry only smiled, that small, infuriatingly patient kind of smile, his gaze steady as he stepped back and swung up onto his own horse with an ease Louis could never hope to match. He didn’t answer, not really, but he didn’t need to. The look said enough, warm and unshaken, holding something Louis both wanted and couldn’t stand to see.

The gate groaned behind them as Liam shoved it closed, and then it was just the slow creak of leather and the steady rhythm of hooves pressing into packed snow. The horses moved at a careful walk, heads bobbing as though they knew the weight they carried was more than just two tired bodies, but something tighter and more fragile that neither of the men sitting atop them would put words to. They were heading west, toward the town Harry had mentioned last night, the promise of melted snow waiting there like some small advantage, though Louis could only think about the ache starting in his thighs and the unnatural sway of the saddle beneath him.

He muttered under his breath at first, the complaints spilling out in little grumbles he half-hoped Harry wouldn’t hear. “Bloody thing rides like a sack of bricks,” he mumbled, adjusting his grip on the reins, shifting in the saddle as though that might fix the way the animal jolted with each step. His legs felt too far apart, his spine too stiff, every muscle in his body convinced he’d be thrown into the snow at any second.

Harry snickered from his place ahead, the sound carried easily over the cold air, and Louis scowled at the back of his head. “What’re you laughin’ at? This isn’t funny.”

“Looks easy from here,” Harry called back, his shoulders rolling loose and confident as he sat tall, perfectly at ease. “Just calm down a bit. Stop fighting it.”

“Calm down, he says,” Louis gritted out, shifting again, his knees screaming, his whole body jerking with the horse’s stride. “We look like bloody idiots. Like the damn royal guard, prancing into battle on horseback. All we’re missing are the stupid hats.”

That earned another laugh, deeper this time, Harry’s shoulders shaking as he glanced over, curls falling into his face. “Not the royal guard,” he corrected, lips quirking, eyes flicking quickly over Louis before landing ahead again. “More like southern cops. You know, hats, boots, chewing on straw.”

Louis barked a laugh before he could stop himself, sharp and brief, but enough to ease the tightness in his chest for a moment. “Christ. All you’re missing is one of those massive sheriff hats, and you’d be set. Whole look’d suit you, actually.”

Harry only grinned, didn’t argue, didn’t confirm, just let the tease hang between them, his dimples carving deep into his cheeks. Louis stared a moment longer than he should, catching the way Harry’s hand moved absently along the reins, steady and sure, before forcing his eyes back forward. The silence settled in again, thicker this time, but not heavy.

They rode on that way, the horses plodding slow and patient, and after a while Harry’s voice came again, softer, like he’d almost decided not to speak but couldn’t quite hold it back. “This is nice,” he said, no flourish in the words, no need to dress them up. Just quiet honesty, tucked carefully into the space between them.

Louis turned his head, giving him a side glance, lips twitching at the corner despite himself. He didn’t answer, not really, just let the smallest smile slip through, a half-hearted attempt to hide it under the weight of his usual complaints. He shifted in the saddle again, less from discomfort this time and more because sitting still under the warmth of Harry’s words felt strangely impossible.

The closer they drew to the town, the more the snow seemed to loosen its grip on the earth, melting into patches of wet ground that broke up the endless white. The horses’ hooves struck slush instead of ice, a softer sound but one that carried a different edge. Louis’ stomach twisted as the thought crept in, uninvited but unavoidable—the clearer the ground, the easier it was for infected to move, the easier it was for danger to hide. The town lay ahead, less buried, less frozen, but with that came the sharp knowledge that it wasn’t safety they were riding toward. It was something else entirely.

Their horses slowed to a cautious walk as the first edge of the town opened before them, both of them keeping quiet as if speaking too loud might rattle something loose in the silence. They didn’t dismount yet, Harry giving the smallest motion of his chin that meant they’d keep riding through, eyes open, ears sharper than they’d been all morning. The idea of tying the horses up could wait until they knew for certain the streets were empty. Louis tightened his grip on the reins with one hand, the other hovering just above the holster at his hip, the weight of the pistol there both grounding and unsettling. His thumb tapped against the leather flap, a nervous rhythm that betrayed how tight his chest had gotten.

Harry noticed, because of course he did, and a grin tugged at his mouth despite the tension in the air. “Look at you,” he murmured low, pitched just enough for Louis to catch, “already riding with one hand on the gun. Natural, really. Maybe you’re the southern cop after all.”

Louis huffed, shaking his head, though his lips betrayed him with the faintest twitch. “Shut up,” he muttered, but the words held no heat, softened by the ghost of a smile tugging at him despite himself.

They kept on, their horses’ hooves clopping softly against cracked roadways, the sound almost too loud against the backdrop of broken houses and skeletal trees. Louis tried not to stare but found his eyes snagging on each ruin anyway—the sagging porches, the blackened windows, walls half-collapsed like someone had pushed a hand straight down the middle of the place. It looked less like decay over time and more like something had gone off, some sudden burst of destruction that hadn’t taken everything but had gutted enough to leave scars that would never fade. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air.

“What happened here?” he asked quietly, though he wasn’t sure if he wanted an answer.

Harry’s gaze had already drifted ahead, his shoulders tightening when his eyes caught on something Louis hadn’t noticed yet. He gave a quick jerk of his chin toward the ground a little ways ahead, and Louis followed it, stomach turning when he spotted them—bodies slumped and half-buried in frost, the faded outlines of military uniforms clinging to what was left of their frames.

Harry’s jaw clenched, the muscle there ticking as he forced a slow exhale through his nose. He didn’t stop staring, though, as if there was something written on the scene he was trying to read. After a moment, his voice came, steady but quieter than before. “Tie the horses up. By that pole.” He nodded toward a leaning post with rusted metal hooks sticking out, remnants of a sign long gone.

Louis said nothing, only tugged on his reins and led his horse over, his body still humming with unease. Harry swung down first, boots hitting the ground in one clean motion, and Louis watched his hands move fast, knotting the rope with an efficiency that was almost comforting. Then Harry turned, stepping close before Louis could try on his own, his hands already reaching to steady him at the waist.

“I’ve got it,” Louis protested lightly, one foot halfway out of the stirrup, but Harry was there anyway, palms warm through the fabric of his coat, the faintest upward push under his ribs. Louis grumbled but let him, and with a grunt and an awkward swing of his leg, he was down, landing less gracefully than he’d have liked but upright nonetheless.

Harry didn’t comment, just let his hands linger for a second longer than necessary before stepping back. His eyes flicked once more to the uniforms scattered across the ground, and he let out a breath that seemed to carry more weight than air should. “Military,” he said, the word flat, almost grim. “Guess there’s a chance the government tried to… shut it down. Blow it out quick, maybe thought fire and force could choke the virus before it spread.”

Louis followed his line of sight, staring at the silent wreckage of men who hadn’t made it home. His lips pressed together, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he pulled his coat tighter. “Yeah, well,” he muttered after a beat, his voice low and sharp, “clearly didn’t fucking work.”

The words sat heavy between them, the truth too obvious to argue. Harry didn’t try. He just nodded once, solemn, his eyes still fixed on the ruins ahead like he was already calculating their next step, already holding himself steady because someone had to. Louis stood close, gun resting in his hand now instead of its holster, his pulse quick and uneven, the faint warmth of Harry’s hands still ghosting at his sides even as the world around them reminded him just how fragile everything really was.

─ ·𖥸· ─

The sound of wood dragging over ice broke the lull, Zayn and Niall shifting another stack closer to the spot tucked against the wall of the house. It wasn’t perfect—never was—but the little canopy stretched above gave just enough of a shield to keep the worst of the wet from soaking through. Snow still crept into the cracks, flakes clinging like stubborn fingers, but it was better than nothing, and that was all survival ever really asked of them. Niall let the bundle slip from his gloves with a small grunt, straightening and rolling his shoulders back as his breath came out in puffs.

“You think it’ll be good for them?” he asked, a glance over his shoulder sharp enough to make the question pointed. “Harry takin’ Louis out on a run, just the two of ‘em?”

Zayn leaned against the stack for a moment, pushing a palm across his forehead where sweat had gathered despite the cold. He didn’t answer straight away, eyes narrowed toward the treeline like he was buying himself a second to think, then he shoved off with a groan, heading for the shed a few steps away. The door creaked when he pulled it open, and the shovel clattered faintly against the others as he tugged one free. He came back with it over his shoulder, moving slow but steady, boots sinking into the snow with each step.

“It’s something,” he said finally, the words low but firm, and he set the shovel down to wedge into a mound of snow crusted hard at the edge of the pile. “Better than Louis ignoring everyone and working himself into the ground every damn day like it’s gonna change something.”

Niall stayed quiet a moment, watching him push the first heavy scoop of snow aside. The muscles in Zayn’s arms flexed with the effort, shoulders squared, his jaw tight. Niall bent to grab another piece of wood but kept looking at him, his voice softer when it came. “I worry about him, y’know. The way he looks these days. Feels like if you breathe wrong around him, he’ll crack.”

Zayn exhaled through his nose, the sound rough, and for a moment he didn’t look up, the shovel cutting into snow with a rhythm like he was trying to put all the weight of the conversation into the ground instead of his chest. “It’s normal,” he said eventually, eyes flicking toward Niall at last. “He lost his sister. Watched her go right in front of him. That’s not somethin’ you just walk off. He’s gonna be different a while. Maybe longer.”

Niall nodded, his hand brushing flakes off his gloves as if they’d suddenly gotten too heavy. His throat tightened, but he kept his gaze steady, waiting.

Zayn set the shovel aside for a second, his breath visible in small bursts. “Harry pulled him out of the pit once before,” he added, voice gentler now, as if that truth softened even him. “After Darcy… you remember how bad that was. Louis was gone, really gone, for weeks. But Harry—he found a way. Held onto him ‘til Louis could hold himself again. If anyone’s gonna do it now, it’s him.”

The silence stretched, full of things neither said out loud but both felt pressing down on them. Niall shifted, his hands sliding into his pockets, eyes lingering on the path the two riders had taken earlier. “Guess all we can do is hope he can again,” he murmured, and the words hung there, fragile, while Zayn reached for the shovel once more and drove it back into the snow.

Zayn pushed the shovel into the snow again, the crunch of metal against ice sharp in the cold, and he leaned his weight into it until the mound broke apart. Each scoop was heavy, each lift deliberate, like the repetition itself was keeping his mind from wandering too far. Niall bent down to gather the next armful of logs, shaking the frost off them and testing each one, choosing only the ones that weren’t too soaked through to be useful. The silence between them was comfortable enough, but Zayn broke it anyway, voice low, like he didn’t want the words to echo too loudly against the quiet.

“He carries a lot of guilt,” he said, watching the snow crumble beneath the edge of the shovel. “A lot of blame too. Some of it on me. I was the one who suggested the hospital. Wondering if she’d still be here if I kept my mouth shut.” He paused, breath fogging in front of him before he bent again, another heavy scoop rising with effort. “And the rest of it’s on himself. For not runnin’ after her, for not draggin’ her back if he could. Probably even blames Harry in some twisted way, even if he doesn’t mean to. That’s just how it is. When you lose someone like that, you start pointin’ at everything and everyone, even yourself.”

Niall straightened, a log under each arm, and looked over at him. His expression was steady but his voice carried more heat than usual. “It’s not your fault,” he said, shaking his head. “You had no clue the hospital would be swarmed like that. None of us did. How could we? And those infected under the snow—” his mouth twisted, like even saying it left a bad taste, “—who would’ve thought they’d just hide out like that, waiting? No one could’ve prevented what happened, not even Louis.”

Zayn let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a sigh, resting the shovel for a moment and bracing his forearms against the handle. He didn’t meet Niall’s eyes right away, gaze fixed on the churned-up path he’d been clearing. “I know,” he admitted after a while. “In my head, I know. Doesn’t change how it feels though. I spent so much time trainin’ him, makin’ sure he knew how to fight, how to shoot, how to hold his ground. I thought I was preparing him for this world, making him strong enough to protect himself, protect the people he loves. But all that was just physical. Swingin’ knives, pulling triggers, keeping his stance.” He shook his head, the faintest tremor of frustration in his voice. “I can’t do anything for what’s in here.” He tapped the side of his temple with a gloved finger, not harsh, just resigned. “Can’t train someone out of what they feel. Can’t make him stop torturing himself, no matter how much I want to.”

Niall set the logs down against the wall, his movements slower now, more thoughtful. He stayed quiet, letting the words settle, watching the way Zayn’s shoulders seemed to sink under a weight heavier than the snow he was shoveling.

Niall was about to say something—something soft to smooth out the edges of Zayn’s guilt—when the sound came. A rustle, sharp against the packed snow, not the casual kind of shift an animal might make but frantic, quick, deliberate. He stiffened, knife sliding into his palm before he even thought about it. Zayn’s head jerked toward the sound too, but Niall was already moving, boots crunching against the thin crust of ice as he rounded the corner of the shed.

The figure barely registered before instinct took over—his forearm pressing hard, the blade poised, the person’s back shoved into the wooden siding with enough force to rattle loose frost from the edges of the roof. Then the voice broke through, a scream not of rage or threat but high, sharp, desperate.

“Wait!”

A girl. Shaky, terrified, not older than a teenager.

Niall’s grip faltered and he blinked, the blur of motion stilling as his eyes adjusted to her shape. Thin, bony even, blonde hair gathered haphazardly into a half bun while the rest fell in uneven strands to her shoulders, streaked with dirt. Wide brown eyes stared up at him, brimming with fear, her chest heaving against the point of his knife. She clutched a dented can of corn like it was treasure, the metal edges glinting as her knuckles whitened around it. Half eaten, jagged lid bent where she must’ve pried it open with something blunt.

“Please,” she stammered, words tumbling out over each other, “don’t kill me, I was just—I was just hungry, that’s all. I saw the smoke, from the chimney, out in the woods, and I thought maybe I could—” her breath caught, shoulders pressed so tight against the shed they had nowhere left to go, “I just thought I could sneak some food.”

Zayn had come around by then, shovel abandoned in the snow, brows drawn tight as he looked the girl over. His voice was even, but there was an edge of incredulity tucked beneath it. “Who are you, kid?”

The girl’s chin snapped up, even as her body trembled. “I’m no kid. I’m sixteen.”

Niall, who still had her pinned though the knife was slowly lowering, let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Still a kid. Sixteen doesn’t make you grown. Now, what’s your name? And why are you sneakin’ around instead of just walking up to the front door like a normal person?”

She shifted, pressing her lips tight for a second before muttering, “Millie. My name’s Millie. And—” her glare cut toward the knife still near her chest, “I could answer better if I wasn’t shoved up a wall like this.”

Niall hesitated, then stepped back, finally lowering the blade fully and releasing her shoulder. The tension snapped loose all at once, and Millie stumbled forward slightly, letting out a shaky breath as she clutched her can tighter against her chest like a shield. She wasn’t crying—at least not yet—but the sheen in her eyes gave away how close she’d been.

“Better?” Niall asked, softer now.

Millie nodded quickly. “I’m good at sneaking,” she said defensively, like she needed to salvage her pride. “Most people, they ask too many questions before they help. Like you’re doing now. So I just wanted to skip the formalities.”

Niall and Zayn exchanged a look, neither saying it, but the same thought ran through both their minds—this girl had been out here a while, maybe alone, maybe not, and she’d learned the kind of lessons no sixteen-year-old should ever need to know.

Zayn crossed his arms, eyes scanning her from head to toe, not unkind but assessing, measuring. “Where’d you come from, Millie? You with anyone else? Any more people we should know about?”

The sharpness in her defiance cracked then. Millie bit the inside of her cheek, gaze skittering off to the side, lips pressed tight. Her silence stretched out, heavy, her body language shifting from defensive to wary.

Niall tilted his head, repeating, slower this time, “Any more people?”

But Millie just looked at him, wide-eyed and silent, the set of her jaw stubborn but trembling at the edges.

Zayn exhaled through his nose, the sound almost a sigh, and stepped closer. His hand closed gently but firmly around her arm, not cruel, but leaving little room for argument. “Come on,” he said, voice flat with finality.

Millie jerked back slightly, panicked again. “What are you doing?”

Zayn didn’t loosen his grip, steering her away from the shed toward the main house. “You’ve got questions to answer if we’re gonna help you out.”

Her boots scuffed against the snow, her can rattling against her chest as she stumbled to keep up. She didn’t fight hard—not like someone who really wanted to get away—but her voice pitched high as she demanded, “Why? Why can’t you just—”

“Because,” Zayn cut in, steady as ever, “we don’t take in ghosts we don’t know anything about.”

Millie’s lips parted, like she wanted to argue, but she shut them again, biting hard on whatever words wanted to come out. Instead, she hugged the corn closer and let him lead her toward the warmth and danger of the house.

─ ·𖥸· ─

Harry and Louis had already cleared two houses, the insides nothing but stripped cabinets and the sour smell of abandonment. Guns stayed close, their shoulders brushing every so often as they moved from yard to yard, careful not to break the rhythm of silence that pressed in on them. It was the third house that slowed them both, its windows still whole, the siding less battered, the front steps steady under their weight. Harry gave Louis a quick glance, something wordless passing between them, and then he lifted his gun, rapping it once against the door. They both held their breath for the pause that followed, ears trained for the scrape of claws or the shuffle of something that wasn’t human. When nothing came, Harry turned the knob and stepped in first, Louis tight behind him.

The place looked lived-in once, but not destroyed. Furniture was scattered, cushions overturned, drawers left open, but the chaos felt lighter somehow, not the devastation of blood or claw, just the mess of people leaving in a hurry. Harry’s eyes flicked upstairs, then to Louis. “I’ll check up there,” he murmured, and Louis nodded, already shifting into the front room.

The living room yielded little: a few shirts crumpled in a corner, a blanket caught beneath the leg of a coffee table, thin fabric that might still be useful. Louis bent to gather them, folding as best he could under his arm as he scanned for more. His eyes caught on something in the far corner—a piano, upright, worn and dusted over but startling in its presence. He slowed, steps cautious, and set the clothes against his hip before sliding the lid back from the keys. The ivory was dulled, a few chipped edges showing, but they waited for him all the same.

He pressed one softly, a low note that vibrated thin but steady in the hollowed room. It startled him, not because of the sound but because of how alive it felt in the silence, a tether to a world that once had music. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning doorways, corners, shadows, waiting for the echo to pull something toward him. Nothing came, so he pressed another key, higher this time.

A breath left him, half a laugh at himself, and he shifted the pile of clothes onto the bench, freeing his hands to linger over a cluster of notes. The sound was uneven at first, too tentative, but still a shape of something, and he might have played longer if he hadn’t felt the warmth of hands circle his waist. Louis stiffened for a beat, every nerve taut, before the weight of a chin on his shoulder grounded him back. Harry.

Louis tilted his head just enough to catch him in his periphery, the familiar curls brushing his cheek. He exhaled slow, muscles unwinding as Harry pressed a kiss into the crook of his neck, soft and almost apologetic. “Sorry,” Harry whispered, voice low enough to fold into the moment. His eyes flicked down to Louis’ hands. “You know how to play?”

Louis let a small shrug move through his shoulders. “Just a little,” he said, pressing another key, not even looking at which one.

“Play something,” Harry asked, his voice coaxing but not demanding.

Louis shook his head, lips tugging sideways, tone half serious. “Shouldn’t. Last thing we need’s a pack of them showing up just ’cause I fancied a tune.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said, the corners of his mouth lifting, as though the risk was worth it just to hear him.

Louis rolled his eyes, but the protest was thin. He shifted the clothes from the bench, stacking them carefully on the piano’s edge, and sat down, his thigh brushing the worn wood. He shuffled to the side, leaving a sliver of space that Harry filled without hesitation, their shoulders knocking as they settled. Louis flexed his fingers, pressing a few scattered keys, until slowly, unevenly, it began to sound like something resembling a melody.

The air between them changed—not lighter exactly, but more fragile, like the music was some delicate thread holding the room together. Louis didn’t look at Harry, but he felt the weight of his gaze, steady, not moving, as if watching him play was the only thing in the world worth seeing.

Harry couldn’t stop staring. Every note Louis pressed down seemed to come out of him instead of the piano, like the keys were only there to catch what was already spilling from his chest. His lips parted just slightly, the way they did when he was thinking too hard about something, and Harry’s own breath caught, tight in his ribs. He’d never seen him look so unguarded, not even in sleep. Louis’ eyes skimmed the keys as if they might turn away if he didn’t catch them quick enough, fingers hesitant but still coaxing a sound that clung to the air. Harry felt a rush so strong it almost hurt, like adoration had weight to it, pressing down inside his chest until it ached.

When Louis finally stilled his hands, the last note fading off into the emptiness, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders easing back. And then he turned, glancing at Harry, something curious in his expression, like he wasn’t sure if Harry had been listening or just watching. Harry didn’t give him the chance to wonder—his hand came up, cupping Louis’ jaw with a swiftness that felt inevitable, and then he was leaning forward, pressing their mouths together in a kiss that felt both desperate and delicate at once.

Louis let out a small sigh against his lips, caught off guard, a stutter of hesitation before he softened, leaning in with the warmth Harry knew so well. His hand slid to Harry’s thigh, grounding them, a reassurance that this wasn’t too much, not unwelcome. Harry deepened it instinctively, thumb stroking along the sharp line of Louis’ jaw, unable to stop himself from pouring every unsaid thing into the press of lips.

And then Louis moved, sudden but sure, shifting to swing one leg over until he was straddling Harry right there on the narrow bench. Harry caught him instinctively, hands clamping around his waist to steady him, the closeness so immediate it felt like a shock to the system. Louis’ palms dragged up, around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his curls, pulling him closer, deeper, hungrier. Harry’s hands wandered too, sliding beneath the layered shirts, palms spreading across warm skin that tightened under his touch. It wasn’t enough, it would never be enough, and his fingers pressed lower, teasing against the waistband of Louis’ jeans, when Louis suddenly broke from the kiss, breath sharp, catching Harry’s wrists to still him.

“Sorry,” Louis muttered, forehead brushing Harry’s, his chest rising and falling quick. His grip softened, but the apology hung heavy, almost like guilt.

Harry shook his head immediately, voice low and steady, his thumbs rubbing slow circles at Louis’ waist. “Hey—don’t. It’s okay. We don’t have to rush. I just—” his throat tightened, and he huffed a laugh that cracked a little, “I just got caught up. Seeing you there… like that.”

Something shifted in Louis’ eyes then, softer than it had been all day. He smiled, small but real, and leaned in again to steal another kiss, slower this time, gentler, just a brush that lingered until he pulled back. “I want to,” he admitted, voice hushed like he wasn’t sure the walls wouldn’t carry it further than they should. “Just… not here. Not in some stranger’s living room that we’re looting.” His mouth quirked, trying for humor but failing at the edges. “Privacy’s hard to come by these days.”

Harry breathed him in, all warmth and defiance and restraint, and nodded, smiling even though it was a little pained. “It’s fine. Really.” His palm slid over Louis’ thigh, giving a firm tap, his grin crooked now as he tried to reel them both back in. “We should probably head back before it gets too dark anyway. Horses don’t exactly come with headlights.”

Louis let out a soft laugh, leaning his forehead against Harry’s for just another moment, like he didn’t quite want to move yet, and Harry held him there, his hands still steady at his waist, trying to memorize what it felt like to have him this close in the quiet, before the world started knocking again.

─ ·𖥸· ─

Louis had just untied the reins, hands fumbling a little with the stiff leather, when Harry’s hand came down gently over his own. It wasn’t forceful, not a stop, more like the kind of pause that asked for his attention without demanding it. Louis looked up, brows tugging together in a quiet question, and Harry’s eyes softened before the words even came.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quietly, almost like it wasn’t meant for the air between them, more like it was an admission he owed. “If I… expected too much from you in there. I know we haven’t really been… like that. Not since Lottie.” His throat flexed as he swallowed, his thumb brushing against Louis’ knuckles. “I don’t want to push you. Not if you’re not ready.”

The mention of his sister cut through Louis like a thread being pulled. Not painful the way it had been, sharp and unbearable, but still enough to leave him hollowed out for a second, remembering the night everything had shifted. He forced himself to breathe past it, to meet Harry’s eyes, because Harry looked almost guilty now, like he thought he’d broken something. Louis wasn’t about to let him think that.

A smile tugged faintly at his lips, small but real, and he shook his head. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice quiet, stripped down. “I’m… trying, you know? To at least go back to how it was before. But it’s hard sometimes.” He hesitated, then added, softer still, “I don’t want you to think it means I don’t… that I don’t love you. I do. I’m just—struggling.”

The word felt raw, like something he’d scraped out of his chest, but it was the truth, and Harry deserved the truth more than anyone.

Harry’s lips quirked, not teasing cruelly but in that way that showed warmth even in the ache of it. “Love, huh?” he murmured, the edges of a grin forming.

Louis scoffed immediately, pushing the weight of sincerity off his shoulders with a roll of his eyes. “Shut up,” he muttered, jerking his chin toward the horse, trying to mask how much his cheeks had warmed. “Help me get on before I break my neck.”

Harry chuckled, low and rough, the kind of sound that made Louis’ chest ease without him realizing. His hands came to Louis’ hips, firm and steady, and before Louis could complain about being manhandled he leaned in, kissing him again—deep and sure, stealing his breath before pulling back with a smile. Then, with a grunt of effort and another tug at Louis’ hips, he hoisted him up until he was back in the saddle, perched awkwardly but there all the same.

“Show-off,” Louis grumbled under his breath, though his lips curved at the edges.

Harry only grinned wider, swinging himself onto his own horse with far more grace, and together they turned toward the farm, the rhythm of hooves on packed snow carrying them home.

By the time the fences came into view, the quiet between them had settled into something easy, unspoken but steady. They rode through the main gate, and Louis glanced up as Ash strode out from the side, reaching to take the horses. Louis cocked his head, frowning lightly. “Where’s Liam? He usually deals with these lot.”

Ash shifted the reins into his grip, jerking his head toward the house. “Everyone’s inside,” he said simply.

That earned a look between Louis and Harry, a silent thread of tension tugging in the air. Neither asked out loud what it meant. They didn’t have to.

As they dismounted and made their way toward the porch, Zayn was already there, arms crossed over his chest like he’d been waiting for them. His gaze was unreadable, steady but carrying something beneath it that Louis couldn’t place yet.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked, his voice even but edged with caution.

Zayn’s jaw ticked once before he answered. “You’re needed inside.”

Louis glanced at him sharply, brows furrowed. “What for?”

Zayn’s eyes flicked between them both, then he shook his head, stepping aside to clear the doorway. “You’ll see.”

Chapter Text

Zayn’s arm dropped from the doorframe once they stepped past him, his silence following them inside. Louis trailed behind Harry, unease already prickling in his chest, and when his eyes adjusted to the dim room he froze. There was someone on the couch.

For a second he thought he was seeing wrong, maybe just the shadow of one of the kids who sometimes curled up there, but no—this was someone unfamiliar. A girl, small, folded in on herself like she was trying to disappear into the cushions.

Louis’ confusion caught in his throat as he glanced up sharply at Zayn and Niall, both standing near the wall, arms crossed. They didn’t move, didn’t explain. Just a small shrug from Niall, a stiff nod from Zayn, both of them flicking their eyes back toward the girl as if to say her. That’s the reason you’re here.

“What the hell happened?” Louis muttered, stepping closer, voice low enough not to startle her.

Zayn’s mouth pressed into a thin line before he answered. “Found her behind the shed. Stealing out of a can.” His tone was blunt but not cruel, more laced with the kind of caution Louis knew too well. “Said she was hungry. Claims she’s sixteen. Says she’s alone. I don’t trust it. Figured you should speak to her, too.” His eyes cut briefly to Harry before settling back on Louis. “Liam thinks she seems fine. But I’ve got a feeling I can’t shake.”

Louis let out a quiet breath, nodding once, though the weight in his chest deepened. He looked at Harry, hoping for something steady there, and Harry only tilted his head toward the couch, murmuring, “Talk to her.”

So Louis did, though every step felt heavy. He sank down onto one knee in front of her, trying not to tower, trying not to make his voice sharp even though his pulse was thrumming. “Hey,” he started gently, catching the flicker of her wide brown eyes before she darted them away. “What’s your name?”

Millie hesitated, then whispered, “Millie.”

Louis nodded, soft, like that was a win. “Alright, Millie. Where’d you come from? You got people?”

Her silence stretched too long. She didn’t fidget so much as she tightened, like every muscle in her was coiled, waiting. Her eyes flicked once to the side, scanning the room, and Louis followed her gaze, noting how she took in every face without saying a word.

“Millie,” he pressed, lowering his voice, trying to coax her out instead of cornering her. “It’s important. If you’ve got people somewhere, and they need help… maybe we could help. But we need to know.”

Still nothing. Just the tick of her jaw, the way her fingers clutched at the rim of a half-empty can balanced on her lap. Louis felt something twist inside him, a familiar stubbornness rising—not anger, just the quiet insistence that silence couldn’t be the end of it. He leaned in a little closer, gentling his tone even further.

“Are you alone?”

Her chin dipped, almost imperceptible, then she nodded once. Slow, reluctant, like pulling a thread she hadn’t wanted to let go of.

Louis exhaled, nodding with her. “Alright. That’s enough for now.” His voice caught slightly, but he pressed on, tilting his head to catch her eye again. “You hungry?”

That broke the stillness. Her mouth twisted faintly, a grimace that wasn’t quite a smile, and she muttered, “Always.”

Louis’ throat worked around something he didn’t say. He just turned his head toward Eleanor, who was already halfway to the shelf with their rations, her hands moving without needing to be asked. The sound of her shifting through bags filled the silence, a quiet promise that at least one question could be answered with something tangible.

Louis stayed crouched where he was, holding Millie’s gaze for a moment longer, the knot of caution and something heavier pulling tighter in his chest. He wanted to believe her, wanted to trust the flicker of fear and need in her eyes, but he’d lived long enough now to know that even children carried secrets sharp enough to cut.

When Eleanor returned with a small portion of food and pressed it gently into Millie’s hands, Louis pushed himself up from where he’d been crouched. Her eyes were wide as she took the offering, her shoulders folding in on themselves as if she didn’t quite trust she was allowed to keep it. Eleanor sank down beside her without hesitation, quiet and steady in the way she had of filling silence without smothering it. Louis stepped back, giving them space, watching Millie nibble at the food as though every bite might be taken from her if she wasn’t careful. Something twisted in his chest—something protective, something angry at the world for shaping children into creatures who ate like scavengers instead of kids who should’ve been laughing at a dinner table. He couldn’t look too long without it undoing him, so he turned, making his way back toward the others.

“She should probably crash here for the night,” he said, low, his voice carrying the decision rather than seeking permission. His gaze flicked once more toward the couch where the girl sat, small against the worn cushions. “Poor thing can’t answer questions when she’s half-starved and knackered. We’ll get more out of her tomorrow.”

Niall frowned slightly, leaning an elbow against the wall. “You think she’s really on her own?”

Louis dragged his hand over his jaw, hesitation tightening his shoulders. “Not sure,” he admitted, and the honesty in his tone left no room for false comfort. “She could be. She could not. Either way, pushing her now isn’t gonna help. We’ll talk in the morning.” His eyes shifted then, softening when they landed on Harry. “Anywhere she could sleep tonight? Just so she doesn’t feel like she’s being handled like—like a stray.”

Before Harry could answer, Eleanor’s voice slipped in, sure and calm. She rose from her place beside Millie and crossed to them, brushing a strand of hair from her face as though she’d already settled her own mind on the matter. “She can share my bed with me,” she said, simple, unbothered, as if it were obvious.

Louis blinked, studying her face for any hint of uncertainty. “You sure?”

Eleanor nodded once, steady as ever.

He exhaled, not quite relief but something close. “Alright then.” His eyes lingered on her for a beat longer, gratitude there though he didn’t say it outright. He watched as Eleanor returned to Millie, her hand light on the girl’s shoulder, her voice too low for anyone else to catch. Millie hesitated at first, clutching the last bite of food like she didn’t know if she should finish it before leaving, but Eleanor waited with her usual patience until the girl managed it.

Louis’ throat felt tight as he stood there, arms crossed without realizing it, watching Eleanor guide Millie gently down the hall toward the cluster of bedrooms. The image carved itself deep into him: the small figure walking beside Eleanor, steps uneven, almost stumbling from exhaustion, and Eleanor slowing her pace so they matched. Louis’ chest ached with the weight of it, that fragile hope stitched beside relentless grief, and the quiet fear of how easily it could all vanish if the world outside decided to take again.

─ ·𖥸· ─

Upstairs, when the noise of footsteps had thinned and the house finally seemed to settle into that fragile pause between one day’s weight and the next, Harry and Louis slipped into the small rhythm they’d carved out together. Boots unlaced with weary fingers, jackets shrugged off and draped over the chair in the corner, shirts pulled over heads with soft sighs—every motion heavy with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t really fade with sleep but demanded rest all the same. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable; it was the kind that came after long days, after too many words already spoken downstairs, after every responsibility had been met for now. They moved around one another easily, shedding layers and setting weapons in familiar places, both knowing tomorrow would start early and ask for more of them than either felt ready to give.

Harry lingered a moment longer by the dresser, fingers grazing over the cool metal of his gun before he set it down. His voice came quieter than usual, tentative in a way that made Louis glance up from where he was tugging back the blankets. “You think maybe… she’s from Lottie’s camp?” Harry asked, his words careful but weighed with something heavier than simple curiosity. “Millie. You think she was there—when I let out those infected. To save me and Ben.”

Louis stilled, the sheets gathered loosely in his hands, eyes flicking over Harry’s face as though trying to gauge how deep the thought had already sunk into him. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment, the honesty rough in his throat. “It’s possible.”

Harry’s hand tightened against the edge of the dresser, jaw tense as he searched for air that didn’t feel thick in his chest. “What if I’m the reason she’s alone?” he murmured, his voice fraying at the edges. “What if she had parents, or someone, and they were caught in that—” his breath faltered, frustration threading through the words. “That bullshit I unleashed.”

Louis dropped the blanket, the soft thud against the mattress barely audible as he crossed the room. His hand wrapped around Harry’s arm, firm enough to pull his focus back from wherever it was spiraling. “Don’t,” Louis said, quiet but steady. His thumb brushed lightly over Harry’s sleeve, an unconscious tether. “Don’t think like that. You were just trying to protect yourself and Ben in that moment. That’s all that mattered right then. There’s no use beating yourself up over it now.”

Harry’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes glassy but refusing to blink fully. “I didn’t even think about the kids at that camp,” he admitted, his voice breaking soft against the silence. “All I cared about was Ben, and getting back to you before Lottie tried anything. That was it. I didn’t—I didn’t even look beyond that.” His chest rose unsteadily, tears threatening as he pressed the heel of his hand against his brow like it could push the thought back inside.

Louis didn’t let go. He stepped closer, his other arm circling Harry’s waist, pulling him into a hug that left no room for retreat. “It’s okay,” he murmured into Harry’s shoulder, the words not a dismissal but a grounding. His own chest ached, but he kept his voice even. “It’s okay. If anything… maybe this is our chance to make up for it. We let Millie stay, at least for a bit. We figure out more tomorrow after a meeting, but—maybe this is it. Maybe this is how we balance it, even just a little.”

Harry exhaled shakily against Louis’ neck, arms finally wrapping around him in return, holding on tight like he needed the reassurance pressed into his skin rather than floating in words. Louis stayed there with him, steady and unflinching, letting Harry’s guilt soften into the curve of his body.

They eased into bed the way people do when their bodies were more bone-weary than they’d ever admit aloud, Louis sliding under the covers first while Harry made sure everything that needed to be within arm’s reach—knife, gun, flashlight—was in its proper place. When Harry finally settled beside him, the mattress dipped with his weight, and for a moment all Louis could hear was the hush of their breathing, the small noises of fabric shifting as they adjusted to lie closer. Louis turned onto his side, curling instinctively toward him, letting his fingers rest against the slope of Harry’s chest like he needed to know he was real, warm, alive.

It took a long stretch of silence before Louis spoke, his voice quiet in the dark, so soft it might have been mistaken for a thought that escaped. “I keep thinking about her,” he admitted, words slow, reluctant. “About letting another one in. Another kid. We got lucky with Ben, but—” He cut himself off, tongue pressing against the back of his teeth like maybe swallowing it back would keep the fear from sounding as heavy as it felt.

Harry shifted, hand brushing into Louis’ hair, gentle like he knew the thread Louis was dangling on. “You don’t have to explain,” he murmured, the interruption not harsh but certain. “I know what you’re scared of. I feel it too.” His thumb traced the corner of Louis’ temple, grounding. “But if she stays… she’s older. Not like Ben was when we found him. Millie’s a teenager, which means maybe she’s more capable of looking after herself, of learning what she needs to keep going.” He paused, his chest rising steady beneath Louis’ palm. “We don’t have to decide everything tonight. Tomorrow we can ask her the questions that matter and see where we stand.”

Louis breathed in against him, letting the rhythm of Harry’s heartbeat steady his own. The fear didn’t vanish—he knew it wouldn’t—but hearing Harry frame it like that, hearing him carve out space for possibility instead of only risk, eased something that had been tight in his chest since they’d first seen her sitting there. He closed his eyes, not to shut it all out, but to feel it closer: the weight of Harry’s hand in his hair, the warmth of his body against his, the promise that whatever decisions came, they’d make them together.

─ ·𖥸· ─

By morning the rhythm of survival had already taken over, the kind of rhythm that didn’t wait for anyone’s thoughts to settle. Out in the fields, the frost was loosening its grip and the snow was sloughing into patches of wet earth, the kind that left boots heavy with mud but gave them the chance to repair what winter had nearly undone. Ash and Luke held the main gate, leaning into their sentry roles like they’d been carved for it, while Clara moved between barns, her hands busy with small checks, the kind of quiet maintenance that kept people alive more than any gun ever could.

Inside the main house, though, the atmosphere had less of that rhythm and more of a pulse. Louis leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the way Liam laid out his stance with a calmness that Louis wasn’t sure was wisdom or just Liam’s need to see the best in people. “She doesn’t seem like a threat,” Liam was saying, voice level but insistent. “She’s young. She’s thin. Whatever else she is, she’s not dangerous to us right now. Doesn’t cost us much to let her stay.”

Zayn’s answer came with a short huff, his tone low, not sharp but certain. “It’s not about what she looks like. It’s a feeling. Something doesn’t sit right. She was sneaking around instead of walking up to the gate, that tells you plenty.” His eyes flicked toward Louis for a second, as if asking him silently if he saw it too, before he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms like he was anchoring himself. “We don’t know her, and you know what happens when you trust too quickly.”

Niall shifted in his seat, restless, fingers drumming against the table before he stilled them. “I dunno,” he admitted, eyes moving between them. “She’s a kid, yeah, but she’s not a child. If she’s made it on her own this long, she must have some grit. I can’t say she’s safe, but I also can’t say she’s not. Feels fifty-fifty to me.”

The back-and-forth pulled at Louis, the push between caution and compassion. He understood Zayn’s distrust—he’d lived it enough times to know you couldn’t afford to be naive—but he also couldn’t ignore the image of the girl clutching that can of corn like it was her last tether to life. He was caught between both truths, not ready to pick a side.

It was Harry who cut through, his voice steady, practical, the kind of tone that pulled all eyes toward him. “Then we don’t decide on instinct alone. We test it. Ask her straight. Does she know how to use a gun? Has she faced infected before—maybe even people? If she’s survived this long, she must have some kind of skills. We find out what they are, and if she’s always been on her own. That’ll tell us more than guesses will.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers threading together like he was trying to keep his own tension contained. “And maybe one of us takes her around the farm, talks to her away from the group. See how she holds herself, how she answers when she’s not staring down all of us at once.”

Louis watched him as he spoke, noting the measured calm in Harry’s tone, but also the flicker behind his eyes that told him this wasn’t only about Millie—it was about Harry needing something solid to do with the guilt he’d confessed the night before. He wanted proof, one way or another, that they weren’t repeating old mistakes.

The table went quiet after that, not in full agreement but in the kind of pause that meant they all knew Harry’s suggestion was the only real path forward. Louis found himself breathing a little easier with a plan on the table, even if the unease still pressed at the edges of his chest. They didn’t know yet what Millie was, or what her presence might shift in the fragile balance they’d managed to hold—but today’s questions could start to draw the lines of it. And until then, all they had was the choice to hold steady and see where the truth might crack open.

“I’ll be the one to take her around,” Harry said, looking at Louis, but also catching the others in his glance. “Ask her the right questions, see what she knows. If she’s never used a gun, I can be the one to show her. Doesn’t have to fall on anyone else.”

Louis nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth tugging like he wanted to frown but held it back. “That’s fine. Sounds like a good idea.” He rubbed his palm against his thigh, restless energy crawling under his skin, and then he added, “If she seems safe, not a threat… then she should stay. Wouldn’t feel right sending a girl out on her own.”

It wasn’t a dramatic declaration, no slam of finality, but the weight of it settled over the room. Liam gave a small, deliberate nod, eyes thoughtful as he crossed his arms. Niall glanced between them all before saying, “Yeah. Agreed,” his voice quiet but firm enough. Even Zayn, who had been leaning back in his chair with his jaw set, didn’t say otherwise.

Harry broke the silence after a beat. “Where is she now?”

“Eleanor took her out to the stables,” Liam answered. “Showed her the horses while we were in here.”

Harry nodded once, no hesitation. He stood, shoulders straight, and made his way toward the door without another word. Louis’ eyes followed him, something low and uneasy tightening in his chest as Harry disappeared down the hall. Liam and Niall got up soon after, their steps less certain, voices blending low as they drifted toward the exit too, leaving the space feeling bigger, quieter.

Zayn didn’t move at first, then rose and crossed the room at his own pace. Louis had already made his way into the living room, gravitating toward the fireplace like habit, even though the hearth was cold, yesterday’s ash still dusting the grate. He planted his hand on the mantel, shoulders tight, and let out a sharp breath.

“I think I know why you want her to stay so bad,” Zayn said finally, his voice low, not confrontational but steady in a way that made it hard to ignore.

Louis gave a scoff, short and humorless, as if that could dismiss it. He shifted his weight, eyes dragging along the stones of the fireplace, and asked, “Oh yeah? And what d’you reckon that is?”

Zayn’s gaze didn’t falter. “She reminds you of Lottie.”

The words landed with a weight Louis hadn’t prepared for, his chest going still as if the air had been pulled out of him. He didn’t turn, didn’t meet Zayn’s eyes, just stared down at the brick of the fireplace, lips pressing together hard enough to ache. After a long silence, his voice came rough, quieter than he intended. “I know she’s not my sister. I don’t think that, not even for a second.”

“I didn’t say you did,” Zayn replied, not unkind, but unrelenting. “I just mean it’s okay if you feel it anyway. It’s okay to see her and have that pull, to want to protect her because she reminds you of someone you’d give your life for. But don’t let that make you blind. Don’t let it be the reason you trust her without question.”

Louis’ fingers curled against the mantel, nails pressing into the stone. His chest rose on a shaky inhale, and though he didn’t say more, the weight of Zayn’s words pressed in, unshakable, as if the fire that wasn’t lit still burned there between them.

─ ·𖥸· ─

Harry found himself replaying Zayn’s words even as he crossed the yard, the sound of boots pressing against thawed patches of ground, the distant scrape of wood being shifted, the occasional muted call from the others working around the fences. He didn’t let himself linger on it too long—Zayn had a way of cutting straight to things, leaving them raw and unguarded—but the thought pressed against the back of his mind as he moved toward the stables. The familiar smell of hay and leather met him as soon as he stepped inside, and he caught sight of Millie and Eleanor at one of the stalls, their hands working through the horse’s mane, the animal shifting its weight with a low, easy huff.

“Millie,” Harry called, his voice carrying just enough warmth to keep it from sounding like an order.

She turned, her hand still resting lightly against the horse’s neck, her eyes curious but cautious, always with that flicker that suggested she was waiting for the catch. Eleanor glanced between them, brushing a bit of straw from her sleeve as if to wordlessly give her approval. Millie hesitated only a moment, then shifted her weight, nodding faintly before stepping away from the stall and making her way over to Harry.

“Fancy a walk?” he asked once she was close enough, tilting his head toward the wide stretch of land beyond the stable doors. “Around the farm, show you a bit of what’s here.”

Her gaze flicked back to Eleanor, then returned to him. She gave a small nod, quiet, and Harry matched her pace as they stepped out together. The sun was still working its way through the last of the snow, and the fields looked softer than they had days ago, patches of green pushing through the thaw. He pointed toward a shed off to the side.

“That’s the classroom,” he explained. “Eleanor put it together, thought the kids needed something steady, a place that wasn’t just survival all the time.”

Millie didn’t say much, only let her eyes linger on it, her expression unreadable, as though she were trying to picture what kind of world existed in a shed like that, what it might mean to sit at a desk again. Harry didn’t press, just kept on walking, pointing next toward the second barn.

“That one’s for housing,” he said. “Extra space when we’ve got more people than rooms in the house.”

She followed with her gaze, still quiet, her hands stuffed in the sleeves of her coat, eyes moving over everything like she was cataloguing it, storing away details for later. After a moment she asked, voice small but steady, “How’d you find this place?”

Harry took a slow breath, his eyes tracing the line of the fences in the distance. “We needed somewhere new,” he said. “The old camp was… compromised.” He hesitated, then let the words settle heavier. “Sometimes people can be crueller than the infected.”

That seemed to land. Millie looked down, her hair falling across her cheek as she walked, and silence stretched between them, only the sound of boots against soft ground filling it. Harry let it breathe before speaking again, glancing sidelong at her.

“You ever killed one? An infected?”

She didn’t meet his eyes right away, but her voice carried a thin thread of honesty. “A few times. It’s scary though.”

Harry gave a small laugh under his breath, shaking his head. “Well, it’s probably not meant to be all sunshine and unicorns, is it? They’re terrifying. Worse up close.”

That almost made her smile, the corner of her mouth twitching before it fell again. They kept walking, reaching the eastern edge of the farm where the fences stretched out, and beyond them an open clearing bled into fields that didn’t belong to anyone. Harry stopped there, one hand resting against the top rail of the fence, his tone quieter now.

“What about people?” he asked. “You ever had to kill one, out of necessity?”

Millie’s steps slowed, her head shaking quickly. “No.” Her voice thinned, almost breaking. “I’ve been nearly killed, though.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as he held her words in the space between them. His mind flickered to what Zayn had said, to Lottie’s camp, to the thought that maybe this girl was lying, maybe she wasn’t who she said she was. But then Millie kept talking, her voice trembling but determined to be heard.

“I… I got caught up with a bad group,” she admitted, her eyes far away as though she was seeing it even now. “The men were mean. They—” her throat bobbed as she swallowed, “they tried hurting me just because they could. So I ran. One of them followed me for days, tracked me like I was something to hunt. That’s how I ended up here. Running from him.”

Harry stood still, his hand still pressed to the fence, his heart heavier in his chest than he wanted it to be. He didn’t interrupt her, didn’t offer easy comfort, just let her words hang there, raw and jagged, as the wind carried over the open fields beyond the farm.

“The infected you’ve killed,” he said carefully, not wanting it to sound like an interrogation. “How’d you do it?”

Millie’s gaze dropped to the ground, her boot scraping at the dirt. “With a knife,” she admitted after a moment. “A hunting knife my mum gave me before…” she didn’t finish, but her hand made a small gesture like the end of that thought was obvious. “I had to get close, really close. Too close. Had a few close calls, but… it worked.”

Harry felt a slow breath leave him, not out of judgment but because he could picture it—the small frame of her darting in toward something snarling, reeking, barely human anymore. That kind of fear left a mark. He leaned an elbow on the fence, the wood creaking beneath the weight.

“You know how to use a gun?” he asked, though he already suspected the answer.

Millie shook her head. “No.”

There was no shame in her voice, only a kind of quiet truth, like she had already measured herself against the world and found all the things she didn’t know. Harry nodded, looking down at the ground before lifting his gaze back to her.

“I’m a cop,” he told her, his mouth twisting as if the word didn’t belong to him anymore. “Or—well, I used to be. Back when any of that mattered.” His eyes softened. “I can teach you, if you want.”

Millie’s head tilted slightly, as though she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. He added, “I teach Ben. He’s a little boy who lives here with us. Picked it up quicker than I expected, but… he still needs practice.”

Something in Millie shifted at that—curiosity, maybe, or the faintest flicker of longing at the mention of someone else her age, or younger wasn’t completely removed from. She thought on it, her lips pressing together before she finally nodded. “That’d be nice,” she said softly. “I don’t want to… get that close again. With a knife.”

Harry’s chest ached at the way she said it, the words carrying more weight than she likely intended. He gave a small, almost rueful smile. “Don’t blame you for that.” He let the silence fall for a beat, then pushed himself back from the fence, straightening.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “We should get back to the house. Get you something to eat. And…” his eyes flicked toward the farmhouse, where the rest of the group would still be circling the same conversation, “see if I can get everyone on board with you staying.”

Millie didn’t answer right away, but she fell into step beside him when he started walking, her boots crunching against the thawing ground, her shoulders drawn in like she was bracing herself for whatever came next.

─ ·𖥸· ─

Harry left Millie at the table with Eleanor, who was already setting out something small for her to eat, and lingered a moment at the doorway. Millie didn’t look back at him, just hunched over the plate with the kind of hunger that made everything else secondary, her hair falling into her face. Eleanor caught his eye for the briefest second, a nod that said she’d handle it from here. Harry gave her a quiet thanks before slipping out again.

The cold bit sharp, but it barely registered. Across the yard, Niall and Zayn were standing with Liam and Louis, the four of them low in conversation, posture speaking more than words. Harry walked toward them with purpose, not waiting to find the rhythm of what they were already discussing.

“She should stay,” he said as soon as he reached them, his voice firmer than he’d intended. He caught Louis’ eyes flicking to him, a silent question there, but Harry didn’t stop. “She doesn’t seem like a threat.”

Zayn lifted his chin, watching him with that sharp look of his. “What makes you so sure?”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t waver. “Because of what she’s been through. She told me herself—bad people, worse than infected. She ran from them. She’s been surviving on her own since. She’s not stupid, not reckless. If she was lying, I’d know.” He let out a breath, his voice softening. “And if she is lying—if any of us notice something off—we deal with it. But I don’t feel comfortable sending her out there. Not like this.”

The words settled into the air between them, heavy enough that no one jumped in right away. Liam rubbed at his chin, his thoughtful silence leaning toward agreement. Niall glanced from one face to another, eyes narrowing as though weighing the risk against his own gut. Louis’ gaze lingered on Harry, studying him in that way he always did when Harry laid too much of his heart bare too quickly.

Zayn finally broke the quiet, looking away to scan the yard. He didn’t say yes, didn’t say no, just breathed out and asked, “And if she brings trouble with her?”

“Then we handle it,” Harry said steadily, not flinching under the weight of Zayn’s eyes when they turned back to him. “Same way we would with anyone else. But I’m telling you—she’s not bringing trouble.”

The stillness stretched a moment longer, then Liam gave a slow nod. “I think he’s right. She’s just a kid. And she doesn’t look like she’s slept in weeks.”

Niall sighed, letting his arms fall. “Fine. I’m still in the middle, but… I’ll side with you. Let her stay.”

Zayn kept his arms crossed, but when no one else argued, he gave the smallest tilt of his head, something resigned but not entirely opposed.

Louis exhaled through his nose, finally speaking, his voice quieter than the rest. “I’ll ask Eleanor if Millie can bunk with her for now, until we figure out a proper place for her.” His gaze flicked back toward the farmhouse, already turning his body that way.

And then he was moving, boots crunching against the ground as he headed for the steps, shoulders tense but certain, leaving the others behind in the cold with only the thrum of agreement settling around them.

Zayn didn’t speak again until Louis had disappeared fully into the house, his back vanishing through the doorway like a shadow cut clean. Only then did he step closer, his voice pitched low so it wouldn’t carry. “He can’t afford to get too close to this one.”

Harry blinked, turning toward him, still keyed up from defending Millie only moments ago. “What are you talking about?” His voice had a sharper edge than he meant, but Zayn didn’t flinch.

“Lottie,” Zayn said simply, steady, his gaze fixed on Harry’s face. “You don’t see it? Millie reminds him of her. The way he looks at her, the way he hovers. If something happens—if she’s not what she says she is, or if she doesn’t make it here—Louis won’t be able to handle it. Not again.”

Harry swallowed, jaw tightening, because of course he’d thought it. The flicker in Louis’ expression when Millie first spoke, the way he shifted closer to her without even seeming to notice—it was too familiar, too raw. But hearing Zayn say it out loud pressed harder than Harry liked to admit.

“He’s fine,” Harry said after a pause, not willing to let the worry settle. “Everything will be fine.” He shook his head, trying to keep his voice even. “What do you propose he does then? Ignore her? Pretend she’s not here?” His eyes locked onto Zayn’s, a stubborn spark igniting. “He won’t do that. You know he won’t.”

“I don’t want him to ignore her,” Zayn said, softer now, his arms folding across his chest again like he was holding something in. “I just… I worry. He’s already carrying more than he should. You’ve seen it. We all have. If she gets pulled away from him—like Lottie was—I don’t know what that’ll do to him.”

Harry’s chest ached, but he forced himself to stand straighter, to hold Zayn’s gaze. “There’s nothing to worry about,” he said quietly, conviction threading through even if part of him wasn’t sure he believed it. He tipped his head toward the farmhouse, toward the faint outline of Louis moving past one of the windows. “We’ll keep her safe. We’ll keep him safe.”

Zayn didn’t answer, just gave a faint nod, as if agreeing only because it was easier than pressing further.

Harry didn’t linger. He turned, already making his way back toward the house, shoulders squared against the chill, against Zayn’s lingering doubt that clung to him even as he pulled open the door and stepped inside.

Millie barely looked up from her food when Louis stepped into the kitchen. Eleanor sat across from her, needles clicking gently in her hands, the beginnings of something round and woolen pooling in her lap. The kit she’d found a week back had become almost a lifeline for her, something quiet and steady in the middle of everything else, and already there were a few pairs of tiny gloves tucked away for when the weather turned worse. Louis gave her shoulder a soft tap, just enough to pull her attention, and tilted his head toward the living room. She set the needles down without a word and rose, following him out until they stood by the doorway, just enough distance that Millie couldn’t hear.

“She’s staying,” Louis said, his voice low, almost certain in the way he said it though his eyes still carried the weight of all the others’ doubts. “At least for now. Can she sleep in your room? Just until we figure something out with the younger ones in the barn.”

Eleanor didn’t hesitate. “Of course.” Her gaze flicked toward the kitchen, where Millie hunched over her bowl like she didn’t want to take up space. “She’ll be fine with me.” Then her tone shifted, thoughtful, as if she’d been waiting for this chance. “Oh, also—I found something this morning.”

Louis frowned, his brows pinching slightly. “Found something?”

She slipped back into the kitchen, returning with a roll of paper clutched in her hand. It unfurled easily between her fingers when she held it open, the faint lines of ink spread wide. “Blueprint, I think. Of the house, maybe the land too. It was stuffed in the back of a closet. My dad worked in construction, so I know some of the markings.”

Louis leaned closer, the paper crackling faintly as she pointed out the hall layout, the little rectangles and notations. Her finger pressed against one spot, far down the hallway. “Here. Looks like there’s a door there, with stairs leading down. Might be a basement.”

Louis straightened slightly, his gaze dragging toward the darkened hallway as if he could will the hidden door to appear. “A basement,” he echoed, the word quiet, considering.

“Most older houses had them,” Eleanor said, her voice practica. “And sometimes they’d hide the doors behind closets. One of the closets down there doesn’t open. Could be that one. If it is…” She let out a slow breath. “Could be more storage. Supplies. We could use it.”

Louis reached for the blueprint, fingers brushing hers as he took it carefully. His eyes traced the symbols once, twice, before he folded it back in on itself and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll check it tomorrow. Maybe get Harry to help.” His tone was resolved but soft, something in him already cataloging the possibility of what they might find.

When he looked back at Eleanor, his expression gentled. “Thank you. For this. And for Millie.”

Eleanor smiled faintly, that quiet warmth she carried settling between them like a promise. “Of course. It’s what we do, isn’t it? Take care where we can.”

Louis gave a small nod, something like gratitude and weariness tangled in it, before glancing once more toward the kitchen, where Millie still ate with her head bowed, unaware of the conversation happening just beyond her reach.

Chapter Text

Harry crouched in front of the old closet, his breath low and steady as he ran his fingers over the seam where the door met the frame. The handle wobbled beneath his grip, the brass cold and stiff, and he muttered something under his breath as it refused to turn. He shifted closer, checking the hinges, tracing the cracks along the edges as though searching for some hidden give in the wood. The faint scrape of his fingers against the surface filled the silence between them.

“Whoever sealed this,” he said finally, voice quiet but edged with focus, “did not want it open.”

Louis crossed his arms, leaning against the wall just far enough back that the light caught the uneasy curve of his mouth. “Maybe we should take the hint,” he said, half-serious, half-tired. “Probably nothing down there anyway.”

Harry didn’t even look back. His hand lifted in a small, absent gesture that told Louis he wasn’t stopping. “Just give me a minute.”

He pressed his ear closer to the wood and knocked, slow and deliberate, listening in that thoughtful way he had when he was thinking of something more than he was saying. The sound came back dull but not solid, almost hollow in parts. “It sounds weak,” Harry said.

Louis blinked at him, one brow lifting. “And what the hell does that mean?”

Harry straightened a little, eyeing the door again like it had challenged him personally. “Means I can break it,” he said, a flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth, as if the thought amused him more than it should’ve. “Go outside, grab one of the big logs from the stack. The thickest one you can carry.”

Louis stared for a beat, half-exasperated, half-resigned. “You’re serious.”

Harry turned his head just enough to meet his eye, that same faint smile still there. “Dead serious.”

Louis muttered something under his breath that sounded like a warning—or maybe a curse—but he went anyway. He jogged out into the cold, grabbing the first thick piece of firewood he could manage and hauling it back inside, shoulders stiff from the chill. When he got back, Harry was still crouched by the door, sleeves pushed up, hands braced against the frame like a man sizing up a fight.

Louis dropped the wood beside him. “I have absolutely no hope of that working,” he said, though there wasn’t much bite to it.

Harry didn’t answer right away. He picked up the log, weighed it in his hand, then flashed Louis a small, infuriating grin that said he’d already decided this was going to work whether it made sense or not. He stepped back and swung, the dull crack of wood on wood echoing through the narrow hall. The first hit didn’t do much beyond rattling the hinges. The second splintered the edge of the doorframe. On the third, the sound deepened—a hollow thud—and the surface gave slightly. Harry set his jaw, lifted the log again, and drove it forward until the wood splintered properly this time, a jagged hole blooming near the handle.

“Jesus,” Louis muttered, stepping forward instinctively, eyes darting to the mess of splinters.

Harry didn’t stop to celebrate. He crouched again, leaning close to the gap, brushing the edges away so he could slip his hand through. His fingers searched carefully, feeling along the inside for something—until he stilled, a soft exhale leaving him. “It was locked from the inside,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Louis blinked. “What?”

Harry twisted his wrist, feeling for the mechanism. There was a faint click—small, clean, almost anticlimactic—and then he pulled back, turning the knob from the outside. The latch gave with a reluctant groan.

He pushed the door open slowly, the air shifting as the old hinges strained, the sound dragging low through the hallway. Louis stepped closer without realizing it, eyes flicking from Harry’s face to the dark space beyond the frame.

Harry stepped through first, leaning against the doorframe as the light from the hallway spilled across the top of the stairs. The blueprint had been wrong—it wasn’t a closet with a hidden entrance or some clever architectural trick. It was just a door, plain and direct, leading straight down to a basement right in the middle of the hallway. Simpler, maybe, but somehow that felt worse. There was something unsettling about how easy it suddenly was to open what had been sealed for God knew how long.

Harry pulled the flashlight from his back pocket, tapping the end of it once before it flared to life. The beam cut through the dark, narrow stairwell, dust floating in the air like slow snow. “You ready?” he asked quietly, though the tone suggested he already knew Louis wasn’t.

Louis glanced past him, down the shadowed steps, the edges of the concrete barely visible. “There might be infected down there or something,” he muttered, arms folding across his chest, though the words came softer than he intended.

Harry turned his head just enough to smirk, eyes glinting in the dim. “If there were, they’d have been at the top of the stairs by now,” he said. “Door was locked from the inside, remember? We’d have known.”

Louis exhaled through his nose, somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Supposed to make you move,” Harry said, and extended his hand without waiting. It was steady, palm open, the small gesture somehow grounding amidst all that quiet uncertainty. Louis hesitated, then sighed and took it. His hand was warm, solid, and the moment was brief but it stayed with him longer than it should’ve as they started down the steps together, each slow footfall echoing softly through the narrow descent.

By the time they reached the bottom, the light from above had thinned out entirely. Harry’s flashlight beam swept across the concrete floor and walls, catching corners filled with cobwebs and old wooden crates. The air was thick and stale; it felt older than a year, older than their time here, like it had been forgotten for decades. Dust stirred with every movement, nearly coating Harry’s tongue and throat until he could almost taste it—old paper, dirt, and time.

He aimed the light upward, spotting a string dangling from the ceiling in the far corner. “Hold on,” he muttered, stepping toward it. He gave it a tentative pull, expecting nothing, but to his surprise, a dull yellow bulb flickered overhead before humming to life. The glow was weak and uneven, casting the basement in that old, sepia sort of light that made everything look like it belonged to someone else’s memory.

Harry turned off his flashlight, slipping it back into his pocket as he took in the room. There were boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling, some collapsed and others still sealed, labels faded and curling at the edges. Tools hung rusted on one wall; the corner shelves bowed under the weight of jars and cans, their contents indiscernible.

Louis stepped closer, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck as he looked around. “Christ, feels like a museum,” he murmured.

“Let’s hope it’s not the kind that bites,” Harry said under his breath, and then gestured toward the far end of the room. “You take that side. I’ll check over here.”

Louis nodded and made his way across the space, the floor creaking faintly beneath his boots. He crouched by a stack of boxes, brushing off the layer of grime that clung to the tops. The air felt heavy, like it had been waiting for someone to breathe life into it again, but even so, there was a stillness that pressed at him the longer he stood there.

Harry was quiet on the other end of the room, opening boxes carefully. Every so often the light flickered overhead, stretching his shadow across the wall, long and distorted. Louis tried not to notice how the flicker of the bulb made everything feel fragile, as though the air itself might collapse if they moved too fast. He ran his hand along one box and felt something carved into the wood—a set of initials, almost invisible beneath the dust. He brushed at it absently, his stomach tightening for reasons he couldn’t quite name.

The space felt untouched, and yet not empty. There was the faintest sense of something left behind—something half-forgotten but not gone. He tried not to think about it too hard.

Harry’s voice broke the silence, quiet but steady. “See anything yet?”

Louis shook his head, not sure Harry even saw the motion in the dim light. “Just boxes,” he said softly. “A lot of boxes.”

Harry exhaled, his gaze moving toward another stack as though the sound itself steadied him.

Louis had been crouched for so long his knees had started to ache, but he barely noticed. The dust clung to his hands as he sifted through another box, fingers tracing over the uneven surface of something glassy. When he lifted it, the light caught on the edge of a photo frame, then another, and another—some wooden, some metal, a few plastic ones painted in pastel colors that had faded with time. None of them held pictures. Just empty rectangles of glass and cardboard backing, as if they’d been waiting for faces that never came.

He turned one over in his hands, thumb brushing over a small crack in the corner of the glass. “These are strange,” he murmured, voice barely carrying. “A whole box of them, but no photos. Who do you think lived here before?”

Harry looked up from across the room, the beam of his now lit flashlight swinging to catch on the edges of the frames in Louis’ hands. He squinted, then shrugged lightly. “Could’ve been some old couple who didn’t make it,” he said, the words soft, careful not to echo. “Or maybe a family that got out before things got bad. Packed fast, left behind the sentimental stuff.” His tone was steady, but it carried that familiar weight—the way he always sounded when he tried to distance himself from the sadness that came with imagining other people’s endings.

Louis hummed in response, a low, absent sound as he set one frame down and reached for another box tucked beneath it. The cardboard was soft at the edges, the tape half torn, and when he peeled it open the smell of old fabric hit him first—dust and detergent and something faintly sweet, like cedar. Inside were clothes, mostly small ones. T-shirts and hoodies folded neatly enough to show someone had once cared about the way they sat. He ran a hand over a faded red jumper, thumb catching on the edge of a stitched name tag that had long since bled from washing.

He pulled out a few shirts, a pair of jeans that looked small enough for one of the younger kids, and then a dark green hoodie, soft and worn thin in the elbows. He turned it in his hands, almost smiling. “Got some more clothes for the kids,” he called over, voice carrying more warmth now. “This one looks like it’d fit Ben. He’d like the color.”

Harry turned, the light cutting through the dim air to find him. For a second he didn’t say anything, just watched Louis standing there in that tired sort of way he had, shoulders slightly hunched, the green fabric clutched between his hands like something fragile. Then he gave a small nod, gesturing toward the stairs. “Put it by the steps,” he said quietly. “We’ll make a pile of what to bring up. No point carrying it all until we’ve looked through everything.”

Louis nodded, walking over and setting the hoodie neatly by the bottom step before heading back to the boxes. He felt Harry’s eyes on him for a moment longer before the beam of the flashlight moved away again, returning to the far side of the basement. The silence between them wasn’t heavy exactly—it was the kind that felt alive, shifting with small sounds, the faint scuff of boots, the thud of cardboard, the rustle of clothes.

He picked up another shirt from the box, this one with tiny embroidered flowers along the collar. A girl’s, maybe. Teenaged, if he had to guess. He tried not to imagine her. Tried not to build a life for her in his head—a mother who folded those clothes, a father who maybe fixed things in this very basement, kids running up and down these stairs before everything went quiet. But that was what he always did, wasn’t it? Fill the empty spaces with people. Pretend they’d just gone somewhere safe.

Across the room, Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair as he peered into another box. “Most of this is junk,” he muttered, his voice echoing slightly off the walls. “Old tools, a few empty tins. Whoever lived here didn’t take much.”

“Maybe they thought they’d come back,” Louis said softly, almost to himself. He lifted the last of the clothes from the box and set them aside, brushing his hands together as if to shake off the feeling that lingered.

Harry looked over again, expression unreadable for a moment. Then, quietly: “Maybe.”

Louis leaned against the edge of a forgotten table, watching the flicker of the dull yellow bulb above them. It buzzed every few seconds, threatening to die out but never quite doing it, and the light painted Harry’s face in half-shadows as he worked. There was something oddly comforting about it—about having someone else in the silence, someone who understood that the past still had a pulse, even here.

He went back to the clothes, folding them carefully, one by one. The fabric was cool and rough under his fingers, and each fold felt deliberate, like a small act of care in a world that didn’t allow for many. He glanced up again, catching Harry’s profile in the dim. The furrow in his brow, the faint line of tension in his jaw. They’d both learned, in their own ways, that even the quiet moments came with ghosts.

Louis cleared his throat, the sound small but enough to draw Harry’s eyes again. “We’ll have to tell Eleanor,” he said. “She’ll know how to fix these up, get them washed. She’ll probably want to give Ben that hoodie herself.”

Harry’s mouth curved just slightly, a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “She’ll love that,” he said, and then turned back to the boxes.

Louis watched him for a second longer before he did the same, the two of them falling into a rhythm again—hands working, dust rising, the faint hum of that stubborn old light filling the spaces between them.

─ ·𖥸· ─

Louis’ arms ached from carrying the third box, the weight uneven as he balanced it against his hip. The wood creaked under his boots with each step up the stairs, the dim yellow light fading behind him while the muffled sound of Harry still moving below echoed softly in the hollow space. He could hear the quiet scrape of boxes being shifted, the dull thud of something set down carefully, and then silence again. Harry always stayed behind longer than he needed to. He was meticulous that way—couldn’t walk away from a space without making sure he’d seen every corner, every forgotten edge that might hold something useful or something dangerous.

Louis paused at the top of the stairs for a moment, adjusting the box in his arms. “You sure you don’t need a hand?” he called down, voice low but carrying.

Harry’s answer came back after a few seconds, calm and even. “Yeah, go ahead. Just want to make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

Louis nodded, even if Harry couldn’t see him. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Don’t stay down here too long, yeah?”

There was a faint chuckle from below, the kind that wasn’t really about humor. “I’ll be fine,” Harry said. “Go on.”

Louis hesitated for a breath longer before he started up again, the box shifting slightly in his grip as he disappeared past the doorway, footsteps fading until the sound of the floorboards above took over.

When the noise of Louis moving upstairs settled, Harry turned on his heel, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the haze of dust still hanging in the air. He moved toward the far corner, one that had caught his eye earlier—a section half-hidden by stacks of boxes and old furniture. Something about the shape of it had nagged at him, the way the wall didn’t quite line up with the others.

He crouched slightly as he reached it, hand pressing against one of the boxes to push it aside. The scrape of cardboard on concrete echoed softly, and then he saw it again—a small archway, barely noticeable at first, like a shadow disguised among other shadows. It looked newer somehow, the edges too sharp compared to the rest of the crumbling stone.

Harry hesitated only a moment before ducking beneath it, flashlight raised. The air changed almost immediately. It didn’t smell like the rest of the basement—less musty, less stale. His light moved along the walls, catching on smooth wooden panels that reached from floor to ceiling, pale and unblemished, the color of sunlit sand even in the dimness. The framework looked half-built, as though someone had started to divide the space into rooms and then stopped mid-construction.

He stepped farther in, boots stirring the thin layer of dust that had settled across the floor. The sound of his breathing seemed louder here, his exhale fogging briefly in the beam of light before fading. He let the flashlight drift toward the far corner and froze when it hit a neat pile of stacked planks—dozens of them, maybe more, all cut to matching lengths, their edges smooth and polished. The kind of material builders stored carefully, planning to come back for it once they’d gathered the rest of what they needed.

Harry let out a quiet breath, one that came somewhere between disbelief and relief. He reached out, brushing his fingers over the nearest board. The surface was cool but clean, untouched by rot or time. A huff of a laugh escaped him, small and private. He could already see it—the repairs they could make, the walls they could reinforce, the shelter it could give them when the next storm came. Something solid. Something they could build with their own hands.

He rested his palm flat against the stack, eyes tracing the edges of the room again. Whoever had started this must’ve been interrupted—too sudden, maybe forced to leave before they could finish. It was strange, standing in the quiet where someone else’s plans had once lived. Half-done, half-abandoned, waiting for whoever came next to make sense of it.

He stepped back slowly, the beam of light swinging one last time across the pale walls before he turned. The archway loomed ahead, darker now that he was leaving the small space behind. He ducked through it again, shoulders brushing against the edge as he reentered the main basement. The yellow bulb still hummed faintly above, painting the room in that same tired glow.

Harry paused near the stairs, glancing toward a pile Louis had left by the steps—some more folded clothes, rusty tools, that dark green hoodie sitting neatly on top. A small smile tugged at his mouth as he exhaled, the sound barely audible. Then, with one last look over his shoulder toward the far corner, he started up the stairs, fingers still dusty from tracing the wood that might finally make something whole again.

Louis let out a small hum of interest, eyes dropping to the box again as he sifted through the pile of mismatched clothes. Eleanor leaned over the counter beside him, sorting the folded shirts into smaller stacks—ones that looked worn but usable, ones that were too torn to save. Harry’s footsteps came down the hall, the faint scrape of a boot on tile making Louis glance up just as he rounded the corner with another box in his arms. He set it down with a muted thud beside the others, brushing his palms off on his jeans before reaching in and tugging out the green hoodie Louis had mentioned earlier.

“Forgot this,” Harry said, tossing it over.

Louis caught it easily, grinning as he held it up. “I think Ben could wear this,” he said, handing it to Eleanor for inspection.

She pinched the fabric between her fingers, rubbing the faded cotton. “We can’t wash it properly—no power, obviously—but if I can get enough water in the tub, I’ll do it the old way,” she said. Her voice softened, practical but kind, like she was talking about more than just laundry. “Might take a day or two.”

“Thanks,” Louis murmured. He watched her gather a few shirts and tuck them under her arm, disappearing down the hall toward one of the bedrooms. The moment she was gone, he turned back to the box, pulling at bits of newspaper and sorting through whatever was left. It felt good—having something to do that wasn’t just surviving.

Harry came up behind him quietly, sliding his arms around Louis’ waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. The gesture wasn’t flashy, wasn’t loud—it was the kind of intimacy that didn’t need to be. “I’ve got an idea,” he said, voice low enough that it rumbled through Louis’ back.

“Yeah?” Louis leaned into him, his hands still moving idly through the box.

Harry nodded against his shoulder. “Found a bunch of wood downstairs. Real good quality. When the ground clears up a bit, maybe a week or so, I was thinking I could build something out back. A shed maybe. Something small, just for us to sleep in.”

Louis’ brow lifted, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “For privacy, yeah?”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “That too. But mostly to free up a room in the house. A bit more space for the others. Still—yeah. Privacy sounds nice.”

Louis turned his head just slightly, close enough that their cheeks brushed. “You’re really committing to this whole farmhouse base thing, huh?”

Harry chuckled under his breath. “Maybe. I just think this place… it’s got good bones. We’ve got water, shelter, room to grow things. It’d be stupid to give that up.”

Louis smiled faintly, though there was something bittersweet in it. “You’re talking like we’re settling down.”

“Maybe we are,” Harry said, his hands moving along Louis’ sides, grounding him in the smallest ways. “The farm’s good land. We can make something more of it if we try. When it’s warmer, I’ll start clearing space near the fields, see if anything’ll take root. Maybe Zayn can help—he knows a bit about that stuff.”

Louis tilted his head, considering him. “So the shed’s the first step of your little homestead plan?”

Harry grinned against his shoulder. “Something like that. The shed for us, and the rest of the wood can go toward fixing the barn and the classroom. Maybe even start a proper wall once we figure out the layout.”

Louis turned in his arms, eyes meeting Harry’s, their faces close enough that the air between them felt charged in the quiet way things did when you didn’t need to say much. “You sound like someone who wants to stay here as long as they can.”

Harry’s gaze softened, the edge of his smile fading into something smaller, something that looked almost like hope. “Maybe I do,” he admitted. “It’s not perfect, but it’s… something. Feels like we could build a life here, doesn’t it?”

Louis didn’t answer right away. He just looked at him for a long moment, like he was trying to measure the weight of that idea—the enormity of wanting something again, of daring to imagine more than just the next night. His thumb brushed over the inside of Harry’s wrist, a barely-there touch that felt like an answer all on its own.

Harry leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Louis’ temple. For a few seconds, the only sound was their breathing—steady, human, alive.

Louis let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh but close enough to one. “A shed, huh?” he murmured. “You’re gonna have to make it nice if you expect me to sleep in there.”

Harry smiled against his skin. “You’ve got high standards.”

“Damn right,” Louis said softly.

Harry’s arms tightened, the world outside their little bubble fading just for a moment. It wasn’t much—just a conversation, a plan, a handful of salvaged wood—but it felt like something real. Something close to peace, in a world that didn’t offer much of it anymore.

They didn’t even have time to catch the warmth of the moment before the sound came—footsteps pounding through the hall, quick, uneven, frantic. Harry turned instinctively, body tensing, hand already twitching toward the gun at his thigh. Ben was the first to appear, eyes wide and wild, breath hitching as he tried to get words out. Millie stumbled in just behind him, hair loose and cheeks flushed red from the cold air outside.

“What’s wrong?” Louis asked, stepping forward.

Ben pointed toward the front door, chest heaving. “Infected—by the barn,” he gasped. “Nearly got Millie but she ran.”

Harry’s face shifted before the words had even finished leaving Ben’s mouth, calm turning to motion in an instant. “How many?” he demanded, already pulling away from Louis.

Millie swallowed, still catching her breath. “Not sure—four? Maybe five?”

That was all he needed. Harry broke into a run, boots thudding across the floorboards as he unlatched the door and burst outside, hand drawing the gun from his holster in one clean motion. The noise of it all startled the quiet apart. Louis turned to the kids, heart hammering. “You two alright?” he asked, crouching slightly to Ben’s level.

Ben nodded quickly, still shaken, and Louis’s eyes flicked toward Millie, whose lips were pressed thin but she gave a stiff nod of confirmation. He reached out, gave her arm a squeeze before standing again. “Stay inside,” he said firmly, but his voice had softened.

Outside, Harry’s voice carried sharp across the open air. “Breach by the barn!” he shouted. Niall’s head shot up from where he’d been near the fence, and he started toward the commotion immediately, while Liam turned and sprinted to find Zayn.

Harry cut through the field, boots dragging up dirt as he neared the barn. He yelled for anyone inside to clear out, to head for the house, his eyes already scanning the edges of the field. Then, rounding the corner, he stopped cold—there were more than five. At least a dozen, maybe more spilling in from the east fence, their uneven bodies jerking toward him in waves.

He didn’t think, just raised the gun and started firing. Two fell instantly, one stumbled, another turned its hollow head toward him at the sound. He reloaded with shaking fingers, breath hissing through his teeth as he counted his rounds. The crack of each shot felt too loud, too final.

Then another shadow was beside him—Zayn, knife flashing in his grip, his face drawn tight with focus as he drove the blade into one of the infected’s skulls and yanked it back out without pause. “There’s more coming in!” Harry yelled over the chaos, voice breaking with strain.

“I see them!” Zayn shouted back, pivoting to take down another that lunged too close.

Across the yard, Louis and Eleanor were ushering people inside, shouting for them to move faster. Louis caught sight of Ben again at the edge of the porch, standing frozen, his eyes glued to the mess unfolding in the yard. “Ben, inside!” he barked, but the boy didn’t move.

Ben’s breath trembled as he watched the shapes closing in—the jerking limbs, the flashes of movement, the sound of gunfire echoing through the air. Then he saw Harry. He was moving around the other side of the barn, signaling something to Liam and Niall, when one of the infected came out of nowhere and slammed him back against the wooden wall. The gun clattered from his hand.

“Harry!” Ben shouted before he even knew he was doing it. He bolted off the porch, ignoring Louis’s voice behind him. His small boots tore through the dirt as he reached for the holster at his hip. His hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped the gun, but he forced his grip steady, breathing how Harry had taught him. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Don’t rush it. Don’t think. Just focus.

Louis was calling again, closer this time, voice thick with panic. “Ben, stop! Get back here!” But Ben couldn’t—not when Harry was pinned, struggling, the infected snarling inches from his throat.

He exhaled once, slow and trembling, and pulled the trigger. The shot went wide of the head, but it hit the infected square in the neck, enough to stagger it, a burst of dark spray hitting the wall. That half-second was all Harry needed. He twisted, grabbed the fallen knife from his belt, and drove it clean through the skull.

The body went limp, collapsing against the dirt, and Harry shoved it off, chest heaving. He turned, dazed, his gaze snapping to Ben standing there with the gun still raised, hands shaking violently.

Louis reached him then, grabbing his arm and pulling the gun down gently but firmly. “Ben,” he breathed, crouching to look him in the eye. “Hey, are you okay?”

Ben blinked, breath still ragged, face pale. “I—I got it,” he said, voice small but lit with disbelief. “I got one.”

Louis’s jaw clenched, emotion catching somewhere behind his sternness. “Yeah. You did.” He took the gun from Ben’s trembling hand, tucking it away before standing and guiding him back toward the house. His hand stayed on the boy’s shoulder the whole way, firm and protective, his voice quieter now. “Let’s go. You did good, but you’re done, okay?”

Ben nodded faintly, still looking over his shoulder. Harry was standing now, wiping blood from his arm, his eyes fixed on them. There was something raw in his expression—shock, pride, fear tangled together.

Louis led Ben up the steps, ushering him inside before turning back once more. For a moment, Harry just watched them—the small figure of the boy disappearing through the door, Louis’s hand lingering a second longer before following. The world was still moving around him—Zayn shouting, Niall reloading, Liam’s voice cutting through the chaos—but all Harry could see was that porch, and the little boy who’d just saved his life.

Then he turned back to the yard, grip tightening on the knife, and ran toward the next one.

─ ·𖥸· ─

It didn’t take long to clear the breach—just long enough for the adrenaline to sour into exhaustion, the echo of gunfire still ringing in the air as Harry and Zayn dragged the last of the bodies away from the barn. They hauled them by the arms and legs, dirt dragging against what used to be skin, leaving uneven streaks of dark blood in their wake. When they reached the fence, Zayn let go of his end with a rough exhale, his shoulders slumping for the first time since it began. The night was quieter now, but not in a comforting way—just that uneasy, too-still quiet that came after chaos.

He crouched near the fence, studying the spot where it had snapped under the weight of the infected. The wooden post had splintered down the middle, shards scattered like broken bone. “These tiny fences can’t hold them forever,” Zayn muttered, his voice low but edged. He kicked at a fallen piece, frustration in the motion.

Harry wiped the back of his arm across his forehead, dropping the body he’d been carrying. “I know,” he said, still catching his breath. “I found some wood downstairs, in the basement. Was gonna use it to build a shed for me and Lou, but… we should start with the fences. Reinforce them, make them stronger. Taller, too.”

Zayn gave a quiet huff, more weary than dismissive. “You think it’ll be enough?”

Harry shrugged, rolling his neck, gaze drifting toward the tree line. “If not, there’s plenty of trees out there. We’ll chop down what we need. We’ll make it work.”

He looked back toward the house, where people were slowly filtering out again, uncertain and shaken. Some of the kids clung to one another near the porch, while a few of the older ones murmured reassurances they barely believed themselves. Harry’s eyes lingered on Ben—standing just inside the doorway, still pale, still small.

Zayn followed his gaze. “That other shot earlier,” he said after a moment, quiet. “That wasn’t either of us, was it?”

Harry shook his head. “No. That was Ben.”

Zayn blinked, expression softening slightly in surprise. But before he could say anything, Harry had already turned, heading toward the house with a heaviness in his step.

Inside, Louis was sitting at the table, elbows pressed into his knees, Ben’s gun resting on the wood in front of him. The boy sat beside him, restless, bouncing his leg against the chair leg, his face lit with something between pride and leftover fear.

Harry stepped through the doorway, his presence enough to make Ben’s head snap up. “I did it,” Ben blurted, voice bright with adrenaline. “I killed one. I saved you.”

Harry nodded slowly, crossing the room. “Yeah, you did.” His tone was calm, almost careful. He reached for the gun, flipped it once in his hand before sliding it into his back pocket. “But that’s enough for tonight, alright? Go get ready for bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Ben’s smile faltered a little, confusion flickering across his face, but he nodded anyway. “Okay.” He stood, glancing once at Louis before slipping off down the hall, the quiet footsteps of a boy still half in the moment he wanted to relive.

When he was gone, Harry took the empty seat. Louis didn’t look at him right away. His eyes stayed on the table, unfocused, fingers tapping once, twice, against the wood. “This is what I was worried about,” he said finally, his voice low and edged. “Ben just grabbing the gun and shooting whenever he feels like it.” He rubbed at his jaw, swallowed, then looked up at Harry. “What if he missed, huh? What if he hit you instead? What if he wasn’t paying attention and one of them got to him before he even—” His voice caught. He looked down again, shaking his head, biting at his thumbnail to keep it steady.

Harry leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I’ll talk to him,” he said softly. “But it was a good shot, Lou. His first one, and he didn’t freeze up.”

“That’s not the point,” Louis muttered. “I don’t want him to just… start shooting things and think that’s normal. I don’t want him getting cold about it. He’s still a kid.”

Harry watched him for a moment, the way his leg was bouncing under the table, the way his voice cracked slightly at the word kid. He reached a hand under the table, laid it gently on Louis’s knee. “This isn’t that world anymore,” he said quietly. “We can protect him as much as we can, but he’s gonna need to learn. You know that. He’s going to need to have that experience sooner or later.”

Louis exhaled sharply, his eyes flicking away. “Yeah, I know,” he murmured, his voice softer now, fraying at the edges. “But that—” he stopped, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, searching for steadiness. “That really fucking scared me. Seeing him run out like that. He just stood there in the open, like he thought he was untouchable.”

Harry’s thumb brushed once against his knee, a slow, grounding motion. “I know,” he said again, voice low. “But he’s alright. You’re alright. It’s done.” He paused, letting the quiet fill between them, the faint creaks of the house overhead, the murmurs of the others settling in after the chaos. “Zayn and I are going to start with the fences tomorrow,” he said, after a long moment. “Use the wood from downstairs. Reinforce the whole perimeter, maybe make it taller. That way—” he hesitated, glancing toward the hall where Ben had disappeared—“at least while we’re here, he won’t have to do that ever again.”

Louis nodded slowly, still chewing on the inside of his cheek, his hand coming to rest on top of Harry’s. The motion wasn’t quite calm, not yet. But it was enough for now—enough to hold the silence without letting it swallow them.

Chapter Text

Within just a few days, the group had managed to get most of the main fence fixed up. Where the size of the fencing dipped from the main wall gate, they’d matched it up as best they could, a patchwork of old planks and newly cut timber. They used up all the wood from the basement, but when that ran out, Liam and Harry went out to the wooded edge of the property and came back dragging branches and sawn logs, their sleeves soaked with sweat, shirts clinging to their shoulders. It was rough work, but it felt good to have something to show for it—something that meant safety, however temporary.

By the time the sun went down, everyone else was winding down for the night, settling into a silence broken only by quiet chatter and the sound of dishes being set to wipe down. Harry stood over the kitchen island, a candle burning near him, with old blueprint paper spread across the counter. It was yellowed at the corners and smelled faintly of damp wood, but it was still usable. He’d found a pencil down in the basement too—half a stub, chewed at the end—and now it was between his fingers, tapping against the page as he measured out proportions that probably didn’t need to be measured. The lines were careful, precise the way his hands rarely were when he wasn’t working on something that mattered.

Louis leaned against the counter beside him, a hand brushing over the blueprints, eyes tracing the lines and little notes written in Harry’s tight scrawl. “You really need a blueprint for a small shed?” he asked, voice dry, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he wasn’t actually teasing. “It’s meant to hold two people, not—whatever the hell that looks like. A miniature mansion.”

Harry laughed softly, rubbing at his temple with the back of his wrist. “Haven’t built anything proper since I was a kid,” he said, glancing up at him. “At least not something that has to actually stand for more than a few days. Fences and walls are different—those are just survival. This is supposed to be…” He trailed off for a moment, eyes darting down to the blueprint again. “Something solid.”

Louis watched him quietly, his tongue pressing against his cheek. “For us,” he said, not quite asking.

Harry didn’t look up, but his shoulders dipped in a half-nod. “For us.”

There was a pause, and then Louis pushed away from the counter, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “While you work on that, I’m gonna go out to that patch near the breach,” he said. “Wanna make it extra secure before it gets dark.”

Harry’s pencil stilled mid-line. “It’s already getting dark,” he said, glancing toward the window where the last of the light was draining out of the sky. “You want company?”

Louis shook his head, pulling his jacket tighter around him. “I’m fine. Spent weeks in the dark fixing things that didn’t even need fixing. I’ll survive.”

Harry let out a quiet snort, more exasperated than amused, and leaned on his palms. “Just holler if you need anything.”

Louis smirked, half turned toward the door. “Hollering attracts infected, genius. I’ll just come straight to the house.”

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, just watched as Louis stepped toward the door, his hand brushing the worn wood of the frame before pushing it open. The air outside was cool, the faint hum of night just beginning to stir. Louis’ silhouette lingered in the doorway for a heartbeat—just long enough for Harry to think about calling him back, about saying something small and unnecessary, anything to keep him inside a little longer—but then he was gone, his figure swallowed by the dark.

Harry stayed there for a moment, the pencil balanced in his fingers, the half-finished sketch spread out beneath him. The lines looked cleaner in the dim light, like they almost meant something. He traced the edge of one with his thumb, mind half on the blueprint, half on the sound of the front door clicking shut behind Louis, and thought about how strange it was to build anything in a world that kept breaking apart.

He bent back over the page eventually, shading the corner where the door to the shed would go, but his attention flickered every few seconds toward the window—toward the dark outline of the yard, where the fences stood repaired and the field stretched beyond. Somewhere out there, Louis’ hammer would be hitting wood in slow, steady rhythm.

And Harry, without meaning to, found himself matching his pencil strokes to the same quiet beat.

Louis grabbed a hammer from the porch, a handful of nails, and a few leftover boards that had been stacked by the steps. The fence was technically fixed—patched, mended, enough to hold for now—but Louis had never trusted “enough.” Not since the last camp. Not since Darcy. The memory of her face, her scream, the way she’d gone under too fast to save—those things still came to him in flashes when the night got too still. He wasn’t about to risk that again.

He passed the barn on his way down, the one that still smelled faintly of hay and oil and something burnt. Inside, through the gaps in the slats, he could hear Ben and the other kids murmuring about something, low and tired. Louis reached out and knocked his knuckles twice against the wall—just soft enough that Ben would know it was him. His version of goodnight. Then he kept walking, boots crunching against dirt, the box of nails rattling in his pocket.

When he got to the fence, he set the boards down and crouched, inspecting the section that had splintered during the breach. A small gap ran along the bottom, just big enough for his nerves to slip through. He lined up the first board and pressed it into place, balancing a nail between his fingers. The first few hits rang out steady, rhythmic—the same sound he’d been making for weeks now, one small act of control at a time.

He was just reaching for another nail when he heard it—a shuffle from the trees. Not close, but close enough to make the air tilt. He froze, hammer halfway up, listening. No groaning. No heavy, dragging steps. He told himself it was probably an animal, maybe a deer nosing through the brush, and went back to hammering. The sound of the nail sinking into wood was louder this time, forced, like he was hammering over his own heartbeat.

Another sound. A twig snapping. Sharper. He looked up, eyes searching the tree line, but before his mind could even put together what was happening, something whistled through the air—fast, precise—and pain exploded through his leg.

He went down hard, the hammer clattering beside him. An arrow had hit deep, straight into the muscle of his calf. His hands flew to it instinctively, half trying to pull, half not daring to move it. A yell tore out of him before he could stop it, raw and strangled, and the sound barely left his throat before a body hit him from above.

“You killed her,” the voice hissed. Hot breath, close enough for him to smell it. “You killed her!”

Louis bucked against the weight pressing him into the dirt, the man’s bow now jammed against his neck. “What the fuck are you—” He twisted his head, struggling to see, to breathe, until his eyes caught a flicker of light from the moon behind him and landed on the man’s face. His breath stalled. “Marcus?”

Marcus’ face was gaunt, eyes wild and rimmed red, jaw tight like he’d been waiting months for this moment. His hand came down hard across Louis’ cheek, the hit ringing through his skull. “You killed Lottie!” he spat, voice cracking like glass. “She’s dead because of you!”

Louis tried to kick him off, tried to get leverage, but his leg screamed with pain and the world tunneled in around it. “Marcus, what the fuck are you—she—” He couldn’t even get the words out before another punch landed, this one splitting his lip. Marcus’ grief was fevered, almost unrecognizable; he was shaking, muttering her name over and over, the words tangled between rage and heartbreak.

And then, suddenly, he was gone—ripped backward so fast that Louis barely registered it before he saw Harry. Harry’s fist collided with Marcus’ face once, twice, over and over, each hit sharper than the last. His whole body moved with it, feral and focused, like all the anger he’d swallowed down these past weeks had finally found somewhere to go.

“Harry—” Louis coughed, pushing up on his elbows. “Stop—Harry, stop!”

Harry didn’t. Not right away. He was shouting something Louis couldn’t fully hear, his words buried under the sound of his fists meeting skin. Marcus’ face was bloody now, his nose split, eyes already swelling. It wasn’t until Zayn came running and grabbed Harry by the shoulders that it broke—Zayn yanking him back, shouting something sharp, and Marcus scrambling up and stumbling toward the woods, blood trailing from his mouth.

“If I ever see you again—” Harry’s voice tore out of him, low and violent. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

Louis’ breathing was shallow, pain clawing through his leg, but his focus stayed locked on Harry. His face was flushed, chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles, and for a second Louis didn’t know if it was Marcus’ blood or his own he was staring at.

“Harry,” he said again, quieter this time, the word pulling Harry’s attention back like a thread.

Niall came running next, eyes wide as they landed on the arrow still buried in Louis’ calf. “Jesus—don’t touch it,” he said quickly, kneeling beside him. “Leave it, yeah? You’ll make it worse.”

“I can’t—” Louis hissed through his teeth, his hand trembling near it anyway.

“Hey.” Niall’s hand closed around his wrist, firm but careful. “We’re gonna get Clara. She’ll take care of it.” He looked up, calling for Zayn and Harry. “Help me get him inside.”

Zayn nodded, already moving, while Harry knelt down beside Louis, his face caught somewhere between fury and fear. His voice came out rough, like gravel. “You shouldn’t have been out here alone.”

Louis wanted to argue, to tell him he’d been fine before all this, but the pain flared too sharp when they tried to lift him, and his breath stuttered instead. “Marcus,” he muttered, the name slurred around the pain. “He said Lottie—”

“Don’t,” Harry said, his jaw tightening. “Not now.”

The rest of the world blurred together—the walk back, the front door swinging open, Clara already waiting with her sleeves rolled up and her med bag half open on the table. Her voice was steady but brisk, all business as she assessed the wound. “We’ll have to cut around it and pull it clean,” she said. “Hold him down.”

Harry stayed by Louis’ side the whole time, one hand gripping the edge of the table, the other clutching Louis’ arm. Zayn held his leg still. Niall stood close, murmuring something low under his breath that was probably meant to distract him. Louis only heard half of it. Most of his focus was on the arrow—the way Clara’s hands moved around it, the faint tremble in Harry’s thumb where it brushed against his sleeve.

When Clara finally pulled it out, Louis’ vision went white at the edges. He heard himself yell, felt the sound crack his throat, but then it was over, the air rushing back into his lungs in a rush. Harry’s hand didn’t move.

“You’re okay,” Harry said quietly, his voice softer now, almost desperate. “You’re okay.”

Louis didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He was staring past Clara’s shoulder, toward the window, toward the edge of the woods where Marcus had disappeared.

He could still hear Marcus’ voice, raw and breaking. You killed her.

He swallowed hard, chest heavy, the sound of it echoing in his head even as Clara wrapped the bandage tight around his leg.

Harry’s hand stayed on his arm, grounding him. “You’re not going out alone again,” he said finally, voice still low, still trembling faintly at the edges. “Ever.”

Louis nodded faintly, though his eyes stayed on the dark beyond the window, the kind that felt too familiar now—like it always had one more ghost waiting just out of sight.

Clara was muttering under her breath when finally Louis calmed down, her hands already working fast and steady over his leg. He caught pieces of what she was saying—something about men and their apparent desire to die slow, stupid deaths—and then, clearer, “You must have a sign on that leg that says ‘stab me, shoot me.’” Her voice wasn’t harsh so much as tired, the kind of dry humor that only showed up when the adrenaline was wearing off. “It’s the same damn leg I mended last time.”

Louis let out a rough laugh that caught halfway up his throat, staring down at the fresh bandage wrapping tight around his calf. “Guess it’s just got bad luck,” he said, though it came out quieter than he meant it to.

Clara tied off the bandage and sat back on her heels, giving him a look that was part affection, part disbelief. “It’s gonna be sore for a few days,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Don’t walk on it much, alright? But knowing you, you’ll try in two days flat.”

Louis didn’t bother denying it. He just exhaled slowly, the pain thrumming in his leg every time he shifted. Clara’s words floated around him—something steady to hold onto—and he nodded, the gesture small but understood.

Harry was leaning in the doorway, blood still drying on his knuckles. He hadn’t said much since dragging Louis back inside, jaw locked tight, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor. When Clara stood, he nodded once to her before glancing at Niall. “Help him upstairs,” he said, his voice low.

Niall nodded immediately, moving to Louis’ side, but Louis’ attention stayed on Harry. “Where are you going?” he asked, breath uneven.

Harry hesitated only long enough to flex his hand once, the skin tight where it had split. “I’ll be back in a little bit,” he said, already turning for the door.

Louis watched him go. The sound of the door shutting behind him hit sharper than it should have. The house felt too still afterward, too heavy. Niall said something about taking it slow as he lifted Louis up, but Louis barely heard it. His focus stuck to the image of Harry’s bloodied knuckles and the tightness in his shoulders, that way he moved like there was something still in him trying to fight its way out.

Outside, Harry’s footsteps hit the porch hard before he stopped, pacing once, twice. He cracked his fingers against his palm, slow and deliberate, like it was the only thing keeping him from slamming his fist into the railing. The night air had cooled, sharp against his skin. He was still breathing like he’d run the whole way back from the fence.

Zayn came up behind him, arms crossed, shoulders hunched like he already knew this was going to be bad. “How’s Louis?” he asked quietly.

Harry didn’t look at him. “Fine,” he said, though the word barely held shape. “Clara says it’s not too deep. But another two seconds—” His jaw clenched. “Another two seconds and Marcus could’ve fucking killed him.”

Zayn frowned. “How the hell did Marcus even find us? I thought he was long gone after Lottie’s camp. You said you let the infected loose there, right? Figured that would’ve finished whoever was left.”

Harry dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “I never saw him at that camp,” he said after a beat. “He must’ve been gone before we ever got there. I don’t know how he found us. I don’t fucking know.” His voice cracked on the last word, quiet but sharp, like it hurt to admit. He leaned forward, both hands gripping the porch railing. “I’m gonna find him,” he said finally. “And I’m gonna kill him.”

Zayn’s brow furrowed. “Harry—”

“No.” Harry’s voice rose, but only a little, the way a knife rises just before it cuts. “I was kind to Lottie when she stabbed Louis. Told myself she was scared, told myself it was survival. But Marcus—” He shook his head, staring into the dark stretch of field beyond the fence. “He’s not getting another chance. I’m done being nice.”

Zayn let out a slow breath, studying him. “You probably scared him off tonight,” he said, trying for something steady. “He’ll think twice before trying again.”

Harry laughed under his breath, the sound thin and humorless. “If he shows his face again,” he said, fingers drumming against the wood, “it’s done for.”

Neither of them spoke for a long moment after that. The wood of the porch creaked once, insects humming around them like static, and Harry’s hand finally dropped from the railing. He looked out toward the fence where Louis had been—where the hammering had stopped, where the boards were still half-fixed—and felt that same pull in his chest that had been there since the night began. Anger, fear, relief—they all sat tangled in the same place, impossible to separate.

Upstairs, Louis sat on the edge of the bed with his hands braced on his knees, the throbbing in his leg dulling to something rhythmic. Niall had left to grab water, the house quiet except for the occasional creak in the floorboards. Louis looked down at the bandage, the memory of Marcus’ voice still crawling up his spine. You killed her. You killed her.

He tried to shake it off, but it lingered. He thought of Lottie—her sharp laugh, the way she used to argue with everyone just to fill the silence. The way it all ended. Maybe Marcus was right in his own twisted way. Maybe they had all killed her, one piece at a time, by surviving when she didn’t.

He didn’t realize Harry had come back until the door clicked softly. When he looked up, Harry was standing just inside the room, shoulders slumped, hands scrubbed clean but raw.

“Didn’t think you’d be back this fast,” Louis said quietly.

“Didn’t go far.”

Harry crossed the room and sat down beside him, the bed dipping under his weight. They didn’t speak for a while. Harry’s fingers brushed against Louis’ wrist, and for a second, Louis thought about pulling away—about not letting the warmth of that touch mean what it did—but he didn’t.

“You were bleeding,” Harry said finally, almost to himself.

Louis huffed a breath. “You’ve got a funny way of telling me I look like shit.”

Harry’s lips twitched, but his eyes didn’t lighten. “You scared me,” he said, and that was it. Nothing dramatic, just the truth, stripped bare.

Louis looked at him then, really looked—at the quiet shake still running through him, at the way the muscles in his jaw hadn’t let go yet—and felt that same ache of something bigger than either of them. It wasn’t about fear anymore, not really. It was about all the ways they kept almost losing each other, and how each time, it left another mark.

He wanted to say something—anything—but all that came out was, “You don’t have to stay up.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said finally.

Louis nodded, swallowing past something thick. The house was quiet again, the kind of quiet that came when the danger had passed but the weight of it hadn’t.

Harry’s hand found his knee, steady, grounding.

And Louis, without saying a word, let him keep it there.

─ ·𖥸· ─

Louis had been stubborn about it, of course—he always was. He’d said he was fine, could manage just sitting for a few hours, that his leg didn’t hurt that bad, which was a lie that Harry could see straight through but didn’t bother to challenge. He’d only smiled faintly, a touch of tired worry in his eyes, before helping him limp into the classroom shed and lowering him onto a chair by the wall. The room smelled faintly of dust and old paper and the faint sweetness of chalk—Eleanor’s doing, no doubt. She was already there when they arrived, straightening stacks of worn notebooks and setting out what she had left of the crayons. The children trickled in soon after, sleepy but smiling, their voices soft as they greeted Louis like he was part of the day’s lesson.

Harry lingered for a moment longer than necessary, brushing a hand briefly against Louis’s shoulder—just a quiet, grounding touch—before saying he’d be back soon. He had things to handle with Liam by the fence, things that involved hammers and wire and distractions that might stop his mind from spinning too much. Louis didn’t stop him, only nodded, that familiar look on his face that said he knew exactly what Harry was doing but would let him go anyway.

When the door closed behind him, the noise of the camp dulled, and Louis shifted in his chair, leaning his elbow on the desk beside him. Eleanor started the lesson easily, voice calm and sure, and Louis let himself drift through it—half-listening, half somewhere else entirely. The younger kids were tracing letters onto paper, their little faces screwed up in concentration, and for a while, he just watched them. The simplicity of it was oddly soothing. After everything—blood, fear, the way Harry’s hands had been shaking when Clara patched him up—it felt strange to sit in a room that was just quiet, normal.

Millie was there too, curled up on the floor with a tattered book that looked like it had already been read twenty times over. She wasn’t really supposed to be, but Eleanor never minded when she hovered nearby. She glanced up at Louis after a while, curiosity sparking behind her brown eyes. “Does it hurt?” she asked, her voice low enough not to disturb the others.

Louis tilted his head, following her gaze to his leg. “A bit,” he said, careful not to make it sound like much. “Just a freak accident. Was fixing a fence.”

Millie’s brow furrowed as she flipped her book closed. “I don’t believe that,” she said simply, like she was talking about the weather.

Louis smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “No? Why not?”

“Because Harry’s been hovering,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Every time he checks in here, he looks at you more than anyone else. He’s worse than my mum was when I scraped my knee.”

That earned a quiet laugh from Louis, short but real. He rolled his eyes, though warmth tugged at the edges of his chest despite himself. “Harry just worries too much. That’s all.”

Millie grinned, as if she didn’t believe that either, before pushing up from her spot to grab another book from the corner. Louis watched her go, shaking his head, his fingers tapping absently against the wood of the desk.

By the time class wrapped up, the children were giggling and packing up their things, Eleanor giving gentle reminders about washing hands in the well before lunch and sharing the last of their pencils fairly. When the last of the kids slipped out, she turned toward Louis, smiling softly. “How’s the leg?”

He sighed, tipping his chin toward the bandage that peeked from beneath his trousers. “Still attached,” he said lightly. “Stings a bit, but there was an arrow through it, so I guess that’s fair.”

Eleanor’s smile faltered just slightly, replaced by something more serious as she leaned against the desk beside him. “What happened exactly?”

Louis hesitated, staring down at his hands for a moment. Then he told her—quietly, plainly—about Marcus showing up at the farm, about the chaos, the blood, the way it all came down to seconds. The guilt edged in, uninvited but familiar, and he didn’t bother to hide it. He told her about Marcus’ words, how he’d spat out Lottie’s name like a curse, like Louis was the one who’d done it all wrong.

Eleanor’s expression hardened as she listened, her arms folding loosely over her chest. When he finished, she shook her head, resolute. “He’s bitter,” she said. “That’s all it is. He wants someone to blame, and you’re an easy choice. But he’s wrong, Louis. What happened to Lottie was not your fault.”

Louis met her eyes for a moment, something heavy sitting in his chest that he couldn’t quite dislodge. “Feels like it, sometimes,” he murmured.

“I know,” she said gently, reaching over to squeeze his arm. “But that doesn’t make it true. He won’t come back here. You’ve all done too much good to have it undone by someone like him.”

Louis didn’t say anything right away, just nodded faintly, his gaze drifting toward the window. The children’s laughter still carried faintly through the air, a soft reminder that life was still moving, still happening, even when everything inside him felt stuck somewhere darker. He pressed his thumb to the edge of the desk, grounding himself in the small motion, in the faint warmth left in the wood from the morning sun.

Eleanor started tidying up the room again, humming under her breath, and Louis sat there a little longer, letting her words settle around him like dust—quiet, ordinary, and somehow heavier than they should have been.

By midmorning, the shed had started to take shape in Harry’s mind, though in reality it was still just a handful of boards, a few scattered nails, and a lot of half-finished ideas. He worked side by side with Liam and Niall, the rhythm easy between them, unspoken and wordless the way it usually was when they needed to focus on something that wasn’t survival in the immediate sense. The fence repairs had gone smoother than expected, and this—this was the next step. Something small. Something theirs.

Niall was the first to break the quiet, balancing a board on his knee while he measured. “If Marcus said anything about Lottie being dead,” he said, not looking up, “then he must’ve been near the hospital.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. He was crouched near the base of the foundation, holding a plank steady while Liam hammered it into place. The sound echoed faintly, clean and sharp in the still air. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, clipped, like he was rationing every word. “Probably. But there wasn’t much left of anything in that place. Liam saw what it looked like.” He reached for another nail, fitting it between his fingers. “There were bodies everywhere. Piles of them. If Marcus saw her—if he even saw anything—then it wasn’t her anymore.”

Liam paused mid-swing, the hammer hovering in the air before he brought it down again, slower this time. “So you don’t think she turned?” he asked, his tone careful, not probing so much as confirming what he already knew.

Harry shook his head. “No. There were too many of them, Liam. You saw how they tore through that place. There wouldn’t have been anything left of her to come back.” He sat back on his heels, brushing dirt from his palms. “Whatever Marcus saw… it wasn’t Lottie. Maybe he found what was left. Maybe just her jacket. I don’t know.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the soft rasp of wood being shifted, the occasional scrape of metal. It was Niall again who broke it, quieter this time, watching Harry with something like worry behind his eyes. “How’s Louis doing about it?” he asked. “He’s been quiet since, you know… all that.”

Harry let out a breath, the kind that felt heavier coming out than it did going in. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, staring at the half-built frame in front of them. “He’s spiraling,” he said, finally. “Again. Marcus said her name, that’s all it took. Now he’s stuck in his head, blaming himself for something that was never his fault.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice thinning at the edges. “I don’t even know what all Marcus said. Just that he mentioned Lottie. And I saw Louis’ face. That’s all I needed to know.”

Niall nodded, his jaw tightening. “He still thinks if he’d done something different—”

“He always thinks that,” Harry cut in, sharper than he meant to, then sighed, lowering his voice. “He can’t stop. It’s like… if he keeps carrying it, it means she’s still here in some way. Still something he can fix.” He picked up a plank, fitting it against the base. “But she’s gone. And now Marcus is dragging her name back into it, like it’s some weapon to use.”

Liam hammered another nail into place, slower, more deliberate this time. “We should do a sweep,” he said after a beat. “See if Marcus is still around. If he found this place once, he can find it again. Maybe he’s camping nearby. Maybe he’s watching.”

Harry straightened, brushing sawdust from his jeans. “We will,” he said, the words solid, grounded. “But we do it right. Not like before.” His tone softened as he reached for another piece of wood. “No one goes alone. Not again.”

Niall nodded, leaning against one of the support beams. “You really think he’s still out there?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately. He lined up the board with careful precision, his thumb brushing along the edge, eyes narrowed in concentration that wasn’t really about the work. “Yeah,” he said, eventually. “Someone like Marcus doesn’t just vanish. He’s a survivor, same as us. Only difference is he doesn’t care who he steps over to keep it that way.”

Liam passed him the hammer, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange, the motion automatic. “We’ll find him,” Liam said. “If he’s still around, we’ll find him. Just don’t do anything stupid when we do.”

Harry gave a small laugh—short, almost soundless. “When do I ever?”

Niall smirked faintly. “You want the honest answer?”

Harry shot him a look that made Niall snicker, and for a second, the tension broke just enough to feel human again. Then Harry bent to drive the next nail in, the echo of each hit ringing through the quiet like the steady pulse of something alive.

The shed was starting to look like a skeleton of what it might become—a few beams, a half-built wall, the faint outline of something safe. Harry stood back to look at it, one hand braced on his hip. “We’ll get the roof on by tomorrow,” he said, almost to himself. “If the weather holds.”

Niall nodded, glancing toward the classroom shed. “You should check on him later. Louis, I mean. He won’t say it, but he’s scared. Not of Marcus, exactly. Just… what Marcus brings up.”

Harry’s throat tightened, but he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “I know.”

They went back to work after that, the rhythm steady, unspoken, each of them moving in sync like the motion itself kept their thoughts from spilling too far. The shed grew by inches, the day fading slowly around them, and for a little while, the only thing that mattered was the sound of hammering and the promise that when night came, the walls would stand.

Chapter Text

Harry had been out there since early morning, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the skin of his forearms lined with sawdust and grit. The shed was finally taking shape—less of a skeleton, more of something living, filled out with walls and corners that might one day keep them warm. The foundation sat sturdy enough, though there were still gaps he’d been trying to fill, stubborn places where the wood wouldn’t sit flush no matter how many times he adjusted it. It didn’t have to be perfect. That’s what he kept telling himself. It just had to stand. But every time he found a misaligned edge or a crooked plank, he felt that twitch in his chest again, the same one that told him it wasn’t just the shed he was trying to fix.

He’d been thinking about Marcus all morning, not that he wanted to. The memory kept crawling back in—his voice, the way he’d looked at Louis, the swing of the bow. The question of how he was still alive after everything that had happened out there. And maybe worse than that—why Harry hadn’t killed him when he had the chance. He could still feel the weight of his fist, the noise in his head when he’d hesitated. He’d preached about survival for years now, told others they had to do whatever it took, no matter how ugly it got. But when it came down to it, he hadn’t done it. He’d let the bastard walk away, and now Louis was the one paying for it.

Clara had redressed the bandage three times before he’d gone outside. She’d tried to downplay it, saying it was precaution, but he’d caught the way her mouth tightened when she peeled back the cloth. Infection. It was the kind of word that made everything feel fragile again, like one small mistake could bring it all down. Louis had brushed her off with a quiet joke, something about how he’d had worse, but Harry saw the pain sitting behind it. Saw the way he shifted his leg every few minutes, the way he tried to hide the wince. He hated that look—hated how used to it Louis had become.

He’d been standing there, staring at the half-built shed, when Zayn came up behind him. No sound, no warning—just the crunch of dirt under boots and then a voice, even and calm. “How’s it coming along?”

Harry blinked, his focus breaking. “Getting there,” he said, dragging the back of his wrist across his forehead. “Probably can finish it tomorrow.”

Zayn nodded, eyes scanning the frame before looking back at him. “Looks good. Solid.” Then, quieter, “What’s your plan with Marcus?”

Harry hesitated. The hammer felt heavier in his hand. “Plan?” he echoed, even though he knew exactly what Zayn meant.

“Yeah.” Zayn’s tone stayed low. “He’s still out there somewhere. You know that.”

Harry looked toward the field. The air felt thick, like the world had shrunk to just the sound of his own breathing. “I want to kill him,” he said finally, the words slipping out before he could soften them. “But not yet. Not before I get answers.” His voice dropped lower. “I need to know what he said to Louis. And I need to know how much he actually knows. If he’s camping nearby, if he’s alone. I don’t want to go in blind.”

Zayn didn’t move, didn’t even nod right away. “You think Louis will tell you?”

Harry’s jaw flexed. “He will. Eventually.” He forced a small, humorless smile. “He’s stubborn as hell, but he trusts me.”

Zayn’s eyes softened a little, just enough to give away the concern behind them. “Good,” he said after a moment. “Then talk to him soon. We’ll do a sweep after that. Make sure Marcus isn’t hiding in the woods, waiting to finish what he started.” He paused, his tone gentler now. “And Harry… don’t let this turn into something else. We’ve lost enough to anger.”

Harry looked back at the shed, at the half-built frame casting a narrow shadow across the dirt. “I know,” he said. But the truth sat somewhere else, deeper than his voice could reach. Because every nail he drove into the wood felt like a heartbeat he was trying to steady, every board a small, futile apology for not pulling the trigger when he should have.

By the time he went back inside, the house was quiet. Clara must’ve gone to get more water. Louis was still in the chair where he’d left him, leg stretched out, eyes half-lidded but awake. He looked up when Harry came in. “You’re still out there working?” he asked, voice rough with exhaustion. “You trying to rebuild the whole farm yourself?”

Harry huffed a breath, leaning against the doorway. “It’s getting there. Foundation’s solid. You’ll have walls by tomorrow.” He hesitated. “How’s the leg?”

Louis shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Hurts like hell. But I’ve had worse.” He shifted, grimacing slightly. “Clara’s worried though. Keeps fussing like she’s my mum.”

“She just wants to make sure it heals right,” Harry said. His voice softened. “She mentioned it might be infected.”

Louis didn’t respond right away, just stared at the wall like he could will the pain away. “I’ll live,” he said finally. It sounded like a promise, but not a confident one.

Harry crossed the room, dragging over a chair and sitting across from him. He wanted to ask—needed to ask—but when Louis looked at him, something in his chest tugged hard enough to make him hesitate. “Zayn came by earlier,” he said instead. “He asked what the plan is with Marcus.”

Louis’ jaw tightened. “And?”

Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I told him I want answers first. Before anything else.”

“Answers about what?”

“About what he said to you.” Harry kept his voice even, but his heart was racing. “Louis, I need to know.”

Louis went quiet for a long time, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady but trembling around the edges. “He said I killed her. Lottie.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He wanted to say something right away, to cut through it, to tell Louis that Marcus was lying. But the words felt useless when Louis looked like that—like someone had carved open every old scar and left them raw again. “He’s wrong,” Harry said finally, firm but quiet. “You know that. None of that was your fault. It was all her.”

Louis shook his head, a bitter laugh catching in his throat. “You don’t get it, Harry. I keep thinking if I’d just—done something different, maybe she’d still—” He stopped, eyes falling shut, the rest swallowed in silence. “Marcus just said out loud what I already think every damn day.”

Harry leaned forward, his hand brushing against Louis’ wrist before he could stop himself. “You can’t keep carrying that,” he said, voice low. “He wants to see you break. Don’t give him that.”

Louis opened his eyes again, meeting Harry’s. “And what if I already am?” he asked quietly.

Harry didn’t have an answer for that. So he stayed there, his hand still over Louis’, neither of them speaking for a while. The silence didn’t feel empty though—it felt like something trying to hold, like a space that hadn’t yet collapsed under the weight of everything they couldn’t fix.

When Harry finally went back outside, the air had cooled and the sky had that strange silver tint it got before dusk. Zayn was still there by the shed, hammer in hand, and looked up when Harry approached. “Everything alright?” he asked.

Harry nodded once, picking up a plank. “Yeah,” he said, even though it wasn’t. “Let’s finish this before it gets dark.”

─ ·𖥸· ─

Eleanor had convinced him that morning to take a break, voice stern but gentle the way only she could manage when he was stubborn. She said if he didn’t give his body a rest, he’d wind up too sore to lift a damn thing when the shed was actually finished. He’d argued—of course he had—said he wanted it done before Louis’ leg healed, at least enough that he could walk into it and feel like it was his. But Eleanor shook her head and said Louis would heal better inside, where Clara could keep a closer eye on him, and that one day wouldn’t make the world end again.

So Harry had given in. Mostly.

He spent that day with his back against the tree near the barn, legs stretched out, a gun balanced on his knee. The thing was half taken apart, bits of it laid out neatly on a cloth beside him—pieces that somehow gave his hands something to do while his mind wandered toward places he didn’t want it to go. He’d taken up cleaning the group’s guns at some point without anyone really asking him to. It just became his thing. He was good at it, meticulous in a way that made him feel grounded. There was a comfort to the smell of oil and metal, the slow rhythm of it all, the click and slide of familiarity that went back to before everything went to hell. Back when he’d been a rookie cop trying to learn how to hold steady under pressure, not when every decision felt like a coin toss between life and death.

He worked through Liam’s rifle first, letting the motions occupy him while the world carried on around him. He could hear it all if he listened: the faint laughter of a few kids playing near the barn—Ben among them, loud and bright in that way only he could be—Niall’s voice somewhere near the fence line talking with Luke about a supply run, and the soft chatter of the women Eleanor had brought in recently. They were talking about soil, about maybe starting a garden, about growing something again. The idea warmed something in him and broke something else, because he wanted it to be possible so badly, but he’d lived long enough now to know how often hope got cut short.

He tried not to think about that and went back to running the cloth through the barrel.

After a while, Ben came up beside him, steps hesitant but familiar. He stopped a few feet away, just watching for a moment before asking, in that small but steady voice of his, “Are you mad at me?”

Harry blinked, lifting his gaze from the gun. “Mad at you? What for?”

Ben shifted on his feet, frowning. “You seemed… mad when I shot that infected. During the breach.”

Harry stared at him for a long moment, the question hitting something deeper than he expected. He set the gun down carefully beside him, the metal glinting faintly in the light, and his expression softened. He patted the ground next to him, and after a second, Ben came over and sat cross-legged, the same way he always did when he wanted to talk but didn’t want to seem like he did.

“I wasn’t mad,” Harry said quietly. “Nobody was mad. You did what you thought you had to do. That was a hard moment, and it’s not something you should’ve had to do, but you handled yourself better than most adults would’ve.”

Ben’s head dropped, his fingers pulling at a thread on his sleeve. “I just didn’t want anything to happen to you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I was scared.”

Harry felt something in his chest tighten. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know. And I’m proud of you, really proud. But you don’t have to protect me, Ben. That’s not on you. You’re a kid—you’re supposed to be scared sometimes. You’re supposed to run and laugh and play tag by the barn, not…” He trailed off, looking away, jaw working. “Not that.”

Ben didn’t look up. “Louis said that too,” he mumbled. “That I’m growing up too fast.”

Harry huffed a quiet breath through his nose. “He’s right.”

“I’m not gonna be a little kid forever,” Ben said, more stubborn this time, and for a second, Harry saw so much of Louis in that expression—the defiance, the set jaw, the tiny spark of something that refused to die no matter what the world took.

“No,” Harry said, smiling faintly. “You’re not.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But you don’t need to rush getting there either.”

They sat in silence for a bit, the kind that didn’t feel heavy, just full of things neither of them could really say. Somewhere behind them, someone was calling for Niall. A few birds startled from a fence post. Harry picked up one of the smaller handguns and started wiping it down again, slower this time, more for the movement than the result.

“You know,” he said after a while, “we could do some more shooting practice soon. Maybe in a couple days when things calm down.” He glanced at Ben with a half-smirk. “You can show off to Millie. Prove a ten-year-old’s got better aim than a sixteen-year-old.”

That got a laugh out of him—quiet but real—and Ben nodded. “She’ll get so mad when I beat her.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry said, ruffling the boy’s hair, “that’s how you know you’re doing it right.”

Ben grinned at that, then got up and brushed the dirt from his pants. “Okay. I’ll tell her you said that.”

Harry chuckled under his breath. “Go on, get back to playing before Louis comes out here and yells at me for making you sit still too long.”

Ben started running back toward the barn, his laughter fading into the hum of the day, and Harry watched him go, hands still on the half-cleaned gun. He leaned his head back against the tree, eyes half-lidded, and let himself breathe for a moment—just breathe, in and out, steady. It felt like a borrowed kind of peace, the kind that could slip away if he thought too hard about it. So he didn’t. He just sat there, the sound of the kids in the distance, the weight of the gun in his lap, and the ache that never really left his chest no matter how much he tried to fill it with work.

Clara finished wrapping the bandage with a gentleness Louis still wasn’t used to. Her hands were quick but careful, fingers brushing against his shin as she tightened the end and gave it a final pat. “Well,” she said with a small, satisfied smile, “what I thought was an infection looks more like swelling mixed with a bit of dirt. You’re fine.”

Louis let out a slow breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and tilted his head, half a smirk on his face. “Sorry we don’t have access to showers during the end of the world,” he muttered dryly, and Clara rolled her eyes, standing to gather her things.

“Try not to be so dramatic,” she said, voice teasing as she tucked her supplies back into her worn leather bag. “You’ll live. Which, I’m told, is still the goal.” She nodded once toward Eleanor on her way out, then slipped through the door with the soft sound of her boots against the wood, heading back toward her small corner of the barn.

Eleanor moved in quietly after that. She didn’t hover, didn’t pity. Just existed there with him like it was the most natural thing in the world. She carried a can of peaches in one hand, the dull metal glinting faintly as she passed it to him before lowering herself onto the couch.

Louis accepted it with a small nod, pried open the lid with the end of his knife, and ate a few bites in silence. The syrup was warm and too sweet, sticking to his tongue, but he kept spooning it down anyway. Eleanor started folding blankets at the other end of the couch, her movements slow and steady, fingers pressing creases like it actually mattered to make them neat.

He watched her for a while, the steady rhythm of it almost soothing. Then, almost without thinking, he said, “I envy you, you know.”

Eleanor didn’t look up immediately, just smoothed out the edge of a blanket before glancing over at him. “Why’s that?”

He shrugged, spoon still in hand. “You still treat the world like it’s the same. You still do the same things—fold blankets, clean up, try to make food that feels like food. You still... try.” He sighed softly, shifting against the couch. “Everyone else has kind of given up on pretending, but you’re still— I don’t know. You.”

Eleanor hummed quietly, looking down again, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “I think I’d go mad if I didn’t,” she said simply. “I can’t live in filth, Louis. And I know it’s temporary—this pretending—but it helps. I’ll accept what this world’s become eventually. But until then, I’ll keep holding onto what peace I can find. Even if it’s just clean blankets and something that resembles dinner.”

Louis watched her for a moment, trying to read the soft steadiness of her face, the way she moved through each small task like it still meant something. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that kind of calm. Maybe never. He leaned his head back against the couch, eyes flicking to the half-empty can in his hand. “What was your life like before all this?” he asked suddenly.

Eleanor raised her brows, surprised by the question. “You’ve never asked me that before.”

“I know,” he said, lips quirking. “Didn’t really talk much back in that first camp, did we? I mostly just ignored you until I decided to give you that classroom.”

She laughed, soft but genuine. “You were a bit of a grump, yeah.”

“I was surviving,” he shot back, smiling faintly.

“Still are.” She shrugged, turning her attention back to the blanket in her lap. “But if you must know, I was just a normal uni student. Had a boyfriend, a couple of pets. A small flat that always smelled like coffee and dog hair.” She paused, fingers tracing a loose thread absently. “I was like this then too, actually. The housewife type without the title. I liked keeping things tidy, making dinner, pretending the world made sense inside four walls.”

Louis smiled into the can, that tiny hint of warmth pressing at his chest. “You miss it?”

“Obviously,” she admitted. “But this isn’t so bad, either. There’s no coursework, no exams, no all-nighters. Just a bunch of kids who actually want to learn how to read and some infected on the side.”

That made him laugh, a quiet, raspy sound that startled even him. “Domesticity in the apocalypse—who’d have thought.”

Eleanor grinned. “It beats memorizing economic theory, I’ll tell you that much.”

Louis shook his head, spoon scraping the bottom of the can. “You’re one of the weird ones, you know. Still believing there’s something left to make better.”

“I don’t know if it’s belief,” she said after a beat. “More like habit. Maybe that’s all any of us are doing—holding onto what’s familiar so we don’t drown in everything else.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just sat there, half-listening to the small sounds of her folding the last blanket, half lost in his own thoughts. The quiet between them wasn’t heavy or awkward; it was something gentler, filled with a kind of mutual understanding that didn’t need to be spoken.

Eleanor stacked the folded blankets neatly at her side, glancing toward him one more time. “You should try to rest a bit, Louis. Clara will have my head if you’re limping around again tomorrow.”

He smirked faintly. “Guess I’ll try to be a good patient, then.”

“Good luck with that.”

She stood and carried the blankets toward the hall, and Louis leaned back again, head tilting toward the window where light slanted faintly through the glass. The can of peaches sat forgotten on the table, the syrup sticky against his fingers. Somewhere outside, he thought he heard Harry’s voice faintly drifting near the barn, and for the first time all day, his chest loosened just enough to breathe.

─ ·𖥸· ─

Zayn had helped him most of the way up the stairs, then stood back like a patient sentinel while Louis insisted on doing the last few steps himself. Stubbornness still had weight in him, even if his leg trembled by the time he reached the landing. He leaned against the wall for a moment too long, breathing slow and even, fingers scraping the plaster like he was anchoring himself to something that wouldn’t move. When he finally got to the bed, he folded himself into the thin nest of blankets and let out a long exhale that sounded like both surrender and argument. Zayn lingered in the doorway, watching him as if he could see the calculation running behind Louis’ eyes—what to fix, what to bury—and then pressed his mouth into a thin line.

“We’re gonna get him, you know,” Zayn had said, voice low and flat, like he was speaking to himself but testing if someone else would listen.

“Who?” Louis asked, even though he already knew.

“Marcus.” Zayn muttered. Louis hadn’t looked up, just nodded, drawing the blanket a little higher as though he could pull warmth over the thought. Zayn bit something down—sympathy, anger, the urge to promise—and then exhaled. “Night,” he’d said, and left, footsteps soft against the creaking stairs.

He’d passed Harry on his way down. Harry gave him a questioning look, and Zayn only muttered, “He’s in a mood,” before disappearing down the hall. Harry had tilted his head but didn’t ask, didn’t need to. He went up the last few steps, the old boards creaking under his boots, and when he reached the room, he crossed to the dresser, unbuckling his holster and setting his gun aside with careful, practiced movements.

“How’s the leg?” he’d asked, voice soft but even, as he sat on the edge of the bed. It was the practical question, the safe one.

“Fine,” Louis had said, rubbing around the bandage at his calf. “It itches like hell.” He snorted faintly. “Can’t exactly find ointment lying around these days. Or showers, for that matter.” His tone carried the faintest thread of humor, but it was brittle, tired around the edges.

Harry told him about his conversation with Ben—how the kid had come to him all worried he was mad, how he’d told him he wasn’t, that he was proud, that they’d practice again soon. Louis had listened, eyes half on him, half on the wall, and said quietly, “Sounds nice.” It came out like something more than small talk, though; like something he wished he could hold onto.

Harry had studied him for a while after that, his posture guarded but attentive. “What’s wrong?” he’d asked finally, because it was easier than saying you’re somewhere else, and I can feel it.

Louis sighed, his gaze shifting toward the window at the end of the bed, watching the trees that swayed in the distance. “Can we just… hold off on this whole finding Marcus thing?” he asked.

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Why the hell would we do that? He can’t just get away with what he did.”

Louis gave a small laugh—dry, almost humorless. “People get away with things now. That’s the world, isn’t it? People do worse every day—worse than shooting an arrow through someone’s leg.” He crossed his arms loosely, as if trying to fold himself into smaller arguments. “I’m not saying let him go forever. I’m saying don’t make it everything. Not right now.”

Harry shook his head. “I can’t just—Louis, that’s not how it works. You don’t let someone like him just walk. He could bring more people here. He could—”

“If he was going to, he already would’ve,” Louis had cut in, quieter now, but steady. “We’d have seen them at the fence or out in the fields by now. We fixed the breach. We survived that. If Marcus had others, they’re long gone—or they’re cowards. Either way, we’ll deal with it when it happens.” He shifted slightly, the blanket rustling. “I’m tired of running everything on anger. Tired of every plan being about revenge or survival or whatever’s next. We’ve got something good here, Harry. I want to hold onto that before it disappears, because it always disappears.”

Harry had gone still, watching him in the quiet. The words hit somewhere deep—somewhere old, where reason and guilt had been sitting side by side for days.

Louis gave a small sigh, eyes still on the window. “We’ve got peace here, for now. Clean blankets, a few decent meals, kids laughing. It’s not nothing. And you’re not a cop anymore—you don’t have to chase the bad guy every time someone pisses you off.”

Harry had exhaled through his nose, the weight of the badge he no longer wore still heavy somewhere inside him. “I know I’m not,” he said. “But if Marcus comes near this place again—”

“You’ll do what you have to,” Louis interrupted, voice soft but sure. Then he laid back slowly, wincing as his leg shifted, and pulled the blanket up over his chest. “Just don’t go looking for him. Not yet. Let’s keep what peace we can find while it lasts.”

Harry had watched him for a long time after that, the space between them filled with the hum of silence that felt almost alive. There wasn’t much left to say, really. Louis had already said the thing Harry didn’t want to admit—that vengeance didn’t build anything worth keeping. He shifted closer, careful not to disturb him, and reached out, resting a hand over Louis’. It was a quiet gesture, but the weight of it said everything else he couldn’t. Louis’ fingers twitched, then stayed, a silent acknowledgment.

“You sure?” Harry had murmured, barely above a whisper.

“’Bout what?” Louis asked, eyes half-closed.

“About holding onto this,” Harry said. His thumb brushed slow circles across the back of Louis’ hand, matching the rhythm of his breathing.

Louis breathed out a soft laugh, tired and gentle. “Yeah,” he’d said. “I’m tired of fighting all the time. I don’t want to be the guy who wears loss like armor. I just want to be the one who keeps the fires lit, keeps the kids warm. That’s enough for me.”

Harry smiled faintly, not out of amusement but recognition. “I can do that,” he said. “Stew and warm blankets. I’ll make sure of it.”

Louis snorted at that, a ghost of his old humor flickering back. “You’ll burn the stew.”

“Maybe,” Harry said, and the sound of it was something small and good. The moment stretched quietly after that—fragile, but real. Louis’ eyes fluttered shut, the tension in his shoulders finally loosening. The air between them settled into something calm, something that almost felt like safety.

Harry stayed there, his hand still resting over Louis’, until his breathing slowed and evened out. He watched him for a while longer, the faint movement of his chest, the soft lines of his face in the dim light. It wasn’t the kind of peace they could trust, but it was peace all the same, and for now, that had to be enough.

When he finally stood, he tucked the blanket a little closer around Louis’ shoulder and lingered a moment longer before blowing a candle out.