PROLOGUE: Eight Months Earlier

IMANI

Since humanity became hell and the world ended, I’ve had to take a lot of things to survive, but nobody prepared me for the challenge of finding a decent place to sleep.

The outpost I’m hiding in reeks of dirty dampness and something that sure smells like dead rat. The mattress I’m lying on? I’m so sure it has definitely belonged to someone before me. I try not to think about who that was, because I really don’t need that image in my head right now. I’ve already had enough for one night. Right now, I’ve got my boots on, my bag under my head, and my knife resting against my thigh where I can feel it with every breath that I take.

Sleeping isn’t happening right now. I’m just lying here, running through my usual inventory of the room, counting everything I can use if I need to get out of here real fast. One door, one window that’s covered with a cabinet door, one vent I could squeeze myself through if I really wanted to starve myself for days. I’ve checked them enough times to know exactly where I’d move through first, where I’d duck, where I’d run, and I still keep counting because apparently my brain doesn’t know when to leave me the fuck alone.

The moment I heard something move downstairs, my body reacted before my mind could catch up, and suddenly I’m up against the wall with my knife out in my hand and my fingers locked tightly around the handle as I hear my heart pounding hard enough to make my chest hurt.

“If you’re going to kill me, just make it quick. I’ve already had a hell of a day,” I call out into the darkness, forcing my voice to stay steady even though every muscle in my body is ready and in flight mode.

“Not planning on it,” the person said in a low, calm voice that sounded far too cool for someone who just barged into my space.

I hear a boot creak on the top step, and then there’s an eerie silence that follows afterwards, long enough for my grip to tighten harder around the knife, like he was waiting to see if I’ll actually stab him for having the audacity to be polite.

“I thought this floor was empty,” he says. “I’ll just… you know, go.”

Good. He should. I should just let him walk the hell away and keep my mouth shut, because I’m this word. Strangers are easier when they stay strangers.

“There’s a cot in the room at the end,” I find myself saying before I could stop. “The roof’s mostly intact.”

“Mostly?”

“Yeah. Don’t just lie on the left side,” I say with a warning tone.

There’s a pause, then followed by what might be a laugh, like a little huff of breath through his nose.

“Noted.”

Instead of heading to the cot, I watch him step into the pale light that was filtering through the window slats, and that causes my stomach to do an uncomfortable flip, which I so much hate when it happens.

He’s tall, with dark hair that’s cropped short, like he doesn’t give a damn about it, his jaw clenched tight, probably from days of holding onto tension. And unlike most people I’ve come across, he doesn’t look scruffy. He looks clean, or at least cleaner than most, and every step he took seemed calculated, like he’s already made up his mind about something I have absolutely no idea about. My eyes move over him before I can stop myself, taking in his clothes, his hands, and the way he carries himself, but I quickly force my attention back to his face.

There’s just something about him that feels dangerous, considering the fact that he’s not loud, which is somehow worse. People who need to prove they’re dangerous usually make sure everyone around them knows it. But he didn’t seem like he was interested in proving anything.

“You’re bleeding,” I point out.

He glances down at his forearm as if he forgot it belonged to him. “It’s fine.”

“It’s a gash, and it’s not fine! That’s a good way to get an infection.” I said, lowering my knife a little, though I didn’t put it away. “Sit.”

“I don’t take orders from anyone.” He said, raising his brows.

“Perfect, then just bleed out. I’ll be right here, doing nothing, and also feeling nothing.”

That finally got him to sit down. Realizing that his smugness was already getting on my nerves, I crouched beside my pack before I could think too much of it, rummaging through the few supplies I had left until I found some gauze which was the last of my good stuff. I held it between my fingers for a second, already thinking about how much I’d hate myself if I needed it tomorrow, then I looked at his arm again and sighed through my nose. I reminded myself I was doing this because a stranger’s wounded arm is a waste, and not because he’s watching me with a quiet attention, like someone who’s been cold for a while eyeing a fire.

His arm is warm, actually too warm for someone with a cut like that. My fingers linger there for half a second before I force myself to focus on the wound. I didn’t mention my observation.

“Who taught you how to do this?” he asks as I start cleaning his wound.

“Nobody finished teaching me,” I reply, pulling the edges of the cut together which he didn’t flinch to, doesn’t even breathe hard. “I almost became a medic, I guess. Now I’m just the person who knows where the artery is.”

“Almost,” he says, and there’s a teasing tone in his voice.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said it with your whole face,” I snap, causing the corner of his mouth to move.

I tie the wrap around his arm tighter than necessary, my fingers pressing firmly against the gauze before I finally pull away.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“No.”

“No?”

“No names.” I say the words quickly, almost too quickly, because there are reasons for it. I have a whole speech about why, most of it about how names are how people find you, but what I say is. “Tomorrow, we’ll both be somewhere else. Names just make it harder.”

He’s quiet for a while, looking at my face slowly, like he’s really taking me all in. I usually don’t let people do that. I’m the one who observes, I take stock of where I am, who’s around, the exits, anything that might get me killed. Nobody else gets that privilege, and yet I sit there letting a stranger study me like I was an open book, my skin prickling beneath his gaze.

“Fine,” he finally says. “No names.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

I realize I’m still holding onto his wrist, my thumb resting against the inside of it where I can feel his pulse, and somewhere in this mess, it stopped being a medical thing. The realization makes my fingers go completely still, but I don’t let go immediately, because apparently tonight I’ve forgotten how to make sensible decisions with my hardheaded brain. When I finally let go, he didn’t bother pulling his arm back.

“You should sleep,” I suggested, standing up because I needed some space. “I’ll keep watch.”

“You haven’t slept in a while.” He said, noticing the shadows under my eyes, of course he does. “How long has it been?”

“None of your business.”

“Two days? Three?”

“Keep pushing for that stab wound, and you’ll find out.”

“I’m asking because you’re shaking,” he said, pointing out.

I glance down, surprised to see my hands trembling. I hadn’t even felt it, and for a second I just stare at my fingers, irritated by the betrayal of my own body. Great, because that was so embarrassing. I shove my hand into my pocket and turn away, pretending I have someone I needed to see, but really, I only have that one door. There’s nowhere else I need to be, nowhere else waiting for me, and the realization of it sits uncomfortably in my chest as I take two steps toward the door.

“Stay,” he says, like he’s pleading.

That’s the kicker. His voice is soft, almost hesitant, as if he can’t believe he just said it, and somehow that gets under my skin more than an order would have. I stop on my tracks with my back to him.

“I’m not…” he said, pausing to exhale, and it sounded like he was giving up on something. “I just don’t want to sit in the dark with my own thoughts, that’s all. That’s the only reason.”

It’s the most honest thing I’ve heard from anyone in years, and something in the way he said it made a part of me go quiet at the words because I knew exactly what he meant. I know what I should do, it’s as clear to me as knowing where my knife is. I should walk out, keep counting, keep being in control, keep myself safe, but my feet just wouldn’t move from where they are. I turn around.

“Left side of the mattress is dry,” I say, sounding like a complete idiot. “The right side? It has a spring.”

“I’ll take the spring,” he replies.

“You’ll take the spring,” I repeat, trying to keep my voice steady, but hearing it crack at the end. Neither of us acknowledges it. I clear my throat and look away for a second, annoyed at myself.

He stood up. I don’t remember deciding to inch closer, but suddenly he’s close enough that I can smell the rain on his jacket that was mixed with something else, probably smoke and pine and the warmth of a living person. He didn’t touch me, his hands hanging relaxed at his sides, almost like he’s trying to prove something, and the restraint in it made me painfully aware of how close he is.

“I can leave,” he said quietly. “If you want me to, just say the word.”

I should say it. The word was literally right there on the tip of my tongue. I know how to say it. But I just couldn’t find a way to make it leave my mouth.

“Don’t,” I respond, my voice coming out quieter than I intended.

His hand comes up slowly, almost hesitantly, stopping just beside my face. It felt like he was waiting for me to pull away, which honestly isn’t out of the question, so I leaned into it instead. His palm was warm against my jaw, and without even meaning to, I closed my eyes, my shoulders loosening up from tension before I could stop them. It’s strange how something in my chest, something that’s been tight for years, suddenly eases up. And it’s so embarrassing how quickly it happens, how badly I want to stay right here when I’ve spent so long teaching myself not to need anyone. I’ve spent so much time alone that I almost forgot what it felt like to be this close to someone.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, our foreheads almost touching now.

“If you stop, I swear I’ll actually kill you,” I reply, half joking, though my fingers had already curled into the front of his jacket.

He laughed lightly, that sound, and the warmth of it hit me so hard I felt my entire body tingling in a good way. Next thing I knew, his mouth was on mine, and my eyes closed out of instinct as my grip tightened around his jacket. Everything else around us falling away, fading into silence, and for once, I didn’t care what was happening outside this room.

The kiss wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t rough either. It felt like two people finally putting down a heavy weight they’ve been carrying for way too long, neither of us asking what would happen afterward because right now, I don’t want the afterward. His fingers tangled in my short hair at the back of my head, careful as if he’s afraid of breaking something on my skin, and I grip his jacket tightly, pulling him closer to my body until his breath catches, the low sound he made sending tons of shivers through me.

We found ourselves on the mattress, the unstable object creaking loudly under us. The springs dig into his back, causing him to curse against my neck, but I’m laughing, like actually laughing, for the first time in what felt like forever, my face pressed against his shoulder while I try to quiet the sound and fail. I could feel his chest moving beneath me, and something about that made me laugh again, but softer this time, because I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this light.

****

Later, after we felt ourselves whole, we wrapped ourselves in a blanket that smelt fresh and not at all like rats. I could feel him tracing slow circles on my shoulder blade, losing track of how many times we’ve left the room, how many times I’ve told myself I should stop and then stayed anyway.

“Do me a favor,” he murmurs into my hair, his voice sounding so raw that a shiver ran through me. “Don’t disappear before I wake up.”

“No promises,” I said lightly, though my fingers tightened slightly against the blanket.

“Imani.”

I freeze.

“That’s not…” I start to say, my body going rigid beneath his hand.

“Yes I know you said no names,” he replies, already tensed as if he’s expecting me to pull away from him. “But I heard someone shout it earlier. Outside, I think…” He trails off, his arm loosening around me. “I can forget it if you want.”

“You didn’t hear that,” I insist.

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” He said, his arm tightening around me, almost protectively. “Okay.”

In the dark, I stare at the boarded up window, torn between correcting him and just remaining silent. My fingers move slightly against the blanket, and I feel his warmth of him behind me, steady and close, making the decision harder for me than it should be. Honestly, I’m not sure which option frightens me more, letting him know my name or letting him leave with something real about me.

I eventually drifted off to sleep, lulled by the rhythm of his heartbeat, and for once, I didn’t wake at every unfamiliar sound.

By the time I woke up, the light coming through the window was dull and gray, feeling his side sitting empty. My hand moved across the mattress before I was fully awake, searching for a body of warmth that wasn’t there. I sit up when my fingers meet nothing, and then I notice a folded piece of gauze, better than what I had given him, sitting on the pillow. Underneath it, someone has scratched five words into the plaster with something sharp, Thank you for the night.

There’s no name, no signature. I quickly got dressed, packed my things, and held onto the gauze as a keepsake, tucking it safely into my bag before I left. I didn’t look back as I walked out. I know I’ll want to, and I don’t trust myself enough to give in to it.

As I walk out into the rain, I repeat to myself that it was mine. Whatever we shared, it was the one thing in this messed-up world that didn’t carry any price tag or debt. It wasn’t a burden that was tied to my mother’s choices. It wasn’t something I had to repay, explain, or give back either. It was just simply mine.

Three weeks later, I’m still holding onto that feeling when I knock at my brother’s door, when from inside, the voice I’ve been trying my possible best to avoid called out, “Imani, baby, we need to talk about the Sinclairs.”