Chapter 4
FOUR
PARIS
The porridge bubbles in the pot, thick and golden like liquid sunshine. I stir it with a wooden spoon, the rhythmic motion hypnotic after a year of cooking for one.
“More cinnamon?” I sprinkle another dash, the fine powder dissolving into swirls. My stomach growls, reminding me that last night’s pasta never happened. Thanks to my unexpected guest and his bleeding head.
Speaking of which.
I peer up.
Knox sits motionless on the couch, ankle propped on a pillow, eyes tracking my every move. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something predatory in the stillness of his body.
“Hope you like it.” I retrieve two bowls from the cabinet, one with hand-painted roses, the other a minimalist ceramic piece. “It’s either this or stale protein bars.”
“Better than anything I had in days.” His voice is stronger, the rasp smoothed out.
I ladle the golden mixture into both bowls, adding an extra drizzle of honey to mine. Walking carefully to avoid spilling, I hand him the ceramic bowl and nestle into the armchair opposite, tucking my legs beneath me.
He blows on a spoonful of porridge before taking a tentative bite. His eyes widen slightly. “What’d you put in this?”
“Cinnamon, honey, and…” I flash a grin. “Magic.”
He snorts, almost choking on his food. “You always feed strangers?”
“No. You’re my first, actually.”
“First?”
“First rescue.” Flames lick up my neck. “Not first… whatever you thought.”
He takes another spoonful, his gray eyes never leaving mine. That unwavering stare makes my skin prickle.
“What?” I touch my face. “Is there porridge on my chin?”
“Actually, there is something on your face.” He taps below his eye.
I wipe under my right eye, feeling the gritty texture of yesterday’s glitter. “Better?”
“You missed it. It’s all…” He waves his spoon in circles around his entire face.
“It’s glitter eyeshadow. It’s supposed to be there.” I shove another spoonful into my mouth.
“Didn’t realize zombies were impressed by makeup.”
“They’re not.” I lick honey from my spoon. “But I am.”
“Most survivors I meet are covered in dirt and blood. Not… sparkles.”
I shrug, ignoring the flutter in my stomach when his gaze lingers. “The world ended. Doesn’t mean I have to.”
“Cute philosophy.” He sets his empty bowl on the coffee table with a decisive clink.
I set mine down, too. “Let me check your ankle.”
“It’s fine.”
“You gonna let me help, or you planning to hop your way through the zombie apocalypse?”
His jaw tightens, but he gestures at his leg. Victory.
I settle cross-legged in front of him and gently lift his foot into my lap. His skin is warm through the bandage as I carefully unwrap it, layer by layer.
“Swelling’s down.” But purple bruising spreads across his ankle like watercolor. “Mhm.”
“Told you I’ve had worse.”
“Flex for me?” I ask.
He moves his foot slightly, suppressing a grimace.
“Not terrible. I guess.” I probe the bruised skin. “Few more days, and you might not even limp. Please try to stay off it today.”
“Not much choice.”
“You should take off all that gear. Can’t be comfortable sleeping in it.”
“You offering to help?”
Heat flares in my cheeks. “What? No! I just meant—you look uncomfortable with all the… straps and things.”
“Straps and things.” His lips twitch. “Technical term?”
“Shut up.” I focus on rewrapping his ankle, suddenly hyperaware of his skin under my fingertips. “I’m trying to be nice.”
“Nice is dangerous these days.”
I secure the bandage with the metal clips. “So is being an asshole, but you manage just fine.”
He actually laughs, a short, rusty sound like he’s forgotten how. “Fair enough.”
He shifts on the couch, a slight grimace crossing his face. Then he reaches for the straps crossing his chest, unbuckling the tactical—whatever it is—with practiced movements. The empty holster comes off next, then a utility belt.
“You always carry an entire military base?” I ask.
“Standard loadout.” His fingers work through buckles and clasps. “Light, actually.”
“Right. Super light. Just the essentials for casual Tuesday apocalypse strolling.”
He drops a multi-tool onto the pile. “This from the girl who carries a ninja sword.”
“It’s a katana, not a—” I catch his lip quirking up. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Maybe.” His eyes flick to mine for a second, then back to his task.
I should leave. Give him privacy. Instead, I am rooted to the spot as he shrugs out of his jacket, revealing arms corded with muscle and tattoos.
My mouth goes dry.
“Something else you need, princess?” His tone is neutral, but there’s a knowing edge to it.
“Just, uh, waiting.” The words come out breathier than I intended. “So, I can clean up.”
He reaches behind his neck, grabbing his t-shirt and stripping it off.
Holy. Shit.
His torso is a landscape of lean muscle and scars: A jagged line across his left shoulder, a puckered circle near his collarbone, smaller marks scattered across skin tanned several shades darker than mine, and a metal dog tag hangs between defined pecs.
My brain short-circuits. I’m staring. I know I’m staring. I can’t stop staring.
“You have something that might fit?” His voice drops lower, rougher.
I blink. “I—no. Not in my closet.”
“No boyfriend or husband?”
“No. But, um, I can get you something. Third floor. Guy about your height. Bit leaner.”
“Is it safe?”
“Mhm. I cleared the building months ago. Left zombies in the lobby as deterrent, but the upper floors are safe.” He stretches, and my eyes catch on a splash of blue-black spreading across his ribs, partially hidden when he was sitting. “Wait—are those broken?”
He follows my gaze, pressing his fingers to the bruising. “Cracked, maybe. Nothing serious.”
“You should have said something.” I crawl closer, hand hovering over the area.
“Why? So you could fuss more?” His voice softens the harsh words. “It’ll heal.”
“You’re hurt everywhere. How’d you even climb twelve flights with all this?” Unable to stop myself, I trace the edge of his bruised ribs.
His skin twitches under my touch. He catches my wrist, fingers warm and calloused. “Had motivation.”
“What—zombies?”
“That, and a glittery angel dragging my ass up the stairs.”
“Angel is pushing it,” I murmur, very aware of his fingers still circling my wrist.
Our eyes meet. For a heartbeat, neither of us looks away.
“Thanks,” he says. “For this. For last night.”
“Your welcome…”
“Paris?”
“Yes?”
“Clothes?”
“Ah, yes. I’ll—Clothes. Back in a minute.” I tug my hand free. “And maybe some painkillers for those ribs?”
“Wouldn’t say no to either.”
I back toward the door, nearly tripping over my own feet. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“With this ankle?” He gestures at his wrapped foot. “Not much choice, princess.”
I slip out of the apartment. What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s been a year since I’ve touched another human, but I’m acting like I’ve never seen a half-naked man before.
The stairwell echoes with my footsteps as I descend. “So he’s hot. So what? He’s leaving in a day or three.”
My heart pounds from more than exertion, and I blame Knox’s bare chest for the extra beats.
Apartment 3D belongs—belonged—to Jacob, a finance bro with expensive taste and enviable abs he documented daily on Vibegrid. Left behind more designer clothes than any man should own. Perfect for my mission.
His door is still unlocked from my previous trips.
I head straight for the bedroom, bypassing the living room with its leather furniture and pretentious art books.
The walk-in closet smells faintly of cedar and cologne, with rows of button-downs still hanging neatly on wooden hangers, color-coded from light to dark. Knox would look good in those, but I doubt he would appreciate it.
“Let’s see… what would suit our wounded warrior?” I grab a soft black t-shirt, a pair of dark jeans, and joggers, along with boxers, some of them still in their packaging. “Jackpot.”
I fold everything, then add socks, a gray henley, and a brown leather jacket that looks about Knox’s size. Practical, but not tactical.
My eyes catch on the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door, and I freeze. Oh no. No wonder he looked amused. My hair sticks out in greasy clumps, yesterday’s glitter eyeshadow smeared in raccoon circles around my eyes, and blood, his blood, smudges my neck and top.
I look like I lost a fight with a blender.
“Fuck.”
I drop the clothes and try to smooth my hair with my fingers. It’s a lost cause. One year alone has dulled my vanity, but not erased it. I’ve never let anyone see me like this, not even before the apocalypse.
The bathroom yields a treasure trove of abandoned products. I splash some micellar water onto my face, scrubbing away the worst of the makeup with a towel. My hair gets a quick finger-comb, and I steal a spritz of Jacob’s cologne to mask the smell of sweat and fear.
“Better than nothing.” The girl in the mirror still looks feral, but at least she no longer resembles an extra from a zombie movie.
I grab toothpaste, a fresh toothbrush, razors, shaving cream, and deodorant from the medicine cabinet, stuffing them into a backpack from the closet with the clothes.
Back in the stairwell, I take a moment to breathe. What am I doing? Playing house with a stranger who’ll leave tomorrow? Setting myself up for another abandonment?
“It’s just clothes. And basic human decency. He’ll be gone, and I can accept that.”
The climb back up feels longer, my thoughts louder with each step. By the time I arrived at the penthouse level, I’ve convinced myself this is purely practical. He needs rest and clothes. I have access to both. End of story.
Knox looks up when I enter, his position on the couch unchanged except for a blanket now draped across his lap. His eyes track me as I approach, narrowing slightly as they scan my face. “You cleaned up.”
“Is that a problem?” I drop the backpack beside him. “Didn’t want to traumatize you further with my post-apocalyptic beauty regimen.”
“Not complaining.” His eyes linger on my face. “And you looked… fine.”
Fine?!
Who doesn’t love to be called ‘fine’?
I unzip the backpack, dumping clothes beside him. “Anyway. These might be a bit tight across the shoulders, but they should work.”
He rifles through the pile. “Who’d these belong to?”
“Jacob in 3D. Finance bro. Probably evacuated on a private helicopter while posting about his ‘authentic survival experience’ on Vibe. When it was still working.” I hand him the toothbrush. “Also threw in bathroom stuff. Figure you might want to feel human again.”
“Thoughtful.” There’s that hint of a smile again. “You raid everyone’s apartments?”
“Yep. Especially the ones who deserve it.” I cross my arms. “Jacob had three espresso machines. Three. What person needs that many ways to make the same drink?”
He laughs, the rusty undertone gone.
“Glad my commentary on wealth inequality amuses you.”
“It’s not that.” He holds up a pair of boxer briefs with tiny pineapples. “Sexy.”
I snatch it from his hand. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Bathroom’s through there if you want to clean up.” I point toward the hallway. “Water doesn’t run anymore, but I can bring you a bucket and set up a chair in the shower stall. Drain still works. Do you—”
“I can manage.” He gathers the clothes. “Though I might need a hand getting there.”
I offer my shoulder without comment. He’s heavy against me, his skin warm where it touches mine. We make slow progress toward the bathroom, his breath catching when he puts weight on his injured ankle.
“You smell like cologne,” he murmurs, so close his breath tickles my ear.
“Better than blood and sweat.”
“Didn’t say it was bad.”
I ease him onto the closed toilet lid while I drag a wooden chair into the massive walk-in shower.
“Stay here.” I hurry to the kitchen, filling two buckets with water from my rainwater reserves and return, setting the buckets in the shower stall beside the chair. “There’s soap on the shelf here. And… yeah. Need anything else?”
“Depends.” He smirks. “You offering to help me wash my back?”
A tiny whimper escapes me. “I—no, that’s not—”
“Relax, princess. I’m kidding.”
“I am relaxed.” I back toward the door. “Super relaxed.”
“Paris.”
Just my name. Nothing special about how he says it. So why does my stomach do that weird fluttery thing? “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
The sincerity in his voice makes me uncomfortable. I’d rather have his sarcasm.
“I’ll be in the kitchen. Yell if you need anything.” I close the bathroom door behind me, leaning against it. Through the wood, I hear soft grunts as he moves around.
This is fine. Totally normal. A half-naked stranger in my bathroom. A dangerous, gorgeous stranger.
“Get it together.” I push off from the door. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
I retreat to the kitchen, filling the sink with water. My reflection ripples on the surface, still wild-eyed and flushed. I strip off my bloodstained shirt, standing in my sports bra as I scrub my face, neck, and arms with a clean cloth. The cool water feels heavenly against my heated skin.
From the bathroom, I hear the soft thud of something dropping and the splash of water.
Knox. Naked and wet. A wall away.
I dunk my entire head under the water, hoping it might cool thoughts that have no business in my brain after four hundred and six days of perfect isolation.
It doesn’t help at all.