Chapter 2
TWO
PARIS
My thighs burn with each downward step, the backpack slapping against my spine in rhythm with my racing pulse. One hand trails along the railing for balance, the other clutching my flashlight like it’s the last bottle of champagne on earth.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
Four hundred and six days of carefully constructed isolation shattered because I can’t let Hot Guy die on my doorstep. Because apparently I still have a conscience. Inconvenient thing.
My flashlight beam bounces off concrete walls, catching dust motes that swirl in its path. I haven’t used these stairs in months. No point when you never leave. The descent takes forever, each floor marked by a faded number stenciled on the wall. Five… four… three…
“Please don’t be dead already.” I round the last flight. “That would make this whole exercise like particularly pointless.”
At the ground floor, I press my ear against the metal door leading outside. Nothing yet. Zombies aren’t exactly known for their stealth, so we should be fine for now.
I grab the wooden doorstop I keep near the exit, and check for my keys again. No way am I getting locked out of my own fortress because of some bleeding stranger. I ease the door open to peer outside.
Moonlight bathes the alley in silver-blue, and there he is.
Dead? Only one way to know.
I wedge the doorstop, then run to his side, dropping to my knees. Up close, Hot Guy is even more—well, hot. Strong jaw dusted with stubble, full lips twisted in pain, and younger than I expected, maybe early thirties… Backpack torn open in the fall, contents scattered.
“Hey. Hey, you.” I poke his shoulder, then touch it. First human contact in over a year, and my fingertips tingle from the warmth of him through his jacket. “Can you hear me?”
A groan. His eyes crack open, revealing unfocused gray eyes, pupils dilated unevenly. Maybe a concussion?
In the distance, the unmistakable sound of shuffling feet and moans drifts toward us. Took their sweet time, not that I’m complaining.
“We need to move.” I drop my pack, fingers fumbling with the zipper. “You picked a really inconvenient time to fall off my building.”
His lips move, forming words I can’t quite catch. I lean closer.
“…the fuck?” His voice rasps, barely audible.
“Charming.” I tear open a gauze packet with my teeth, turn his head, and press it against the gash on the back. “Hold this.”
He doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. His hand flops uselessly at his side.
“Please.” I take his hand and force his palm down on the gauze. His skin feels fever-hot against mine, callused where mine is soft. “Hold. This.”
His fingers twitch, then press down. Progress.
I secure the gauze with a quick wrap of bandage around his head, tucking the end in with zero finesse. “This isn’t exactly hospital-grade care, but we need to move before you become a midnight snack.”
The moans grow louder.
“Up.” I slide my arm under his shoulders, bracing myself. “Come on, big guy. Help me out.”
His body tenses, muscles coiling as he struggles to coordinate his movements. He’s heavy, at least a foot taller than my five-three, and built like someone who’s survived the apocalypse through sheer physical prowess rather than hiding in a penthouse.
His face contorts in pain. “Ankle.”
I glance down. It looks fine, but with his boots and pants on, I doubt I would come to any other conclusion. Please let it not be broken.
“We can’t stay here.” I brace myself harder, digging my heels into the pavement. “On three. One, two—”
He pushes up before I reach three, nearly toppling us both. For a second, we sway dangerously, my arm wrapped around his waist, his arm heavy across my shoulders. The scent of sweat, blood, and something earthy that makes my head swim hits me.
“The door.” I nod toward our escape route.
We shuffle forward, an awkward three-legged race. His breath comes in sharp bursts against my hair, and each step, his muscles tense against mine.
“Almost there,” I lie. We’ve covered maybe five feet.
“You’re strong,” he murmurs. “For someone so small.”
“And you’re heavy,” I grunt, bearing more of his weight as his good leg threatens to buckle.
A louder moan, closer now. I glance back and count four shambling figures turning the corner.
“Faster.”
Hot Guy’s fingers dig into my shoulder as he forces himself to move. Blood seeps through the bandage on his head, trickling onto me.
Ten feet. Five. The zombies’ shuffling quickens at the sight of us, hungry groans rising in volume. I can almost feel their cold fingers on my back, imagination running wild with four hundred and six days of nightmares. Do they want me, too?
We hit the door harder than intended, his weight throwing us against it.
He grunts in pain while I maneuver us through the narrow opening, then kick the doorstop away.
The heavy metal slams shut as the first zombie reaches for us, fingers scraping uselessly against steel, followed by a thud as it throws itself against the barrier.
Rude. He’s not going to be your food, Zombie. Hot Guy is mine now.
“Tell me your name.” I’m tired of calling him Hot Guy in my head.
“Knox,” he manages through gritted teeth.
“Knox. I’m Paris. Nice to finally meet you.”
He gives me a confused look, which I ignore, because I’m not going to tell him that I was stalking him. Kind of.
“We’re safe for now.” I fumble for my flashlight, clicking it on. “But we’ve got twelve flights of stairs ahead of us, and you’re looking less hot by the minute.”
“Twelve?”
“Penthouse.” I flash him a grim smile. “Think of it as physical therapy.”
His laugh is more of a wheeze. “Lead the way, Paris.”
One flight up, Knox leans heavily against the wall, face pale and slick with sweat. I wrap his arm tighter around my shoulders, feeling the tremors running through him.
“Break time over.” My own muscles scream in protest. “Only eleven more to go.”
Three flights up, we pause again. He slumps down the wall, head lolling back against concrete. My shirt sticks to my skin, damp with both our sweat.
“Y’know,” I pant, “most guys buy me dinner first before bleeding all over me.”
His eyes find mine in the dim flashlight beam. “Rain check?”
I laugh despite everything. “Sure.”
Six flights up, my legs threaten mutiny. Knox has gone quieter, more focused, his jaw set in determination. We move in a rhythm—three steps, pause, three more steps.
“Why’d you… help me?” he asks between breaths.
I don’t have a good answer. “Maybe I’m bored. Maybe I’m stupid. Probably the latter.”
By floor ten, we’re both running on fumes. His arm feels like lead across my shoulders, his steps increasingly unsteady. I talk nonsense about my plants, about the zombies I’ve named on the street below, about how I haven’t had to wear heels in over a year.
“Two more,” I say after what feels like hours. “Almost home.”
Home. Like I’m inviting him into something more than a temporary shelter.
He grunts, head drooping. “Better be worth it.”
“Champagne minibar, memory foam mattresses, and zero zombies.” I adjust my grip. “Five-star apocalypse accommodation.”
When we finally reach the twelfth floor, I could cry with relief. He sags against me, barely conscious, and the katana at my back digs painfully into my spine.
Fumbling with my keys outside my apartment feels surreal, like I’ve returned from a normal night out instead of dragging a half-conscious stranger up twelve flights of stairs.
Said stranger, leans against the wall, eyes half-closed, blood congealing in his hair.
My fingers shake as I work the lock, partly from exhaustion, partly from the insanity of what I’m doing.
“Almost there.” The lock clicks, and I shoulder the door, dragging us both across the threshold into my perfect, pristine sanctuary that’s about to get blood all over its imported Persian rugs. “Home sweet apocalypse.”
We stumble through the velvet drapes I installed to hide the entrance, the heavy fabric brushing against our faces.
“Let me get some light.” I ease him down onto the nearest rug, propping him against the wall beneath a Renaissance reproduction I’ve always hated. “Stay.”
Like he’s going anywhere.
I light three candles, placing them strategically around the living room. The flames catch, illuminating the space in a warm glow that makes everything look deceptively normal. Except for the bleeding man on my floor.
“Medical stuff.” I rush to the bookshelf where I keep the journals stolen from 9B, a doctor who fled at the first sign of trouble. Selfish, but useful for me.
I grab the thickest one, ‘Emergency Medicine for First Responders,’ and drop it beside Knox before retrieving my medical kit from the bathroom. It’s a hodgepodge of stolen gauze, suture kits, antiseptics, bandages, and whatever else looked useful during my scavenging runs.
He watches me through half-lidded eyes as I spread everything out on the rug beside him. His pupils still look uneven. Definitely concussion.
“I should warn you.” I flip frantically through the book. “I’m not a doctor. My medical expertise comes from binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy before the world ended.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh or a groan. “Comforting.”
I find the page on head wounds, scanning it quickly.
“Okay, so… clean the wound, assess for skull fracture, apply pressure to stop bleeding, then sutures if needed.” I look up at him.
“How hard can it be, right?” I kneel beside Knox, peeling back the blood-soaked gauze to reveal a three-inch gash. “This looks… manageable.”
It doesn’t.
It looks terrifying. But admitting that won’t help either of us.
I soak a gauze pad in antiseptic and dab at it gently.
Knox hisses, flinching away.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “But infection will kill you faster than zombies these days.”
I work in silence for a minute, cleaning away blood to see the actual wound. It’s deep but clean-edged and on the buzzed part of his hair. The book says that’s good for stitching.