FOUR #2
“Then why did you?” I wonder, actually wanting the answer. There has to be a reason for risking their life for a stranger, and I’d love to know what that is, given how prickly my host has been since the rescue.
They’re silent for a long moment, long enough that I start to wonder if they’ll even answer. Then, with their voice lowered enough to only barely be considered a whisper, they say, “Because someone I once knew would have done the exact same.”
I catch the single word in that sentence.
Knew. Not know. Past tense. That tells me a whole lot without explanation, and I don’t dare touch the topic.
Whoever that person is, I know for certain their grief still lingers under the surface of their skin, buried there deep enough that Stranger looks down at the ruined carpet.
It’s in the way they hold themselves, the way they keep checking the window over and over again, the way a hand brushes the brim of their cap as if they’re making sure it’s still there.
So the hat actually matters.
Good to know.
“When the street clears, feel free to leave,” Stranger says quietly, and a weird jolt goes through me, almost like a panic I don’t actually understand.
“What about you?” I ask before I can think better of it.
Stranger shrugs with a nonchalance I don’t quite buy. “I was already leaving.”
“Where are you heading?” The question slips out as if I’ve lost all control of my tongue, already knowing I won’t get a proper reply, because that seems to be the way of things with my savior.
Sure enough, I receive nothing but an unimpressed glare before they glance back at the window.
The reaction makes me huff an unexpected laugh, right before I groan in pain when my side smarts uncomfortably, a shooting pain spreading from the deep slice that is stinging like an absolute bitch.
Stranger’s eyes snap back to me and, for the briefest moment, I’m convinced I catch them soften with something akin to concern.
It only lasts a fleeting second before a Biter bumps against something outside, and the softness disappears entirely, leaving nothing but a cold chill that makes me shiver.
Careful to keep out of sight, Stranger moves toward the window again.
I closely watch how they walk, the way every movement is controlled and already thought out, the placement of each foot something to be in awe of.
I catch how they favor one knee over the other after their fall earlier, spot the tension that has returned to their shoulders, the exhaustion they’re carrying.
There’s no doubt they’re tired. Hurt. Hungry, if the small grumble I heard only seconds ago is anything to go by.
And they’re alone.
That thought comes with a weird pull in my chest, one I can’t even explain.
One that isn’t exactly disliked, either.
Which is wildly inconvenient, because I’ve known this person for less than thirty minutes and they’ve done nothing but threaten to shoot me twice, glare a lot, and given me exactly one answer to all the questions I’ve asked.
Stranger looks back at me suddenly, and I startle a little, only for them to snap, “Quit staring.”
“I’m not staring,” I argue, even though I very much was staring.
“You literally are,” they counter, calling me out on my own bullshit.
I shake my head in denial. “I call it observing.”
“That’s just a fancy word for staring.”
“Fine. Then I’m staring,” I relent, lips twitching with that strange amusement.
I receive a sassy look from the unimpressed stranger before they make a single demand. “Then how about you stop?”
Instantly, I drop my gaze to the floor like it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen in my life, even though every single one of my instincts remains one hundred percent trained on them.
On the scent under the blockers. The fear hidden in the sarcasm.
The way they keep their body between me and the window, and not because they’re trying to protect me.
Oh, no. They’re keeping every exit within reach.
“You’re not from one of the nearby groups,” they suddenly note, and I almost look up from the floor.
“Nope,” I say, shaking my head slowly, answering even though it wasn’t a question.
There’s a pause before they ask, “Rogue?”
I don’t bother withholding an answer. “For now.”
I look up just in time to catch their questioning gaze, and I tell them, “I don’t really stay in one place for very long.”
“Smart,” they note, sounding almost impressed but not quite.
“Lonely,” I counter, the word slipping out without really meaning to. It’s made worse when Stranger grows still, the word hanging between us like it’s third-wheeling a very awkward moment.
Regretting my loose tongue, I’m internally cursing myself when Stranger quietly speaks. “Lonely keeps people alive.”
I’m shaking my head before I can stop myself, lifting my eyes to theirs before I can think better of it. “Nah. Careful keeps people alive. Lonely? That just makes it quieter when they die.”
I feel the air change suddenly. It’s only a small change, damn near nothing, but I definitely feel it. They feel it, too, because their fingers loosen on the gun for all of two seconds before tightening again, right before they dryly retort, “Pretty poetic for an apocalypse, don’t you think?”
“It’s something I carve into bathroom stalls,” I joke, trying to break the tension. Trying to ease Stranger’s shoulders even a fraction.
“Huh. Classy. I figured you were stealing lines from greeting cards,” they counter, and I’m almost certain I hear an undercurrent of humor in their words.
“I have a wide range of talents,” I quip, and a small sound escapes them. It’s not a laugh, exactly, but it’s definitely close enough that something in my chest wraps around it with a strange kind of satisfaction. A dangerous feeling if I’ve ever felt one.
Stranger ruins it a moment later, muttering, “The street is clearing.”
It’s not. Not fully. Only enough for someone fast and reckless to make it to the building over. Someone like Stranger.
Sure enough, they start gathering their things with a practiced speed that impresses me.
They check their pockets, tighten the single strap on their backpack, then check their pockets again.
I haven’t seen the blockers, but I know they’re carrying them.
Pretty sure I know where they are, too, if their lingering hand near their zipper is anything to consider.
Something tells me there’s a hidden pocket stitched on the inside of that jacket, close to the body and well protected.
I look away before they catch me noticing things I have no business noticing, swallowing hard as I fight the strange little panic that’s flared to life in my chest as I say, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to travel alone when you’re hurt.”
As though my words carry very little impact, Stranger shrugs and mutters, “I probably shouldn’t do a whole lot of things, and yet here we are.”
Refusing to let their prickly side get the better of me, still combating the strange panic bubbling in my chest, I offer, “I can go with you.”
I’ll be damned if the room doesn’t suddenly still, every ounce of humor or ease evaporating as though it never existed in the first place. If looks could kill, I’m pretty sure I would already be dead by now, because the look I receive is enough to peel paint.
“No thanks,” they refuse bluntly.
“You saved my life, though,” I argue, as if that’s going to help me plead my case. Hell, I’m pretty sure they’re already re—
“I’m regretting it right now,” they quip, cementing my thoughts before they’re even fully formed. I can’t even be offended or hurt, because I can kind of understand where they’re coming from, even if it doesn’t sit right with me.
I won’t back down, though.