Chapter 5
FIVE
PARIS
I apply a fresh layer of blue polish to my thumbnail. The stupid thing dared to splinter. Three coats later, it’s perfect again. A tiny patch of control in my fucked-up world.
Knox is still in the bathroom, humming some melody.
His backpack sits under my bed, where I stashed it after retrieving it from the alley this morning while he slept. I’d needed to know if he was dangerous—more dangerous than the obvious muscles and combat skills suggested.
I cap the polish and wiggle my toes to dry them faster. Fuck it.
In my bedroom, I drop to my knees and fish out the backpack. It’s heavy-duty canvas, military-grade with reinforced straps and too many pockets. Blood stains one corner.
“Sorry for snooping,” I mutter to nobody. “But a girl’s gotta protect herself.”
The main compartment yields disappointing treasures: a water canteen, energy bars, antibiotics, and an extra knife.
Boring.
I dig deeper, fingers sliding against the canvas lining. There’s a hidden pocket along the bottom seam. “What secrets are you hiding, Knox?”
Inside: ammo for the gun I hid in my closet, a whetstone, and a black notebook with water-damaged pages. I flip through it, but find only coordinates and cryptic notations. Nothing about communities or safe zones. No maps marked with X-marks-the-spot. Would be too easy…
“Dammit.”
I tuck everything back exactly as I found it.
If he belongs to a community, he’s not carrying proof. Which means either he’s lying, or he’s as alone as I am.
I should get dressed before he comes back out.
By the time Knox emerges from the bathroom, I’ve reapplied my glitter eyeshadow, braided my damp hair into submission, and put on a fresh sweater.
He limps into the living room wearing the black t-shirt and joggers I brought up, the shirt stretching across shoulders broader than Jacob’s ever were.
His hair is damp, face freshly shaved except for a deliberate shadow of stubble along his jaw.
He looks… good. Dangerously good.
“Better?” He gestures to his clean self.
“Fine.” Maybe he should have stayed dirty. I point at the couch. “Sit. Leg up. Doctor’s orders.”
He lowers himself onto the couch. “You’re not a doctor.”
“I have the medical book, which is the next best thing you’ll get. Speaking of books.” I gather a stack from the bookcase. “Since you’re stuck here until your ankle heals. Comics, survival manuals, novels. Take your pick.”
I drop them on the coffee table beside him.
“Thanks.” He picks up a dog-eared copy of The Road, flips through it. “Cheerful choice.”
“Felt appropriate at the time.”
His hands are large, scarred across the knuckles, the kind of hands that have seen combat. The kind that could snap my neck or cradle my face with equal skill.
Where did that thought come from?
I retreat to the balcony, sliding the glass door closed behind me. The greenhouse air hits me like a warm, humid embrace, soil and growing things filling my lungs.
“Water first, then pruning.” I fill the can from the rainwater barrel and face Freddie, the strawberry. “Your runners are getting aggressive again.”
The plants don’t answer, but they perk up as water darkens the soil around them. Through the glass door, I can see Knox on the couch, book open on his lap, eyes closed. Is he actually sleeping or pretending? His chest rises and falls evenly, but something about the stillness feels too controlled.
“What do you think, Freddie? Is he faking or actually resting?”
Freddie’s leaves rustle noncommittally.
“Yeah, I don’t know either.”
I finish with the strawberries and move to the tomatoes, which are showing signs of blight on their lower leaves. The repetitive motions of gardening usually calm me, but today I’m jittery, hyperaware of the man-shaped presence beyond the glass.
Every day, talking to plants, and now there’s someone who might actually answer back. The thought terrifies me more than it should.
I step outside to the open portion of the balcony, binoculars hanging heavy around my neck.
The midday sun beats down on the concrete city below, highlighting every abandoned car and shambling corpse in stark relief. I count seven zombies on my street, two more than yesterday. They cluster near the fresh corpse Knox created before his fall.
I scan the horizon, checking the usual landmarks. The hospital’s broken windows reflect sunlight like fractured diamonds. The shopping mall’s parking lot remains a graveyard of rusting cars.
Nothing new. Nothing changing.
Except everything has changed, because when I lower the binoculars and turn around, Knox is watching me through the glass, before he looks back down at his book. I return inside and leave the binoculars in their spot on the windowsill.
“See anything interesting?” he asks without looking up.
“Two more zombies than yesterday. Otherwise, same apocalyptic hellscape theater as always.”
“Comforting.”
I move to the kitchen, opening cabinets, taking inventory. Four cans of tuna, three of peaches, and two of corn. Six protein bars. Half a bag of rice. One package of pasta—my last. I run my thumb over the cellophane, feeling the hard ridges of penne inside.
Behind me, pages turn as Knox reads. The sound is oddly domestic, like we’ve been coexisting for years instead of hours.
“Any more of these?” He holds up a Batman comic.
I cross to the bookshelf, fingers trailing along spines. “It should be… here.” I pull it out, the glossy cover showing the Caped Crusader silhouetted against Gotham’s skyline.
“Thanks,” he says as I hand it to him.
I spin on my heel, retreating to the kitchen. “Hope you like pasta.”
“I eat anything.”
“Soldier survival skill?”
“Something like that.”
I retrieve the pasta package and set it beside the jar of sun-dried tomatoes. Last package. After this, it’s rice and more rice until I go shopping again. I touch the cellophane. It’s gonna be fine.
“You okay over there?” Knox calls from the couch.
“All good.” I set a pot of water on the portable stove. “Just planning dinner.”
The sun slants lower through the windows, painting the penthouse in gold and amber. Knox reads, occasionally glancing up to track my movements. I pretend not to notice, but every cell in my body is attuned to his presence, like he’s generating his own gravitational field.
“What do you think, Poti?” I whisper to the pot as water begins to heat. “Should I go out tomorrow or wait to get more pasta?”
The water bubbles, dancing around the edges of the pot in angry little pops.
“Leaving him here alone means he could steal everything. Or he could just… leave.” The last word comes out softer than intended.
The water bubbles, steam rising in question marks.
“You’re always so neutral. I wish I could ask Telly, but then he would think I’m batshit crazy.
I’ll need to restock anyway. One quick run in a few days.
In and out. I know where the good stuff is.
” I run my thumb over the pasta package again.
“And maybe if he likes the pasta enough, he’ll stay another day or two? ”
“You need help?” He sets aside the comic book.
I flinch, straightening. “No. All good.”
“Okay.” He stretches back.
He didn’t hear me, right? I mean, I whispered.
I stir the pasta, testing its resistance against the wooden spoon. “Three more minutes.”
I twist the jar of sun-dried tomatoes open, releasing the scent of garlic and herbs suspended in oil. Yum. I drain the pasta in my colander, steam fogging my face, then toss it with the oil, tomatoes, and fresh basil into the pot, letting it fry.
“You sure I can’t help?” Knox stands, testing his weight on his injured ankle.
“Just sit.”
He settles into a chair at the table as I carry the pasta over, then grab plates and forks. I pour two glasses of red wine and place them next to our plates. Almost like cooking for a boyfriend…
I raise my glass. “To surviving another day.”
“To unexpected hospitality.” He clinks his glass with mine.
The pasta tastes even better than it smells, the sharp tang of tomatoes balanced by the fresh sweetness of basil.
“So.” I twirl pasta around my fork. “Where were you headed when my fire escape interrupted your journey?”
He chews slowly, his face revealing nothing. “Reconnaissance.”
“Of what?”
“The area. I map safe zones, resources, zombie clusters.”
“For yourself, or…?”
“It’s good to know the territory.”
Non-answer. I need another angle. “How long have you been out there?”
“Since the beginning.” His eyes meet mine, then slide away.
“Where do you sleep? When you’re not falling off buildings, I mean.”
“Wherever’s safe.” He takes another bite. “This is good.”
He’s not going to tell me. And he’s definitely not going to ask me to come with him. Would I even want that? “You’re very skilled at not answering questions.”
“You’re not very skilled at asking them.”
“Fine.” I refill our wine glasses. “Safer topics. Favorite movie?”
“Die Hard.”
“Of course.” I roll my eyes. “Let me guess, because it’s realistic?”
“Because it’s entertaining.” Something in his expression softens. “Yours?”
“Pride and Prejudice. The Keira Knightley version. Did you know there’s also one with zombies?”
“No.” His eyes pore over my glitter eyeshadow, lips curving. “But I did know the first part. You’re exactly what I’d expect from a Jane Austen fan.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Princess in a tower, waiting for someone to rescue her.”
I slam my glass down, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “I rescued you, remember? While you were bleeding out in the street?”
“Point taken.” He raises his hands in mock surrender, but I catch the satisfied glint in his eyes. He wanted to provoke me.
“So what did you do before all this?” I ask.
“Marine Corps. Demolitions.”
“You blow stuff up for a living?”
“Used to.” He studies me over the rim of his glass. “What about you?”
“Existed. Took up space. Spent my father’s money.” And was his little experiment and my brother’s nuisance. “Nothing useful.”
“And now you garden, filter water, and perform emergency medicine. Not bad.”
“Necessity is a bitch.” I twirl more pasta.
“And the katana?”
“I fenced.”
“That explains it.”
“Not really. Completely different weapon. But the footwork transfers.”
Outside, the sun sinks lower, painting the room in amber light. In the distance, a zombie howls, the sound like metal grinding against bone.
Stupid Wolf-zombies.
“They’re more active at dusk,” I say, more to fill the silence than anything. I never like the noises, which is why I usually sleep with headphones on.
Knox nods, eyes fixed on the darkening horizon. “You ever worry about them finding you up here?”
My fork clatters against the plate. “They don’t… I mean, they haven’t yet.”
“Yet. Luck doesn’t last forever, princess.”
“Speaking from experience? Did you lose your community?”
He sets down his fork, shoulders tensing. “Something like that.”
I shouldn’t dig. But my mouth moves faster than my brain. “Something or someone?”
His eyes meet mine. “Both.”
“Sorry.” I push pasta around my plate. “I don’t usually… talk to people. I’m out of practice.”
“It’s fine.” His tone says it’s anything but. “Everyone’s lost someone.”
Truth is, I’ve never had enough people in my life to lose in the first place. I concentrate on my wineglass, swirling the burgundy liquid, admiring how it catches the dying light like rubies. Three sips to finish it. Maybe four.
He drains his wine glass in one long swallow. “You mentioned no friends. Not even in school?”
“Homeschooled.” I can tell him that. “I kind of was sick my whole life. Really sick. Some rare genetic thing no one could figure out.”
“That explains the penthouse quarantine vibe.”
“Yeah, well…” I roll up my sleeve, revealing the constellation of small, circular scars dotting my forearm.
“My father dragged me to a million doctors and a million tests.” BC-7, but I can’t tell him that.
“Eventually, we found a treatment. By then, I was already too old for school. I would have loved to go to college, but well, you know what happened.”
His gaze lingers on my scars, his expression unreadable.
I yank my sleeve back down. “What about you? High school football hero?”
“Hardly.” His lips curve into a half-smile. “Detention regular, but I was smart.”
“Let me guess—you were building pipe bombs while the teacher wasn’t looking.”
“Thermite, actually.” The smile reaches his eyes now. “In college. Burns hot enough to melt metal. Nearly took out the whole east building.”
I snort wine through my nose, unprepared for the mental image of Knox with singed eyebrows. “Did you get ex-matriculated?”
“Would’ve been, if the chemistry professor hadn’t vouched for my ‘scientific curiosity.’” He makes air quotes with his fingers. “Marine recruiter showed up days later. Said they’d pay me to blow shit up legally. My teacher had some connections.”
“Dream job.”
“It was.” Something shadows his face before he shakes it off. “What would you have been? If…” He gestures vaguely at the apocalyptic world beyond my windows.
“Fashion designer, maybe.”
“That I believe.”
The compliment warms me more than it should.
When we’re done eating, Knox stands, limping toward the sink with his plate.
“Leave it,” I say. “I’ll clean up.”
“I can help—”
“You’re injured.” I take the plate from his hands, our fingers brushing, and I wish I could hold his hand for a teeny tiny moment. “Sit down. Please.”
He studies me, then nods once before relaxing on the couch.
The next morning, I wake to find him already up, attempting push-ups with his knees next to the couch. His muscles flex under Jacob’s borrowed t-shirt as he counts under his breath.
“Most people take sick days when they fall off buildings.” I step into the room.
“Most people don’t survive falling off buildings.” He pushes up one final time, then hauls himself back up on the couch. “How’s the pasta supply?”
“Almost extinct. Hope you like rice.”
Days blur together after that. Three more sunrises, three more sunsets. Knox’s ankle improves enough for him to pace the penthouse, and we establish routines. Breakfast together, checking his wounds, me in the garden while he exercises, afternoons reading side by side in comfortable silence.
Sometimes, he draws my feet onto his lap, and massages them or lets his fingers graze across my skin. Telly bristles at me for letting him do that, but I kind of like it. Who wouldn’t?
At night, we prepare dinner together and talk about nothing substantial.
By day six, he can walk without limping. By day eight, we’re almost out of rice, too.
“Running low?” Knox asks as I measure out the last cup of rice for dinner.
“We’re fine,” I say. “I’ve got canned goods.”
But he knows the truth. Our food is dwindling, and his promised ‘one day’ has stretched to eight. Soon he’ll leave.
I’m sure he needs to report back somewhere because he has responsibilities elsewhere. Everyone leaves eventually.
Unless I give him a reason to stay.