Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
DAKOTA
The hot water was a revelation. And the soap, generic and floral, smelled better than anything I’ve ever owned.
Clean. Normal.
I stand in the bedroom doorway, skin still flushed pink and tingling, wrapped in a borrowed t-shirt and shorts that hang loose on my frame. My hair hangs damp against my shoulders, clean for the first time in days. Julien lies on the bed propped against the headboard, a paperback held in one hand.
He’s showered too, his hair still damp, curling slightly at the ends. His eyes catch mine for a second before returning to the page.
“Thanks for heating the water.” I run fingers through my wet hair. “Didn’t realize how gross I felt until it was gone.”
He dog-ears the page of some thriller with a faded cover and sets it aside. “You feel better?”
“Like a new woman.” The phrase feels silly the moment it leaves my mouth. There are no new women anymore, just survivors with varying degrees of dirt and trauma.
I glance at the bed. The only one in the house. Queen-sized, the sheets rumpled where he’s sitting on top of them. My cheeks heat despite myself.
“Ready to sleep?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I force my feet to move, circling to the other side.
Julien gets off.
“It’s fine.” I sit on the edge of the mattress. “We can sleep in the same bed. I don’t mind.”
He pauses, halfway to the door. “I know.”
“Then what—”
“Just barricading the door.”
“Oh.” I laugh, the sound brittle with embarrassment. Why would he hesitate? It’s not like there’s anything between us. “Good idea.”
I sink under the covers, wrapping them close as I curl onto my side. The bed is softer than I expected, and smells of laundry detergent. I hear the snick of the lock, then the scrape of furniture across the floor.
The bed dips as he slides in beside me, the springs protesting softly. Heat radiates from his body, but he keeps a careful distance between us, our bodies like opposing magnets, painfully aware of each other.
I lie rigid as a corpse, staring at the wall, counting breaths. One, two, three. Ten, eleven. My arm throbs from the cuts, and the back of my head throbs where the reverend hit me. Behind me, Julien’s breathing sounds controlled, slow.
The mattress sags in the middle, an insistent dip constantly tugging me to him. I resist, holding my position at the very edge of my side.
Earlier, after boredom won, I looked through the office and found out the couple had gone away to beach paradise. If it broke out there, too?
“So,” I finally say, because the quiet is killing me, “I’m guessing the couple that lived here were big on cuddling. Given this Grand Canyon in the middle of their mattress. Real cozy.”
His laugh is short and low. “Yeah.”
This is awful.
Like we’re strangers making awkward small talk in an elevator.
I curl my legs up, the sheet rustling with my movement, and close my eyes, trying to ignore the lingering scent of soap on both our skins.
Sleep evades me like a skittish animal. The pictures of the day, my mind conjures, fight the exhaustion that wants to take over my body.
Suddenly, the mattress shifts, and Julien’s arm slides around my waist.
I flinch, every muscle tensing.
“Sorry.” He starts to withdraw. “I thought… You seemed cold.”
My hand moves before my brain catches up, my fingers digging in his forearm before he can fully retreat. His skin is warm under my palm, the dusting of hair rough against my skin. We hang suspended in the moment—his arm half-withdrawn, my grip stopping him.
What am I doing?
“I’m cold,” I whisper.
Without comment, he envelops me from behind, one arm winding around my waist, the other beneath my head, tentative at first, then more secure as I settle back against him.
His warmth seeps into me, chasing away a chill in my bones.
Our bodies fit together with impossible ease, molding into the mattress’s center like we were made to be there.
Like we were responsible for the dip.
Dust motes dance like tiny stars in the beam of the moonlight. Outside, the wind picks up, the old house settling with soft creaks and groans, and further away, the shambling of the dead. But in here, there’s Julien and the steady rhythm of his breathing against my neck.
All the terror I’ve been shoving down, the wedding that wasn’t, the knife at Amelia’s throat, my mother and my father, the reverend, it rushes up my throat like bile.
My breath hitches.
No. Not now.
I bite down hard on my lip, tasting copper. Force my breathing to even out. One, two, three. I’ve held it together this long. Through everything. I can hold it a little longer.
But my chest tightens, ribs compressing like someone’s stepping on them. A sob builds in my throat, and I swallow it back down where it belongs.
“Hey.” Julien’s voice rumbles against my back. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” My voice cracks on the second word.
“Hold it in.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
His arm tightens fractionally. Not trapping me. Anchoring. “There’s that word again.”
Another sob claws its way up, and I clamp my hand over my mouth, shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping it contained
“Dakota. Let it out.”
“I can’t.” The words come out muffled against my palm. “If I start, I won’t—I can’t—”
But it’s already too late. The first sob breaks free, ugly and raw, tearing from somewhere deep in my chest. Then another. And another. My whole body convulses with them, years of swallowed pain erupting all at once.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I’m sorry, I’m—”
“Stop apologizing.” He shifts behind me, angling the arm beneath my head so his hand curls protectively over my chest. His other hand finds mine. “Just breathe.”
I can’t.
Can’t think.
Only shake apart while he holds me together, his thumb drawing slow circles on the inner side of my wrist. The sobs keep coming, harder now, wrenching sounds I’ve never let anyone hear.
“It’s okay.” His voice stays low, steady. “I’ve got you.”
My fingers clutch his, craving something solid, and I cry until there’s nothing left, until my throat is raw and my eyes burn. Until the sobs turn to hiccups, then ragged breathing, then finally silence broken only by the occasional shudder running through me.
Julien doesn’t let go, his thumb still tracing those slow, steady circles on my hand. I focus on it. The rough calluses.
“Better?” he asks after a while, voice quiet against my hair.
I nod.
“You needed that.”
“Probably.” I wipe my face with the back of my free hand. “My mother used to say crying was for people who had the luxury of falling apart. That we didn’t have that luxury.”
His fingers linger on one spot. “You’re allowed to fall apart. Especially after what you’ve been through.”
“What we’ve been through.” I shift slightly, testing whether he’ll retreat. He doesn’t.
“Get some sleep and no squirming,” he murmurs against my hair, his voice a low rumble I feel more than hear. “Need to be alert if anything happens.”
A sudden heat flares low in my belly.
Why now?
The world ends, I just cried my soul out, nearly died today, and my body chooses this moment to remind me it’s alive?
That it has been ages since anyone touched me like this. And this isn’t even like that—it’s just survival warmth, physical comfort. But try telling that to the flutter in my stomach or to my skin, which grows more sensitive wherever we are connected.
I force my muscles to relax, my mind to quiet. “Same goes for you.”
His soft chuckle tickles my neck, raising goosebumps along my arms. “Sleep tight.”
My eyelids grow heavy, the day’s horror and fear finally giving way to exhaustion.
Consciousness slips away, and I’m in my dream, where Julien presses a soft kiss on my hair, so light it could be an accident, but I let myself believe in intention anyway.
His arm tightens by a breath, his body shifting closer to mine, and his voice too soft to make out.
That’s how dreams are.
Just… dreams.
Sunlight slices through the gap in the curtains, caressing my face. I reach out before I’m fully awake, my hand patting across cool sheets. Empty. The heat that cradled me through the night is gone, leaving me oddly bereft.
What did I expect? That he’d still be holding me, watching me sleep like some romantic movie scene?
I huff out a laugh and sit up. The dresser still blocks the door, but it’s shifted enough to escape.
It doesn’t mean anything. Why would it?
Last night was just practical. Body heat in a world without central heating.
Nothing more.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, testing my balance. Better than yesterday. The dizziness has faded to a distant pressure behind my eyes. My fingers probe gently at the back of my head, finding the lump tender but smaller.
The borrowed pajamas twist around my waist, and I straighten them before padding to the bathroom. My reflection looks better today—less ghost, more human. And thanks to Julien, the cut on my cheek is healing nicely.
After brushing my teeth with a stranger’s toothbrush, desperate times and all that, I change into clothes I’d laid out the night before.
Jeans that are a bit tight on my thighs, a top beneath a flannel, and sturdy boots that almost fit. Not my style, but practical.
Downstairs, the scent of food pulls me toward the kitchen. Julien stands at the stove, his back to me, stirring a pot. He’s changed, too. Dark jeans and a navy Henley that stretches across his shoulders.
“Morning,” I say from the doorway.
He turns, wooden spoon in hand, eyes quickly scanning me from head to toe. “How’s the head?”
“Still attached.” I move into the kitchen, drawn by the steaming pot that smells like porridge. “We have electricity?”
“Nope. Heated it up outside.” He gestures to the kitchen table, already set with two bowls. “Figured we should eat before heading out.”
We’re leaving. Right. This isn’t home, just a temporary shelter. We need to get to Pine Lake, to the others. To Amelia.
My sister’s pale and fragile face flashes in my mind. While I slept safely in Julien’s arms, was she sleeping at all?
I slide into a chair. “You’ve been busy.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” He shrugs, turning back to the pot. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”
“What time did you get up?”
“Dawn.” He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t mention leaving me alone in bed after holding me all night.
Why should he?
He joins me and spoons porridge into the bowls, the oatmeal thick and lumpy but smelling like heaven with cinnamon and brown sugar. My stomach growls embarrassingly loud.
“Sorry.” I wrap my arms around my middle. “Been a while since regular meals.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Eat while it’s hot.”
The first spoonful burns my tongue, but I don’t care. The sweet, starchy comfort food slides down my throat, warming me from the inside. I close my eyes briefly, savoring the simple pleasure.
We eat in comfortable silence, and after we’re done, I take our bowls to the sink, before remembering no one will care about dirty dishes in the apocalypse, and there’s no flowing water anymore.
“I packed some supplies.” Julien nods toward two backpacks by the back door. “Food, water, first aid kit. Found a map of the area in a drawer. Pine Lake is about fifty miles north.”
“That’s a long walk.”
“We’re not walking.” He stands, stretching his arms above his head, and my focus narrows to the V disappearing beneath his waistband. It takes a heartbeat too long for his next words to actually register. “Found a car at the neighbor’s house.”
“That’s convenient.” I force my eyes away, wiping my already dry hands on a dish towel. “Almost suspiciously so.”
“And lucky for us.” He picks up both backpacks, handing one to me. It’s lighter than I expected.
I slip the straps over my shoulders, adjusting the weight.
“Here.” He presents me with a hunting knife in a leather sheath. “Got this for you.”
I take it, testing the weight in my hand. The handle fits my grip comfortably, the blade gleaming in the morning light. “You found this here?”
“Gun cabinet, a few houses away. Locked, but not well.” He pats his waistband where his own knife sits alongside the machete. “Always better to have a backup. Keep it in easy reach. Not buried in your bag.”
“Thanks.” I attach the sheath to my belt, and something about having it there makes me stand straighter.
He nods, eyes lingering on me for a moment before turning toward the door. “We should move. Fifty miles is doable if we leave now, but we might need to find shelter for another night depending on road conditions.”
“And zombies. Don’t forget those.”
His mouth quirks again. “Hard to forget.”
We do a final sweep of the house, checking for anything useful we might have missed, and I leave a little thank-you note just in case.
At the front door, Julien pauses, hand on the knob. “Ready?”
“Ready,” I say, and I almost believe it.
The morning air greets us as we step outside, cool and fresh compared to the staleness inside. He leads the way across the lawn to a house three doors down, where a blue sedan sits in the driveway and motions for me to wait.
He circles the vehicle, peering through the windows and checking underneath before waving me over. “All clear.”
I join him in the car, hopping into the passenger seat while he adjusts the driver’s side.
“Next stop.” He turns the key, and the engine coughs, then purrs to life. “Pine Lake Lodge.”
I nod, leaning back against the headrest.
In another life, it might have been real—waking up in a man’s arms, breakfast waiting downstairs.
A simple sweet fantasy.
But this isn’t that life. And Julien isn’t that man.
I glance over as he navigates the streets.
Either way, since this nightmare began, I feel like I might actually survive it.