I wake slowly, each ache and throb making itself known as I try to shift under the blankets. My head feels like it’s stuffed with wool, and I can’t quite manage to keep my eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time. Everything feels foggy, disconnected, like I’m floating just outside my body.

I catch a glimpse of Dash beside me, he’s reclining back and reading a book. I turn away, trying to keep what’s left of my pride intact. “You…you don’t have to stay,” I mumble, my voice coming out weaker than I wanted. “I’m just… tired. That’s all.”

Dash doesn’t budge. “It’s alright,” he says quietly, like he knows exactly what’s going on.

“No, no… you should go,” I insist, my mind scrambling for something urgent to send him off. “Go… check the water barrels.”

“They’re full. I checked this morning.”

I frown, the gears in my brain grinding. “Then… then check the firewood?”

“We’ve got enough firewood to last the week,” he replies, calm as ever.

I squeeze my eyes shut, clinging to one last shred of logic. “Then… the laptops. Someone…someone should check the laptops.”

There’s a pause, and I feel him shift beside me. “We haven’t had laptops for years, Sage.”

“Right.” I huff, frustrated at my own scrambled thoughts. “Well… fine. Then go… keep an eye on the bombs,” Something in me recoils at that word so I switch gears, “or… the squirrels.” I have no idea what I’m saying, and I hate that he’s watching me spiral into nonsense. “Just… go do…something.”

Dash lets out a soft laugh, the sound warm and patient, as he gently tucks the blankets around my shoulders. “I think the squirrels are safe,” he murmurs, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Now rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

The fog in my head is pulling me under again, but I manage one last protest. “Fine,” I grumble, burrowing deeper under the blankets. “But…if I hear about…a squirrel crisis…”

“You’ll be the first to know,” he says softly, staying by my side.

I want to argue, to tell him to stop looking at me like I’m made of glass, but I’m too far gone. The last thing I feel is his steady presence beside me. I feel unsettled as I sink into sleep again, wishing he would go and leave me be.

I wake and it’s dark. I hear the fire crackling in the stove and the light from the solar lamp near Dash stabs at my eyes, so I quickly squeeze me eyes closed, groaning. I hear a click and open my eyes to darkness.

“Better?” Dash asked. I could hear him shifting and shuffling things around.

“Mm, yes, thanks,” I murmur, unsure what else to say.

“I’m happy to report, there has been no squirrel crises while you slept.”

I smile, embarrassment coming on strong as I remember my nonsensical attempts to get him to leave. I startle as I remember that I mentioned checking on bombs and cringe, “I said to check on bombs, didn’t I?” I asked apologetically.

Dash chuckles, his voice low and steady. “You did. Gave me a real scare, too. Thought I might have missed a whole armory somewhere.”

I laugh weakly, though it hurts a little. “I was… out of it.” But even as I brush it off, the word bombs hangs heavy in the air, tugging at memories I’d rather not revisit on a personal level. I settle back against the pillow, trying to breathe through the fog still clouding my thoughts.

The word alone brings back the eerie silence that followed, the days of orange skies and acrid smoke that clawed its way into our lungs. The bombs hadn’t been the tactical kind meant to take out specific targets—no, these had been blunt instruments, indiscriminate and devastating. Whole cities disappeared overnight. The rest of us were left scrambling in the dark, trying to piece together what was left of the world. While I am used to talking about the bombings since it’s often all I’m talking about with others, I’m taking in their stories differently than when I remember how it felt for me. My own experience.

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Some nights, I still hear them, the deep, echoing booms reverberating through my bones, though it’s been two years since that day. And in the aftermath, what we survived on was fear— fear of what comes next, fear of strangers, fear of each other. Somehow, we adapted, built camps, clung together where we could. But what we lost… I don’t think we’ll ever get that back.

The memories feel like scars, healed over but sensitive to the touch. And as much as I want to brush it off, to pretend that life went on smoothly, it didn’t. I often tell others how resilient we are as humans and in a lot of ways that is true, but this? It tore our world apart both figuratively and literally. The ache is there, especially on nights like this, where the air feels heavier and the world quieter, like it’s holding its breath.

I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, trying to shake the feeling. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring that back into focus,” I murmur, my voice raspy.

Dash just shrugs, his face soft in the firelight. “Don’t apologize,” he says, a gentle firmness in his tone. “We all carry pieces of it.”

I let his words settle, grounding me, easing the weight in my chest. But the ache lingers, a faint pulse I can’t quite shake. I feel Dash shift, and then his hand is there, a cup of water in it, nudging toward me.

“Here,” he murmurs. “Drink.”

I take the cup, my hand trembling slightly, and bring it to my lips. The coolness of the water soothes the raw ache in my throat, and I sip slowly, feeling the chill spread through my fever-warmed body. I barely manage half the cup before lowering it, but he doesn’t push me. Instead, he sets it down beside me and reaches for a small piece of bread.

“Try this too,” he says, breaking off a piece and holding it out. “Just a bite.”

I make a face, but the look in his eyes is steady, and somehow, that calm insistence is enough. I take the bread from him, nibbling at the edge. It’s rough and dry, but something about his presence makes it bearable. Like I’m not alone in this, even if I don’t want to admit that I need it.

“Thanks,” I say after a moment, my voice soft.

Dash shrugs, his gaze flickering to the fire, and he doesn’t say anything for a while. But I catch the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and something about it brings a small warmth to my chest, like an ember reigniting.

After a few moments, I find myself saying, “I used to hate relying on people. Even before…all this.” I motion vaguely, like that could sum up everything that happened, the bombs and the fallout and the world we live in now. “Guess I’m still stubborn about it.

He watches me, his expression patient, a touch curious. “It’s not a weakness, needing people,” he says, his voice low but unwavering.

I let out a breath, half a laugh. “Maybe. But it’s easier said than done.” I close my eyes, trying to block out the flood of memories. “All I could think about, when it happened, was how alone I felt. I was surrounded by people, but I felt like… like there was this wall around me.” I trail off, unsure why I’m saying all this.

When I glance at him, there’s something understanding in his eyes. “I get it,” he says, voice soft. “After everything, it’s hard to trust… to rely on anyone. But it’s okay to let people in sometimes. At least a little.”

For a moment, his words hang there, filling the silence between us. I reach for the cup of water again, taking another sip to buy myself time. “Do you let people in?” I challenge. I can’t help it.

He gives a small shrug, fighting a smile, his gaze fixed on the fire. Instead of answering my questions, he said, “I think… if you find someone worth trusting, maybe it’s worth it.”

I look at him, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and vulnerability. It’s been so long since I’ve let myself feel like this—open, unguarded, even for a moment. I know every person in camp’s story and history. Everyone, but his. I’m curious what his life was like before the bombs.

I meet his gaze, feeling that strange pull of trust that I haven’t allowed myself in so long. “I don’t even know what you were like before,” I murmur, the words escaping before I can stop them. “I know everyone else’s stories. But with you… it’s like there’s this wall.”

Dash’s gaze softens, a flicker of something unguarded in his eyes, and for a moment, I think he might open up. But he just shrugs, that small, reserved smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’m stubborn about it, too,” he says, voice steady and unassuming.

I laugh softly, the sound a little rough from the dryness in my throat. “Stubborn doesn’t seem quite right,” I reply, watching him. “You’re just… solid.” It’s the only word I can think of to describe the quiet, unyielding presence that he carries.

Dash tilts his head, as if considering my choice of words. “Solid works, I guess.” He lets a hint of a smile show, and for a moment, there’s an almost boyish warmth in his expression.

I settle deeper into the blankets, letting the quiet hang between us, no longer as uncomfortable as before. Dash leans back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the flickering firelight, and I realize just how grateful I am that he’s here, sharing this silence, grounding me.

“Maybe…” I say, surprising even myself, “maybe I’m not so great at letting people in either. But I think… this is different.”

Our eyes meet, and for the first time in years, I feel a hint of something like hope—delicate, quiet, but there all the same. It’s terrifying and I close my eyes, trying to turn off the connection that I feel when I’m around him. This isn’t a real relationship, I remind myself.