vi, my one and only @levionlyyours - Tumblr Blog

Exist For Love - Alternate Ending

☆ Summary: The pandemic ended the world, but the infected made sure it stayed dead. You learned to survive by trusting nothing and no one, least of all a stranger with a voice filled with venom and soldier's eyes.

You don't want a partner. You don't want a witness to your damage. But Levi becomes both. Neither of you is looking for attachment. Not when it feels as dangerous as the infected on the road. But here you are. Crossing the country with a stranger in a world, if it could even be called such anymore, where the walking dead were the dominant beings.

And the only thing left for you to do is to endure and survive. After all, nothing else exists. Certainly not love.

☆ Pairing: Levi x Female Reader

☆ Genre/Tags: Zombie Apocalypse AU, The Last of Us AU, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Relationship of Convenience, Slow Burn, Angst, Fluff, Smut

☆ Content Warnings: Angst, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, character death, blood & injury, gore, animal death, child death, suicide, suicide attempt, attempted rape, major character injury, implied/referenced cannibalism, torture, explicit sexual content

☆ Word Count: 18.9k

☆ a/n: for those who can't deal with angst or bad endings, who want to see more of Cinder and Levi, or who just need to see these two have their well-deserved happy ending—this one's for you <3 if you'd like to skip straight to the new content/new ending, skip to where Levi and Cinder go into the mansion!

☆ AO3 Link

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | Alt Ending

[ Art by _Conny_Lol ]

The weight of your backpack bites into your shoulders. You’re in the home stretch. Dewey, Washington stretches around you. It isn’t really a town. It’s more like a scattering of houses and narrow streets, mailboxes leaning at tired angles and lawns swallowed by waist-high grass and vines that reclaim the sidewalks. The air smells wet and green, like rain that never left.

Levi walks beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You wish you could’ve always been walking this way together, but you know you wouldn’t have wanted to if you had the chance without the relationship. You didn’t realize your feelings for him until Elizabeth, after all. You’re just glad it happened though. You’re goddamn glad it was Hange’s birthday. That you both decided to drink. It lowered your inhibitions enough and stripped away the careful armor Levi wore to allow him to spill out his true feelings. You’re grateful. You really are. You don’t wish it happened sooner. It happened at just the right time.

You keep glancing at Levi without meaning to. You still can’t believe that you’re so close to the bunker. You’re almost there, and Levi is still standing here beside you, living and breathing. Your brain hasn’t caught up to the fact that he’s still here, that he made it, that you both did.

“So,” he says after a while, casually, like you’re not about to reach the equivalent of heaven in the form of a bunker. “First thing we do when we get there?”

You snort softly, adjusting the strap of your shotgun. “You mean after we sink to our knees and sob from joy?”

He hums. “After that.”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. You glance at him. “Any ideas?”

His mouth twitches, and then he lifts his eyebrows and gives you a half-smile that is entirely unfair given the circumstances. It takes you a second to read his eyes.

Oh.

You scoff, heat creeping up your neck. “You’re unbelievable.”

His smile widens, taking a smug shape to it. “You asked.”

You roll your eyes, but you smile too. Because if the world is ending and everything hurts and you’re walking toward an underground bunker in the middle of nowhere, then yeah—you want that too. You want something stupidly human and intimate just to prove you’re still alive.

“We should sprint there,” you say. You don’t even know why. Maybe it’s just the thrill. Maybe it’s impatience.

He stops walking so abruptly you nearly bump into him. He looks at you for a moment. “You’re on,” he says. Before you can blink, he takes off.

“Levi!” you shout, but he’s already running, laughter echoing down the street. “Oh, you absolute ass,” you mutter, but you’re already moving, legs burning as you chase him. You follow the sight of him disappearing around the bend. This feels so stupid, but it’s right. You deserve this after all you’ve been through. You think so, anyway.

You run. It’s finally not from fear or from death, but from something stupid and free. Even though your thighs ache. Even though the backpack bounces painfully against your spine. The houses blur together. Somewhere, you’re laughing too, wildly and breathlessly. The wind has never felt so good against your face.

He looks back once, just once, and calls, “You’re slow!”

“Keep talking!” you yell back, pushing harder.

You think you run for about two minutes when it suddenly appears. The mansion looms at the end of the road. It’s enormous, half-swallowed by the first. Ivy climbs up the walls, all tangled and thick. The windows are covered with grime. Trees surround you, the roots sinking into the driveway. The place should feel terrifying. It should feel cursed. But it already feels like home.

Levi slows first, skidding to a stop at the edge of the property, hands on his knees as he breathes in. You stumble to a halt beside him, chest heaving, legs trembling, and for a second, you just stand there together, bent and breathless, staring up at the mansion.

“Holy shit,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s it.”

He leads you past the rusted front gates that are half buried under vines, and around to the left side of the mansion. You see it. A storm shelter door built deep into the ground, the stairs leading down rimmed with moss and flowers. The metal is streaked with rust but it’s solid. Your stomach flips. This is real, your mind insists, over and over. This is it. This is where you stop running. You made it.

Levi takes the stairs two at a time, practically hopping down. You follow more carefully, fingers brushing the cold concrete as you descend. The air becomes cooler and damper the deeper you go.

He stops at the bottom. The keypad waits beside the door. He lifts his hand—and freezes. He doesn’t touch it. He just stands there, staring, his breath slowing, shoulders rising and falling. He looks afraid to move. Then he turns to you. He looks stunned. Like someone dropped him into a dream and he’s scared he’ll wake up if he blinks.

“Cinder,” he says quietly, your name fragile on his tongue.

You don’t say anything. You step forward, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, to see the faint tremor in his fingers. He swallows hard, eyes searching your face. You know what he’s thinking. You didn’t think you’d actually make it. Not really. But you did. Both of you did. Whatever waits beyond that door—dark or light, safety or sorrow—doesn’t matter. This moment, right here, is yours.

You reach for his hand. For a long second, neither of you move. The world holds its breath.

Then Levi nods once, snapping back into reality. He turns to the keypad.

His fingers hover over the keypad for half a second longer than necessary. You feel your stomach twist for a dark, treacherous moment. What if it doesn’t work? What if the code is wrong, or the power is dead, or Levi forgot the passcode, and the world takes one final cruel laugh at your expense and leaves you standing in the dirt with nothing but a locked door and hope bleeding out of your hands?

You brace yourself without realizing it. Your heart beats so hard it hurts. You beg the universe to be kind. Just this once.

Levi presses the final button. There’s a pause. A breath.

Then the lock clicks.

The sound is so small, almost polite, but it feels like a gunshot. The door answers with a low mechanical hiss as it begins to open. The door pushes open toward you slightly. A quiet invitation.

It works. It actually fucking works.

Levi lets out a broken, disbelieving laugh. His eyes shine in the dim light, staring at the miracle he never allowed himself to believe in. He steps back and gestures toward the door, palm up. “After you,” he says hoarsely.

You hesitate. The darkness inside swallows the light outside. Everything inside you screams that this is all too good to be true, that safety has always come with teeth. But Levi is behind you—with you. You step forward anyway.

The air inside is cool and still, untouched by weather or nature. For a few seconds, it’s pitch-black. You’re about to turn on your flashlight when Levi fumbles along the wall behind you until his fingers find a switch.

You hear a click. Then the lights roar to life all at once.

You gasp. You’re standing in what looks like a living room, with couches and a low table. Shelves line the walls. Shelves full of DVD’s and CD’s. Levi was right. It’s a huge fucking collection. To the right, a compact kitchen glows under the lights. The counters are near spotless, and all of the appliances are intact. Two hallways stretch off on either side, disappearing into the depths of the bunker. You have no idea how big this place is.

You take a step inside. Then another. The floor feels like it might give out from beneath you if you move too fast. Your fingers brush the arm of the couch. The fabric is rough beneath your fingertips. You inhale deeply. The air doesn’t smell like mold or blood or death. It smells like nothing at all.

You made it. You’re safe now.

Your vision blurs before you realize you’re crying. You turn, tears spilling freely now. The weight of everything you’ve survived crashes down all at once, and you launch yourself at Levi with a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He barely has time to react before your arms around his neck, face pressed into his shoulder, fingers gripping onto the back of his jacket.

After everything you’ve survived. Everything you’ve endured. All you’ve gained and lost before you could grasp it, watching it slip between your fingers, leaving you as everything else does. Everything you’ve been through has led you here. To safety. To home.

“We did it,” you choke. “We actually—”

His arms wrap around you, nearly crushing you, and you feel him shudder as he chokes back a sob of his own, breath hitching against your hair.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “You’re safe. We’re safe.”

You cling to each other in the center of the bunker, crying without restraint, without shame, grief and relief and disbelief tangling together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Time loses its shape. The world just becomes this—his heartbeat, his hands at your back, his whispers.

Eventually, the tears slow. The quiet settles, and then the adrenaline comes back in a restless wave. “I need to—” you say, pulling back suddenly, swiping at your face as a hysterical laugh slips out of you. “I need to check everything.”

Levi exhales a weak chuckle. He doesn’t stop you. You bolt for the kitchen first, throwing open the cabinets with shaking hands. Glasses, plates, bowls. Everything is neatly stacked, untouched and waiting to be used. No food here, but that’s fine. You’re already moving down the left hallway.

The door creaks open into a storage room, and you freeze. Shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, stacked with cans and sealed containers. The boxes are all labeled with handwriting. You take a step closer. Your breath catches as you start doing the math. You run your fingers over the labels. Rice, beans, freeze-dried vegetables, water purification tablets.

“Oh my god,” you breathe.

Decades. It’s enough food to feed you for decades.

Your knees nearly give out.

Then you notice the tarp draped along the left wall. You drag it aside with trembling hands. Behind it is a compact farm system with hydroponics and irrigation lines already in place. Beside it sits a plastic bin full of seed packets, neatly sorted. Kenny was way more organized than you expected. You sink to your knees, laughing and crying all over again, hands pressed to your mouth to stop yourself from practically screaming.

Levi skids behind you and stops. “Holy shit,” he breathes.

You look up at him through tears, something dangerously close to joy settling in you. “We don’t have to run anymore,” you whisper, hardly daring to say it out loud. You stand up and skim the shelves again, slower this time. Then you see it. Popcorn. You blink twice. You let out a stupid, breathless laugh. “No way.”

You grab the packet, the plastic crinkling under your fingers. This is ridiculous. Out of all of the things, this is what breaks you. A silly, fragile luxury that tastes normal. Like the old world. Like the world you were robbed of.

“I’m making popcorn,” you announce, already sprinting back toward the kitchen.

“Of course you are,” Levi laughs behind you.

You shove the packet into the microwave. You realize you put it the wrong way up then flip it over. You’re so excited you’re not even following simple instructions. You slam the door shut and press the popcorn button. There’s a second of nothing. Your stomach knots. Then the microwave hums to life. Your eyes sting all over again. It’s music to your ears after what feels like a decade of being deaf.

The first pop makes you flinch. Your breath catches. Your memory screams gunfire, run, get down, and you don’t even realize how you’ve frozen until Levi’s hand is suddenly at your back. He knows exactly where your mind just went.

“Hey,” he whispers. “You’re okay. It’s just popcorn.”

You nod shakily, forcing yourself to breathe, counting the pops as they come faster now. Pop. Pop-pop. Pop. The microwave beeps, and you laugh weakly at yourself as you pull the bag out, steam puffing into your face. You tear it open and grab a handful, shoving it into your mouth without hesitation. It burns, but the taste hits you like a revelation.

“Oh my god,” you moan, eyes fluttering shut as butter and salt explode across your tongue. “I forgot it tastes like this.”

Levi snorts. “You’re being dramatic.”

You answer by grabbing another handful and practically shoveling it into his mouth before he can protest. He freezes, chewing slowly, eyes widening in disbelief.

“…Holy shit,” he says around a mouthful. “That’s good.”

You grin, giddy and unhinged, feeding him more until he’s laughing and half-choking, and for a few seconds the bunker isn’t a bunker at all—it’s just a kitchen, and you’re just two people stealing food and laughing like the world never ended.

Eventually, you set the bag down and wipe your hands on your pants before heading back down the left hallway, the one with the farm system. Across from it, you open another door. More supplies. Hygiene products stacked neatly—soap, toothpaste, shampoo. You pick one up, just to feel it, marveling at the idea of being clean again. Survival gear lines the walls. Spare tools. Backups for the backups. Kenny was thorough. You’re almost sad he never got to use the thing he probably spent years building up.

Then you’re off again, down the right-side hall this time. The first door opens to a bathroom—white tile, a shower, a sink. Finally. You missed that goddamn shower in Elizabeth so much, and now it’s come back to you. Hot water. Hot fucking water.

You close the door gently and open the next one. It’s a bedroom. It’s modest. The bed is made neatly. Blankets are folded. The lamp light is a warm white. There’s a dresser and a nightstand. You spot a strange squirrel figurine on one of the shelves. It almost creeps you out.

You don’t hesitate. You slide your backpack and weapons off and fall backward onto the bed. The mattress gives a welcoming sigh. You sink into it, staring up at the ceiling as a long sigh of contentment falls from your lips. It’s soft. Softer than any mattress you’ve slept on your entire nine months on the road.

Levi appears in the doorway, watches you for half a second, and then follows suit, dropping onto the bed beside you with his own exhausted exhale. The mattress dips again. You turn your head toward him. He turns toward you.

And then, the dam finally breaks, and you both burst out laughing. The kind that hurts your ribs and steals your breath, joy and disbelief crashing together until you can barely see through the tears in your eyes.

“We’re actually here,” you gasp between laughs.

He nods, grinning so wide it almost looks painful. “We made it.”

You lie there for a while afterward, laughter fading. The quiet of the bunker settles around you. You hear water pipes tick. It’s so normal it almost hurts.

Levi turns his head toward you again, one arm bent behind his head, the other resting loosely on his chest. Goddamn, he looks more and more handsome every day. How is that possible? His eyes track the ceiling for a moment before finding you again. You see it in his eyes. He’s still waiting to wake up.

“So,” he says. “Guess this is it.”

You snort softly and roll onto your side to face him, propping your head up on your hand. “This is it,” you echo. “We wake up here. We sleep here. We cook. We argue about chores.” You huff a laugh. “You’re definitely taking over the farm system.”

“Obviously. You’ll break it.”

“Bite me.”

You both smile.

“We’ll make rules,” you say slowly, thinking out loud. “Make a schedule. Do patrols every once in a while. Movie nights. Showers longer than two minutes.” Your voice catches a little at that. “We’ll be… people again.”

Levi’s expression shifts. It softens, then deepens. “With you,” he says.

A rush of heat creeps up your neck, spreading fast and reckless. He sounds so certain. But why wouldn’t he be? You made it. You made it. There’s nothing to worry about anymore. You won’t have to worry about infected unless you go hunting, and even then, Dewey is so small you’re sure there’s nothing waiting for you. There are no hunters or members of a rebellion tracking you down. There are no broken motorcycles or raiders or spores or fucking Bloaters. You’re safe now. With him.

You don’t think about it at first. You swing one leg over his hips, then the other, settling your weight on him. You know this is where you belong. His breath stutters beneath you, hands lifting to your thighs. You lean down and kiss him. It’s slow, unrushed, nothing like the desperate, half-frantic kisses you’ve shared in borrowed moments of safety. This one tastes like salt and butter and relief and now. When you pull back just enough to breathe, his mouth curves into a faint, crooked smile.

“You taste like popcorn,” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes, even though heat curls low in your stomach. “Wow, very romantic.”

“It’s kind of great.”

You shake your head, then tilt it, a spark of memory flickering through you. “So, remember what you said earlier?” Your fingers slide into his hair.

His eyebrows lift, recognition dawning slowly. “About celebrating?”

“That’s the one.”

His hands grip at your hips, anchoring you there. “I had a few ideas.”

You smile down at him and lean to press your lips together. The weight of the world is finally—finally—off your shoulders. Whatever comes next, whatever tomorrow asks of you, this moment is yours.

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you let yourself be free. You’re not running anymore.

You’re home.

༻━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━༺

Two weeks later…

You stand at the stove with a wooden spoon in your hand, stirring venison and beans in a pan that’s actually functional. The soft simmering sound fills the bunker. The lights flicker overhead. Your shoulders are relaxed in a way they never were before. Not fully, but it’s enough that you notice the difference.

Two weeks. The number still feels unreal. Two weeks of sleeping in a bed. Two weeks of washing yourself without having to watch your back. Two weeks of waking up and knowing exactly where you are. Somewhere safe and warm and real. Somewhere you can call your forever.

Arms slide around your waist from behind, and you jump just slightly before melting back into Levi’s chest. He presses a kiss to your cheek, the warmth lingering.

“Smells good,” he says.

“You say that every time,” you smile.

“Because it’s always true.”

You lean back into him for a moment, then gently nudge him away with your elbow. “Go. Pick a movie.”

He groans theatrically. “I already know what I want.”

You glance over your shoulder. “If you say Iron Man—”

“What’s wrong with Iron Man?”

“We watched it last week,” you counter, plating the venison. “I’m tired of action. I want a horror or a thriller.”

He snorts. “We’ve had enough horror in our lives.”

“Still,” you say lightly. “We’ve been at peace for two weeks now. Maybe I miss the fear.”

He studies you for a second, like he’s checking to see if you’re joking, then shrugs. “Fine. If you regret it, that’s on you.”

You grin. “Coward.”

He disappears down the hall, muttering under his breath, while you finish cooking and portion everything out carefully. You carry both plates to the couch and set them down on the coffee table. Levi kills the overhead lights, plunging the space into darkness, then turns on the TV. The screen flickers to life. He lights a candle on the low table, the flame wavering gently. It feels safe. Domestic even. It’s yours.

He flops down beside you, taking his plate, and bumps his shoulder into yours. “Hold onto me if you get scared.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Please. Like anything in a movie will scare me after the shit we’ve seen.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

.

An hour later, your confidence is in ruins.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, curling closer to Levi, fingers digging into his shirt. “Turn it off. Turn it off right now.”

He laughs softly. “I thought nothing could scare you.”

“This is different! Why is it so quiet all of a sudden?”

He doesn’t turn it off—just pulls you closer, arms wrapping around you completely. “You’re okay.”

Something jumps onscreen and you yelp, burying your face against his chest. “Levi!”

“Alright, alright,” he says, still laughing, and pauses the movie.

You stay pressed against him, breathing him in, embarrassment warring with relief. After a moment, you mumble, “You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

“Absolutely not.” The laughter fades. Levi’s thumb traces slow circles on your arm. “We’ve been through a lot,” he says quietly.

You nod, staring at the paused screen without really seeing it. “Yeah.” Your throat tightens before you expect it to. The words slip out anyway. “I wish Hange was here.”

Levi stills, just slightly.

“I keep thinking they would’ve loved this place. The systems. The planning. They would’ve torn everything apart just to see how it worked.” You laugh weakly. “They’d be insufferable.”

He exhales slowly. “They’d be proud of you.”

Proud isn’t enough. Alive would be better.

“I miss them,” you whisper.

Levi tightens his arms around you, forehead resting against your hair. “I know,” he says.

You stay curled against Levi, the screen frozen in some half-lit hallway that you refuse to look at again, the candle’s flame the only thing moving in the room. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear. You focus on that. After a while, the quiet shifts.

“June would’ve hated this movie,” you say suddenly, the name slipping out before you can stop it.

Levi hums softly. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. June’s name lingers in the air, but it doesn’t shatter. You let yourself sit with it, with the memory of her smile, her sweet nature, her long black hair that she never even bothered to brush.

“Erwin would’ve already rearranged this place. He’d stay up for days to re-organize everything,” Levi says. You didn’t know him as well as Levi did, but you believe it anyway.

“Sasha would have gone crazy for the food here,” you half-laugh. The tears spring to your eyes, the sight of her body on the ground flashing to the forefront of your mind. You push the sight away.

Your heart aches as the names keep coming—others too, overlapping memories, fragments of voices and faces that refuse to fade. Friends. Leaders. Fighters. People who deserved more than they got.

“Shani,” you say, barely above a whisper. Levi goes still. “Jaheeim. Anthony. Marley.” You swallow hard, your fingers curling into Levi’s shirt. “They were just… kids.” Levi’s jaw tightens. You feel it before you see it. “I keep thinking about how different it could’ve been,” you admit. “If we’d been faster or smarter. If the world had just… eased up for five minutes.”

Levi stares at the TV screen. “Yeah.” The candle flickers. “That’s life, unfortunately,” he says finally.

You hate how right he sounds. You hate that there’s nothing else to say to that, no argument strong enough to undo it. Life doesn’t bargain. It just takes. You shift slightly, lifting your head to look at him, at the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the scars you’ve memorized by touch alone, the exhaustion that no amount of safety will ever fully erase.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” you say quietly.

The words feel small compared to what they mean, but they’re honest. They’re everything. You don’t know what you’d do without him. You’d feel lost. You’d feel empty. You didn’t mean for any of this to happen. You didn’t mean to be across the country with a man you hated at first. You didn’t mean to care for him the way you did when he got injured. You didn’t mean to kiss him back when he kissed you. But you did, because deep down, you knew you wanted it. You still do. You want him. You want a life with him. You won’t take anything else.

Levi looks at you like he’s about to say something. Instead, he leans down and kisses you. You melt into it. There’s nowhere else you’d rather be than right here with him. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“Me too,” he whispers.

You settle back against him, contentment spreading through you. For the first time in as long as you can remember, your thoughts don’t spiral forward in fear. You don’t picture what might break, or who you might lose next.

Nothing can touch you here.

You’re safe.

༻━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━༺

Three weeks later…

The edge of Skagit Bay isn’t really a beach in the way you remember beaches, not the postcard kind with pale sand and umbrellas. It’s darker here—dark sand, damp dirt, stones scattered by years of the tide. A row of quiet houses stands behind you, backs turned to the water.

You kick your shoes off and leave them tangled with Levi’s near the tree line, your toes sinking into cool, gritty earth as you step closer to the water. The bay stretches out wide and gray-blue. The air smells clean. You wade in together, gasping a little at the cold, eliciting laughter from you as the water climbs your legs, your waist, your ribs. Levi swears under his breath, shoulders tensing, but he keeps going until you’re both submerged enough that the chill turns exhilarating.

You swim for a while without saying much, floating on your backs, staring up at a sky that feels too big and too gentle to be as real as it is. You think about how useful your bird field guide would be right now when you see a bird circling in the air above you. You hope it’s not a bad omen. When you drift closer again, water lapping softly at your shoulders, the quiet invites conversation the way it always does. You like that about your dynamic. Your silence never feels strained, and conversation feels inevitable in a comforting way, not dooming.

“I had the worst hours when I was working. And the worst clients,” Levi says. He glances at you. “People who wanted something deep and then changed their minds halfway through. I had a client make me change her design six times. I was new and I didn’t charge her. I kick myself thinking back on it.”

You laugh, water rippling around you. “Try waitressing. You’d think asking someone if they want fries with that is a personal attack.”

“Oh, I believe it,” he says. “You’ve got that look. Customer-service trauma.”

You groan. “I had a guy once tell me his soup had a rat in it. He poured out the entire thing on the table just to prove it.”

Levi actually laughs at that. You tell him about double shifts, about sticky floors and fake smiles, about how the worst days were always the ones where nothing technically went wrong but everything still felt unbearable.

The conversation drifts—past jobs, past milestones, fragments of who you were before the world was torn apart. Even before the pandemic, there were stresses, quiet disappointments, small griefs that felt so large at the time. You talk about them gently now, as if they belonged entirely to someone else. You cradle the memories like glass.

Eventually, the words thin out. You float closer until your arms brush, until Levi’s hand finds yours under the surface, fingers lacing. You lean in first. The kiss tastes like salt. It’s the kind that says we’re not going anywhere. And by God, do you believe it. When you pull back, foreheads touching, you breathe him in and let the quiet settle again.

“We should go back to the mall in the next few weeks,” you say suddenly.

Levi blinks. Then smirks. “Oh, so you wanna get your ass sacked in another water gun fight, huh?”

“We should bring the water guns back with us,” you say, grin creeping in.

He laughs, shaking his head. “We’re gonna accidentally spray something important inside the bunker and break it.”

“There’s always outside,” you counter easily.

He just laughs harder, the sound echoing faintly across the bay. As you wade back toward shore, Levi nudges you with his shoulder. “You finish the third book of Éternel yet?”

You shake your head. “No. I’m saving it for a day I’m bored. I’m almost done anyway.”

He arches a brow. “That’ll be quite a while.”

“Exactly,” you say. You smile at him, water dripping from your hair. “I’m always having fun when I’m with you.” For once, that doesn’t feel like tempting fate. It just feels true.

You walk back toward the bunker with damp hair and sand still stubborn between your toes, the sky slowly bleeding into shades of amber and bruised purple as the sun sinks lower behind the trees. The world feels hushed in that particular way it only ever does at dusk.

Then you hear it. A distant screech echoing in the air from somewhere far inland.

You stop walking without thinking, muscles tensing on reflex alone. Your gaze snaps toward the tree line, your mind already racing through possibilities. A Runner? A Clicker? What if it’s a swarm?

Levi pauses beside you, listening. The sound doesn’t come again. “Probably animals,” he says calmly. “Fighting over territory or food.”

You swallow, nodding, forcing your shoulders to loosen. Animals, you repeat to yourself. Just animals. The rational part of your brain latches onto it because it wants—needs—it to be true. You ready yourself to reach for your gun anyway.

The mansion looms above you, windows catching the last of the light. Something twists low in your gut, a pull you don’t fully understand. You don’t know why you want to go inside so badly. Part of you thinks you’ll find something useful. Another part is screaming at you that there’s something waiting to be found inside. You don’t know if it’s positive or negative yet.

“We should go in,” you say quietly, surprising yourself. “Just… see if there’s anything.”

Levi follows your gaze, then shrugs, easy. “No reason to. We’ve got everything we need.”

You know he’s right. You do. The bunker is full. You’re safe. There’s no logical argument for risking it.

“Yeah,” you say after a moment. “I’ll leave it for a day I’m bored.”

The words sound casual, but the feeling doesn’t fade. You feel drawn to the mansion in a way that makes your skin prickle, like unfinished business or a door left ajar in your mind. Still, you don’t move toward it. Not without Levi. Not without a reason that doesn’t feel like temptation dressed up as curiosity. It’s always been your one flaw, after all.

The sun dips lower, the chill creeping back in, and you turn away with one last glance before following Levi down the familiar path to the storm shelter door. The bunker welcomes you back. Dinner is simple—leftover rice and fish, pan-seared. You’re still amazed every time you think about it, about how lucky you were that Kenny stashed two fishing poles down here like he knew you’d need them someday. You eat together at the dining table, knees brushing, talking about nothing important at all.

“The tomatoes are sprouting,” Levi says between bites.

You smile around your fork. “They’re doing their best.”

After dinner, you dig out one of the board games you found buried in the TV cabinet, the box edges soft with age. You regret it almost immediately.

“This is bullshit,” you snap twenty minutes later, glaring at the board like it personally betrayed you. “You are absolutely cheating.”

Levi leans back, arms crossed, smugness incarnate. “You say that every time I win.”

“That’s because you always win!”

“Skill issue.”

You groan loudly, dropping your head back against the couch. “I swear, if this was life or death, I’d already be dead.”

He laughs, reaching over to flick one of your game pieces. “Good thing it’s not.” You shove his shoulder.

By the time you finally turn the lights down and crawl into bed, the bunker feels quieter than it has all day. The sheets are cool against your skin, freshly washed, and Levi settles beside you with a tired sigh, rolling onto his back before turning toward you out of habit, as if sleep is just another thing you do together now.

You lie there for a while, staring into the darkness. Your body is exhausted, the good kind, but your mind lingers, circling thoughts you refuse to land on.

We’re safe, you remind yourself. We’re underground. We have food. We have locks and lights. Nothing can get us down here.

Levi’s arm drapes over your waist, and you finally let your eyes close. Sleep takes you slowly at first, deceptively gentle, and then all at once.

.

The dream doesn’t announce itself. It just happens.

You’re walking, again—always walking—the air thick with smoke and screams. Faces flicker in and out of focus like dying bulbs. June is there one second, reaching for you, and then she’s gone, swallowed by a crowd that doesn’t turn around. Hange laughs somewhere behind you, but when you spin, the sound cuts off abruptly, replaced by silence so loud it hurts.

Erwin stands ahead of you, back straight, hands clasped behind him like he’s waiting for something inevitable. When you call his name, he doesn’t answer. He just steps forward and vanishes into a blinding white light that smells like gunpowder and blood. You try to run, but your legs won’t cooperate.

Shani’s face appears next—too young, eyes wide, blood soaking through the shirt you recognize too well. Jaheeim and Anthony blur together, voices overlapping, asking you questions you don’t have answers to. Marley is whimpering, and when you grab for his leash, your fingers close on nothing but air.

Every time you reach, you’re too late. Every time you scream, no sound comes out. The world fractures around you, scenes cutting in jagged flashes—doors slamming, gunshots echoing, bodies falling, names etched into your skin like permanent scars. You try to tell yourself it’s not real, that you’re dreaming, but the grief feels too familiar.

Then the mansion rises up out of nowhere, looming and dark, vines writhing like veins, its windows glowing faintly as if something inside is watching you. A door creaks open on its own.

You wake up gasping. Your breath falls in and out of your lungs like you’ve been underwater too long, sweat cooling rapidly against your skin. For a split second, you don’t know where you are, your heart slamming so hard you think it might break through your sternum.

“Hey,” Levi says immediately, already awake. His hands are on you, one at your back, the other cupping your face. He murmurs your name. “You’re here. You’re okay.”

You clutch at him without thinking, fingers digging into his shirt as the room slowly comes back into focus. You spot the dresser, then the walls, then the stupid squirrel figurine that rests on a shelf. You’re starting to hate that little squirrel now.

“I—I’m sorry,” you whisper hoarsely, even though you don’t know what you’re apologizing for. “I was—”

“Don’t,” he says, pulling you closer, tucking your head under his chin. “You don’t need to be sorry.”

Your breath starts to even out, but the feeling lingers. “I feel… wrong,” you admit quietly. “Like something bad is about to happen. I can’t explain it.”

Levi shifts so he’s fully facing you, forehead resting against yours. “You’re safe,” he says. “We’re underground. The doors are locked. Nothing can get to you.”

You nod, clinging to his words, letting them settle. Safe, you repeat internally, like a mantra. Still, your mind betrays you, conjuring the image of the mansion again. It’s dark. Waiting for you. You don’t say it out loud. Instead, you press closer, listening to Levi’s heartbeat, counting each steady thump until the panic loosens its grip. His hand traces slow circles along your spine, pulling you back into your body.

“Stay with me,” you say, half-asleep already.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he answers without hesitation.

Eventually, your breathing syncs with his, exhaustion reclaiming you gently this time, no dreams rushing in to steal your peace.

Tomorrow will come.

But tonight, you are held, and nothing touches you in the dark.

༻━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━༺

Four weeks later…

Two months in, the bunker no longer feels like a miracle you’re afraid to touch. It feels lived in. You’ve made your small touches where you feel it necessary. You’ve moved the furniture around to fit your needs. The farm is growing steadily. You’ve painted the pots with bright, vibrant colors against the stark black. You’ve gone through over fifty movies already, but there’s still hundreds left to watch. You argued about whether you wanted to watch Thor for the third time or Avatar for the fourth. You’ve found flat stones by the bay and painted them to place around the bunker, like little offerings. You’ve stocked the fridge with meat and leftovers. You moved that damn squirrel figurine out of the bedroom and hid it in the bathroom on the top shelf where no one can see it ever again.

You’re curled against Levi on the couch as the clock ticks toward sundown. The plants you’ve been tending rest quietly in their pots. Dinner dishes are stacked neatly in the sink. The board game sits abandoned on the table, mid-match, because neither of you felt like finishing it.

You feel comfortable. Content in a way that still surprises you when you notice it.

Levi shifts beside you, thoughtful, eyes tracking the clock. He’s quiet for a moment too long. “You still interested in checking out the mansion?” he asks casually, like he’s suggesting a walk or a chore that’s been put off.

Your heart stutters. You sit up slowly, the question echoing louder in your head that it should. Are you? You’ve had such mixed feelings about it, you weren’t sure if you were still interested. But the answer comes immediately, unbidden.

Yes.

“I—” You swallow, then nod. “Yeah. I think so.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression—recognition, maybe. He stands, stretching his shoulders like this is just another thing to do before nightfall.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s get ready.” You grab your jacket and boots. Levi reaches for his knife. “Just in case,” he says lightly. You don’t tease him. You grab your own knife and tuck it into your sheath, where it’s always lived.

The door seals behind you with its familiar hiss, and the air outside feels different after weeks underground. The mansion stands before you, caught in the dying light. You step inside together. The interior is quieter than you expect. Dust lies thick on the floors, but the place is intact. The furniture still stands. Curtains hang in tatters, swaying gently in a breeze you can’t feel. Nature has crept in through cracked windows and open sections of the roof.

Flowers bloom impossibly along the walls, fed by rain and time. Levi pauses, bends slightly, and plucks one carefully from a vine curling up a banister. He turns and offers it to you without a word.

You smile despite the tension curling low in your stomach and tuck it into your pocket, fingers brushing his briefly. It’s a silly little offering, but it helps.

You explore the first floor slowly. A dining room swallowed by greenery. A sun room with a collapsed ceiling and a tree growing straight through the floorboards. Every step echoes softly, the mansion breathing around you.

Then you hear a scratch.

The sound is faint, but sharp enough to slice through the quiet. You freeze. It comes again. Scratching. Dragging. From above.

Levi tilts his head, listening. “Probably a rat,” he says, already moving toward the staircase. “Place is old.”

Your gut twists violently, dread pooling there like cold water. No. No no no. Something feels wrong. Why is he so fucking calm about this? Anything could be hiding and waiting for you in this mansion. It wasn’t protected like the bunker was. Anything could have wandered in.

“Levi,” you say. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

“It’s fine,” he replies, glancing back at you with an easy confidence. “I’ll take a quick look.”

He starts up the stairs. Every instinct you have screams at you to turn around, to leave, to go back underground where the walls are thick and the doors lock tight. The memory of your nightmare flashes—the mansion, waiting, watching. But you won’t let him go alone. You follow, each step heavier than the last, the scratching growing louder, closer, less like something small and more like something trapped. Your grip tightens on your knife.

Please be nothing, you think. Please just be a rat.

The second floor feels wrong the moment you step onto it. The air is thicker here, heavier, like it hasn’t been disturbed in a very long time, and the scratching sound echoes down the hall in irregular bursts that make your skin prickle. Levi moves ahead of you, shoulders squared, knife loose in his hand, but something in his posture has shifted—less casual now, more alert.

“Strange,” he says, slowing. “I don’t remember this hallway.”

The hallway stretches longer than it should, the walls covered with creeping vines that have forced their way through cracks in the ceiling, flowers blooming where wallpaper peels away. It feels added almost, like the house grew this part when no one was looking.

“Levi,” you say quietly, already knowing you won’t like the answer. “I think we should—”

“It’s fine,” he says, glancing back at you. “Probably just something sealed off later. My uncle did weird renovations.”

He steps closer to a door at the end of the hall. It’s barricaded. Furniture is stacked against it—dressers, chairs, a table wedged tight. Whoever did this believed it would be enough to stop people from going inside. Or to stop something inside from escaping.

Your pulse starts to race.

“Hey,” you say, sharper now. “We don’t need to see what’s in there.”

Levi grips the edge of a dresser and tests it. “If something’s stuck inside, better we know now.”

“No,” you insist, stepping closer. “Levi, please. We have everything we need. We don’t have to—”

He looks at you calmly, and that’s almost worse. “Cin. It’s okay. I promise.”

You hate that promise. You hate how easily he says it.

One by one, he moves the furniture aside, the scrape of wood against floorboards screaming in the quiet. With every piece removed, the dread in your chest coils tighter, screaming at you to run, to grab him, to drag him away from this place.

Finally, the door is clear. Levi reaches for the handle. You hold your breath. The door swings open.

Nothing.

Just a dark, empty room coated in dust, the light from the sunset spilling through the gap of blackout curtains, the faint rustle of vines shifting in the breeze.

Levi exhales, half-laughing as he turns toward you. “See? Nothing to be afraid of.”

The tight coil inside you loosens at once. You step forward quickly, peering past him into the room, needing to verify it with your own eyes. From the small amount of light that’s coming through, you can see the floor layered in dust so thick it looks like ash. An old vanity sits against one wall, the mirror broken clean through. A mattress leans upright. There are no signs of life.

You let out a breath that trembles on the way out. “Oh my god,” you say, pressing a hand to your sternum. “I—I was so sure.”

Levi steps aside to let you look fully, then nudges the door wider with his foot. “You and your horror-movie instincts,” he says lightly, though there’s still adrenaline lingering in his voice.

You shake your head, a shaky laugh escaping you. “I’m sorry. I just—” You swallow. “I had such a bad feeling. Like something was waiting.”

He looks at you for a moment, then he shakes his head gently. “Hey, it’s okay. I was a little worried too.”

You blink at him. “You were?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Barricaded door in an old mansion? That’s not exactly comforting.” His mouth twitches. “I just didn’t want to freak you out more.”

Your heart warms at that, at the quiet protectiveness threaded through his tone. You step closer without thinking, your fingers brushing his arm. “I’m really glad it was nothing,” you say.

“Yeah,” he replies, glancing back into the empty room one last time. “Me too.”

And he means it. You can feel it in the way his shoulders finally relax, in the way his hand no longer lingers near his knife, in the way he steps back from the doorway instead of bracing himself for impact.

You spend another few minutes checking the rest of the second floor just to be certain, opening doors slowly, sweeping corners. Bedrooms are overtaken by ivy. A study has water-damaged books slumped on broken shelves. There’s a bathroom where the mirror has completely blackened with age. But nothing moves, and nothing waits. Just time.

Eventually, the dread drains fully from your bloodstream, replaced by curiosity and nostalgia that doesn’t belong to you. In one of the side rooms, you find an old wooden dresser beneath a broken window. Levi pulls open the top drawer. It sticks at first, then slides free with a dry scrape. Inside are photographs with their edges curled.

You stand beside him as he picks one up carefully, brushing dust away with the pad of his thumb. It’s a picture of younger Levi. So much younger. He looks maybe eight or nine, hair a little shorter, his expression still serious but not yet sharpened into the man you know. It’s a little funny seeing such a small child with such a serious face. Was he always like this? He’s standing beside a taller man with facial hair and long brown hair slicked back. You can kind of see the resemblance.

“Kenny?” you ask softly.

Levi nods. He turns the photo slightly toward the fading light, studying it like he’s trying to step back into the captured moment. “He hated pictures.”

“You look happy,” you say, lightly teasing him.

He huffs quietly. “I was.”

You wait for him to speak. You’ve learned how to wait with him, how not to crowd the silence when it’s turning into something vulnerable.

“He helped raise me,” Levi says after a moment. “When my mom got sick for a few years. He helped.”

You glance at him. “You never told me that.”

“Didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters,” you say gently.

He stares at the photograph a little longer. “We weren’t close later,” he admits. “Not really. When I got older… things changed.” His face tenses slightly, but not in anger—in regret, maybe. “But when I was little? He was there.” The air between you suddenly grows heavier, but in a tender way, not suffocating. “I miss them. My parents. Him.”

You reach over and take the photograph from his hand carefully, setting it back into the drawer so it won’t be bent. Then you lace your fingers through his. “I miss mine too.”

It feels strange saying it out loud here, in this house that belonged to someone who loved him in his own imperfect way. In this world that swallowed so many people whole.

You swallow past the ache rising in your throat. “I think about them sometimes,” you continue. “And I’m… I’m glad they didn’t have to see this. The infection. The pandemic. All of it.” Levi’s fingers tighten around yours. “I’m glad they didn’t have to suffer through it. I just hope it was peaceful. For both of our families.”

Levi nods once. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

For a long moment, neither of you move. The sun dips lower outside the broken window, painting the room in gold and amber, dust drifting lazily through the air like it has all the time in the world. And maybe—just maybe—you do too. You lean your head against his shoulder. He doesn’t tense. He just shifts slightly to make it easier for you.

Eventually, he steps away. “We should head back before it gets dark.” You nod.

As you walk back down the stairs together, the tension that had once knotted your stomach is gone. The house creaks around you. It no longer feels like something is watching you. Outside, the air is cool. Levi glances at you as you approach the bunker door.

“You okay?” he asks.

You smile at him. Your dreams, your bad feelings, your instincts—they were all just false omens. You have nothing to worry about. You’re safe. Levi is safe. “Yeah.”

The bunker door seals behind you, and the sound feels different tonight, like it’s not just a barrier between you and the outside world, but a confirmation that you both came back exactly as you left. Whole, and alive. After all, the world could have thrown you the ultimate curveball and hidden a Clicker in that barricaded room. You or Levi could have gotten bit. Thankfully, that’ll never happen. Not in this life or any other.

You shrug off your jacket and hang it by the door while Levi makes sure the door is locked. You watch him for a moment longer than necessary, just to make sure he’s still there, still breathing. It’s become the metronome of your safety and joy.

“I’ll make dinner,” you say, your voice lighter now that the mansion is behind you and not waiting with teeth and shadow. With it off your mind, you don’t feel so held down. It won’t be bothering you anymore. “You sit.”

He gives you a look. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” You step toward him and press a quick kiss to his cheek before he can protest. “I need something normal.”

He studies you for half a second, then nods. You move into the kitchen space and pull the leftover venison from the fridge, the cold container grounding in your hands. The rice is already cooked; you just need to reheat it and cook the beans. The clink of utensils against ceramic, the low hum of the stove warming, and the simple domestic rhythm of it steadies you in a way nothing else can.

You never imagined you would be here. Not here in this bunker. Not here in this quiet stretch of coastline. Not here cooking dinner while the man you love—because that’s what he is now, whether you’ve said it out loud recently or not—leans against the counter watching you with that soft, unreadable expression he only ever lets you see.

The scent of the venison fills the bunker, rich and savory. You don’t mind it, but you’re starting to get tired of it. Maybe next time, you’ll hunt birds or a fox. You can always fish more too. Part of you worries that you’ll eventually run out of bullets and arrows for hunting, but that’s something you’ll deal with when the time comes.

“You okay?” you ask him over your shoulder.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

He shrugs. “You were right to be cautious.”

You snort softly. “Don’t give me that now. It was empty.”

“Still,” he says, pushing off the counter and stepping closer. “You’ve got good instincts.”

Your throat dries unexpectedly. You focus on the beans instead of looking at him. “I just… couldn’t lose you in some stupid hallway.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reaches around you, grabs two plates, and sets them on the counter beside you. “You didn’t,” he says.

You plate the food carefully. “Good.”

You eat at the small table, knees brushing beneath it. The venison is a little dry from reheating, but neither of you complains. You add salt. He steals a bite from your plate. You roll your eyes and let him.

Afterward, he disappears into the storage room and returns with a bottle of rum you’ve been rationing, saving for something that felt like it mattered.

He raises an eyebrow. “We survived a haunted mansion.”

You laugh. “It wasn’t haunted.”

“It absolutely was. You’ll see when the ghosts follow us down here.”

You grin and fetch two glasses. The rum burns on the way down. The alcohol warms your skin. You haven’t had more than a sip at a time in months. Tonight, you pour again. And again.

Levi sinks onto the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him. You watch the way he tips his head back slightly when he drinks, the way his throat moves, and something inside you shifts—a deep, aching gratitude that he is here, that you are allowed to look at him like this, that the world did not steal this too.

You set your glass down a little too firmly and walk toward him before you can overthink it.

“Cin?” he says, faintly amused.

You don’t answer. You climb onto the couch and straddle him, your knees settling on either side of his hips, your hands bracing on his shoulders to anchor yourself. For a second, he just looks up at you, surprised, eyes darker now from the alcohol and the low light.

“What are you doing?” he asks, though there’s a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I don’t know,” you admit, breathless and honest. “I just—”

You lean down and kiss him. It isn’t tentative. It isn’t cautious. It’s hungry in a way that has nothing to do with desperation and everything to do with relief. His hands come up automatically, sliding to your waist, fingers curling there. The kiss deepens slowly, unhurried, his mouth warm and familiar and safe.

Safe.

That’s the word that keeps echoing in your head as you pull back just enough to look at him. You never thought you would feel safe like this again. After Arden died—after you knelt in the dirt with her blood on your hands and your heart tearing itself open—you were certain that part of you had been buried with her. Love had felt like a luxury the world no longer allowed. A weakness. A cruelty. You had told yourself you would survive, and that would be enough. You never expected to want more.

But here you are, sitting on Levi’s lap, your thighs framing his hips, your hands tangled in the front of his shirt, and you want more so fiercely it almost scares you.

“I didn’t think this would happen,” you whisper against his mouth.

“What?” he murmurs, brushing a kiss along your jaw.

“This.” You gesture vaguely between you, your heart pounding. “You. Us.”

His grip tightens slightly at your waist. “Me neither.”

You laugh softly, a little drunk, a little overwhelmed. “I thought love was done. Like it had just… burned out with everything else. When Arden died, I thought that was it. I thought maybe I got one great love in my life, and the world took it, and that was my share.”

Saying her name still hurts, but it doesn’t shatter you the way it used to. It feels like touching a scar instead of an open wound.

“I felt guilty,” you admit. “For even looking at you the way I started to. Like I was betraying her.”

Levi’s thumb brushes lightly against your side. His touch eases you in a way nothing else does. It’s inexplicable. “You’re not.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I know that now. But it took me a long time.” You lean your forehead against his, breathing him in, smelling soap and salt and rum. “I didn’t think I could feel this again. I—I didn’t think I’d ever feel safe enough to let someone close enough to hurt me.”

His hands slide up your back slowly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know.” Your voice cracks faintly.

You kiss him again, slower this time. You feel him. The weight of him beneath you. You notice how he responds without hesitation. You feel his fingers trace along your spine like he’s savoring you. You feel the alcohol in your blood, but more than that, you feel the overwhelming, terrifying certainty that you want this for the rest of your life.

“I want to stay,” you whisper against his lips, not entirely sure what you mean—in the bunker, in this moment, in this love. “I want… this.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Then we stay. You don’t ever have to run again. Not from this.”

You close your eyes, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, holding him tighter. The fear is still there, the knowledge that this world takes and takes and takes, but it has simmered tonight. Because he is here beneath you, warm and alive and choosing you back.

You pull away just enough to look at him again, your fingers brushing through his hair, your body fitting against his like you were meant to find this place. “I never imagined I’d get another chance,” you whisper. “At love. At… happiness.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You deserve it.”

You kiss him again, deeper now, your hands sliding down to his shoulders as his palms settle firmly at your hips. The world outside the bunker could collapse entirely and you think, for this one moment, you would still feel okay.

You are not alone. You are not broken beyond repair. You are not finished.

You sit there with him for a long time, tangled together on the couch, rum-warmed and breathless and laughing softly between kisses, and somewhere in the quiet of the bunker you realize that love did not die with the old world.

It just waited.

And somehow, impossibly, it found you again.

༻━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━༺

Two months later…

Four months. The number still stuns you. Four months since the bunker door sealed behind you for the first time, four months since you stood in the middle of that underground space and didn’t quite believe it was real, four months since you let yourself imagine something other than the next mile and the next threat.

It’s summer now. You can feel it even down here. The air that cycles through the filtration system carries warmth from the surface, and when you open the door during the day, sunlight pours in, gilding the floors in honeyed light instead of the thin post-winter grey you arrived with. The farm is growing now with tomatoes and herbs and carrots and many more vegetables you never liked before the pandemic but you’re ever so grateful for now.

Levi has claimed a new project. Two days ago, he hauled shelves from the mansion. You watched him drag them into the bunker with your hands on your hips pretending you weren’t already planning what color you’d paint them. Now he’s kneeling on the bunker floor with a tape measure in one hand and pencil tucked behind his ear, measuring the wall for what feels like the hundredth time.

“You’ve already measured that,” you say from where you sit cross-legged on a tarp, paintbrush in hand, dipped in the light green paint you found in an abandoned hardware store.

“I know,” he replies without looking up.

“You measured it twice before you even marked it.”

He squints at the tape measure. “Third time’s confirmation.”

You snort softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

He finally glances at you, one eyebrow lifting. “You’ll be grateful when it’s level.”

“It better be level after all this foreplay,” you tease, dipping your brush into the paint and dragging it across the white wood. The color makes you absurdly happy. It’s a pale green that reminds you of new leaves in spring, and watching it cover the old paint feels symbolic in a way you don’t fully unpack because if you do, you might cry over something as simple as furniture.

You never imagined you’d care about shelves. You never imagined you’d care about paint colors or whether a room felt warm and lived-in. But here you are, barefoot in a bunker in the middle of summer, repainting salvaged shelves while the man you love triple-checks measurements as if the world hasn’t ended. It feels obscene in its normalcy. And precious.

Levi nails the brackets into the wall, his brows furrowed in concentration, and you find yourself watching the flex of his forearm. It’s a sight you’ll never tire of.

“That one’s crooked,” you say lightly, just to mess with him.

He freezes mid-screw. “It is not.”

“I’m kidding.”

He sighs. “You’re going to regret that.”

You grin and go back to painting. When the shelves are finally secured and the paint has dried enough to handle, the two of you stand back and assess the wall. They look good. Home-good. It’s not perfect, but it’s as perfect as imperfect can be.

Levi crosses his arms. “Alright,” he says. “Time to decorate."

You light up immediately, already scrambling to gather the small collection of things you’ve accumulated over the past months—the books you’ve reread twice, the half-used candles that still carry faint vanilla and pine scents, the small ceramic bowl you found in a thrift store and decided was too pretty to leave behind.

You bring the painted river stones last. Dozens of them. Flat and smooth from the bay, each one carefully painted by you on quiet afternoons. Some have tiny flowers, some have simple patterns, and one of them has a caricature of Levi making a grumpy face. You place them along the second shelf, lining them up.

Levi watches you for a moment, something soft in his expression. “You’ve been keeping busy with those,” he says.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “I like making things.”

He reaches into a small paper bag he’s kept tucked near the couch and pulls something out with unnecessary drama. You narrow your eyes.

“What is that?” you ask.

He sets it carefully on the middle shelf. A small ceramic cat figurine. It’s white with faded blue stripes, one ear slightly chipped, but undeniably cute in a slightly derpy way.

You blink at it, then at him. “Where did you get that?”

“That thrift shop in Anacortes,” he replies smugly. “Figured we needed something less unnerving than your nemesis.”

“That squirrel isn’t just my nemesis. It’s a menace.”

He laughs. “You should put it up here,” he says casually. “Give it a place of honor.”

You whirl on him immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? It’s part of the house.”

“It watches me,” you insist, pointing accusingly toward the bathroom where the squirrel statue remains exiled on the highest shelf. “I swear it moves.”

“It’s wood.”

“So?”

He steps closer, brushing his shoulder against yours. “You’re dramatic.”

“I am one second away from throwing that thing into the bay,” you warn him, crossing your arms. “I will walk it out there personally and give it a burial at sea.”

He smirks. “That seems excessive.”

“You didn’t see the way it was positioned in the bedroom when we first got here.”

He raises both hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. The squirrel stays in exile.”

“Good.”

You turn back to the shelves, adjusting the spacing of the stones, stepping back, then forward again to tweak the angle of a candle. Levi reaches out and straightens one of your books without asking, aligning the spine neatly with the others. It’s such a small thing, such an ordinary domestic gesture. But it hits you all over again. These small moments are yours now.

You step back fully this time, standing beside him, your shoulder brushing his. The shelves are filled now—books, candles, painted stones, the little thrifted cat sitting proudly in the center like it belongs there. Like you belong here.

“Looks good,” he says quietly.

“It looks like…” You trail off.

“Like what?”

You swallow, the emotions rising unexpectedly. “Like we’re staying.”

“We are.”

You glance at him, your heart doing that soft, dangerous thing it does when he speaks about the future like it’s something you’re both allowed to have. Four months. You’ve planted things. You’ve built things. You’ve painted things. You’ve laughed about a stupid squirrel statue and debated shelf spacing like it matters. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe it does matter. You’re not surviving anymore. You’re living.

You bump your hip gently against his. “If that squirrel ends up on these shelves while I’m sleeping, I will never forgive you.”

He leans down slightly, brushing his lips against your temple. “Noted.” Then he steps back and away from you, nodding to himself. “Coffee.”

You laugh softly and peel yourself away from the wall, your bare feet whispering across the cool bunker floor as you drift toward the couch, the third Éternel book already calling to you from where you left it facedown earlier.

The smell of coffee is rich through the bunker, almost indulgent in a world that once ran on coffee shops and morning commutes. You settle onto the couch with the book in your lap, tucking your legs beneath you, the cushions molded now to your shape after months of use. You open to the dog-eared page where you left off, diving back into dragons and kingdoms and politics and love that burns brighter than war.

Levi joins you with his mug, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling, and he leans back into the opposite corner of the couch, stretching one arm so that his fingers brush absently against your foot.

“You’re almost done with that one, aren’t you?” he asks, taking a careful sip.

“Yeah,” you murmur without looking up, your eyes scanning the page. “I don’t want it to end.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Then we should go back to Seattle.”

You glance up at him over the top of the book. “For what?”

“Bookstore,” he says simply. “We’ll find the fourth. Or the fifth. Maybe one of the prequels if they’ve got it.”

Your heart does a ridiculous little leap at the suggestion, because he says it like it’s obvious that you’ll need the next installment, like it’s obvious there’s a next step, and of course you’ll still be here long enough to read it.

“Yeah,” you say, trying to sound casual even though you’re feeling anything but. “Okay. We can do that.”

He nods once, satisfied, and reaches for his own book—some old paperback he found tucked in an abandoned house weeks ago—and the two of you settle into that quiet companionship you’ve grown so comfortable with. Side by side.

Your shoulders touch lightly. You turn page after page, the words blurring occasionally when your gaze drifts sideways to watch the way Levi’s brows furrow in concentration, the way he absently lifts his mug without looking, the way his thumb smooths over the edge of the paper. You never thought you’d get this. Not the bunker, not the safety. Not the soft, domestic quiet of reading together in the late afternoon light.

It feels like a second sunrise after you were certain the sky would stay dark forever.

.

Later, you cook dinner, something simple and easy, and you eat together at the table, the conversation meandering from whether Seattle will still have intact storefronts to whether the squirrel statue is secretly plotting your demise.

Afterward, you scroll through the movies and settle on something light, something you’ve already seen but don’t mind revisiting, and Levi lowers himself to the floor in front of the couch without prompting, leaning back against it so that his shoulders press between your knees.

“Your turn,” he says, tipping his head back slightly. You smile, setting the remote aside.

You gather his hair carefully in your hands, the dark strands silky against your fingers, and you begin to braid it slowly as the movie plays in soft flickers of light across the walls. None of the braids stick, but the movements keep you grounded anyway. Your fingers weave and pull, and he exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing beneath your touch.

“You’re spoiled,” you tease.

“Mm,” he hums.

When you finish the braid, you don’t pull away. Instead, you let your fingers drift to his scalp, massaging slowly in small, circular motions, your thumbs pressing just enough to soothe. He lets out a quiet groan—low and involuntary—and your heart swells at the sound.

“Good?” you ask softly.

He leans back further into you, his head resting more fully against your stomach. “Don’t stop.”

You smile to yourself, continuing the pressure, feeling the way his body melts under your hands, feeling trusted in a way that still sometimes startles you. He lets himself be vulnerable like this only with you, and you cherish it.

When the movie ends, you both drift toward bed, moving through your nighttime routine. You slide beneath the sheets beside him, the air warm from the lingering summer heat, and you turn onto your side to face him, tracing idle shapes along his collarbone. He looks at you in the low light, eyes softer than they ever were when you first met.

“If none of this had happened…” you say quietly, the thought arriving without warning. “What do you think we would’ve been?”

He considers it for a moment. “You’d still be treating animals.”

You huff a small laugh. “Probably.”

“You’d be overworking yourself.”

You shrug. “It paid the bills.” He tuts a laugh. “You’d still be tattooing,” you say, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Probably charging too little and pretending you don’t care what people think.”

He goes quiet at that, his gaze drifting slightly, as if imagining it. “I think,” he says after a moment, his voice softer than before, “I would’ve found you anyway.”

Your breath catches. “What?” you whisper.

He shrugs faintly, but there’s no teasing in his expression now. “Doesn’t matter the timeline. I think I would’ve found you.”

You slide closer, pressing your forehead to his, your heart pounding not from fear, but from the overwhelming, fragile beauty of what you have. Maybe the world ended. Maybe everything burned. But somehow, impossibly, you found each other in the ashes.

༻━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━༺

One month later…

The light has changed.

You notice it first on your walks. The sun hangs lower now, not as punishing as midsummer, but it drapes itself over the woods in long molten ribbons. The wind carries the faintest whisper of something cooler underneath the heat, a promise of turning leaves and shorter days. The grasses along the path outside the bunker brush against your fingertips as you walk.

You take these walks alone sometimes. You don’t need distance from Levi—it’s never that—but solitude feels different now. It’s breathing space in a world that has finally stopped chasing you.

You follow the shoreline today, hands tucked into the pockets of your flannel, watching the slow lap of water against the sand, thinking about how strange it is that this is your life now. That you have a place to return to.

You turn back toward the bunker. You descend the steps, keying in the code by memory, the heavy seal sliding open. The air inside is cooler, filled with the faint scent of coffee. You step through and let the door close behind you.

“I’m home,” you call out automatically, taking off your shoes. The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. And then everything stops.

In the kitchen, Levi freezes mid-motion, knife paused halfway through a carrot. You freeze too, your hand still on the back of a chair. The silence stretches. He looks at you. You look at him. And suddenly what you said fills the space between you.

Home.

For a split second, fear flickers—the old feeling that naming something too precious might summon loss, that saying it aloud might tempt the universe to snatch it away. Levi tenses slightly, and for a heartbeat you wonder if you’ve gone too far. Then he nods once.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. He half-fails to hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You are.”

You cross the space between you in three quick steps and wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing your face against his nape, breathing him in. He smells good. He exhales softly, surprised but not pulling away. Then he turns, knife set carefully aside, and gathers you straight on into his chest. His arms wrap around you firmly. One of his hands slides up to cup the back of your head, petting your hair with slow, absent strokes that make your throat dry unexpectedly. You press your face into his shirt.

You never thought you would get to feel this again. This uncomplicated belonging.

He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, lips lingering there. “I love you,” he whispers.

Your breath stutters. “I love you too.”

Dinner is simple—roasted carrots, leftover rabbit sliced thin, a little rice reheated—and you eat side by side, shoulders brushing, your knees knocking occasionally under the table in a way that feels so absurdly normal you almost laugh at it.

After the dishes are washed and stacked to dry, Levi moves toward the shelf where the CD’s are, flipping through them until he finds one with a faded cover. He holds it up.

“Peter, Paul, and Mary,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Feeling nostalgic?”

“This is actually before my time, you know. Yours too,” he says, offended. “It is a winner, though.”

He slides the disc into the player. The first song doesn’t play, so Levi skips to the second song, and the soft guitar strums fill the bunker. 500 Miles begins. You feel almost lightheaded. The last time you danced was in the mall, five months ago.

Levi steps toward you without a word and holds out his hand. You take it. He draws you into the center of the living space, where the shelves you built stand proudly behind you. His hands settle at your waist. Yours slide up around his neck. The two of you begin to sway slowly, awkward at first, then easing into it, your bodies finding a shared rhythm like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

You lace your fingers with his, resting your head against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart beneath his shirt. You close your eyes. You think about all the miles. All the loss. All the blood and fear and hunger and exhaustion that led you here.

Levi’s voice vibrates faintly through his chest when he speaks. “Sometimes, I think I don’t deserve this.”

You lift your head slightly. “Deserve what?”

“Peace. After everything I’ve done.”

You pull back just enough to look at him fully, your hands still resting against his chest. “You did what you had to do,” you say firmly.

“I wish that made my hands clean.”

“It won’t.” The song continues in the background. “But surviving isn’t a sin. Wanting to live isn’t something you should punish yourself for.” His gaze flickers downward briefly. “I’m glad you survived. I’m glad you did whatever you had to do. Because if you hadn’t… you wouldn’t be here. With me.”

The thought alone makes your heart sink. He nods slowly, like he’s trying to let the words sink in. You slide your hand up to his jaw, guiding his gaze back to yours.

“You’re here,” you say softly. “That’s what matters.”

He studies your face for a long moment. Then he leans down and kisses you. You kiss him back just as gently. When you pull away, you rest your head against his chest again, gripping onto his shirt.

You don’t care about who he was before. You don’t care about who you were before. You don’t care about the things you had to do to make it here.

All that matters is that you are standing in the center of your home, swaying gently to an old song, wrapped in the arms of the man you love.

༻━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━༺

Three months later…

You’ve been restless all day.

Maybe it’s the weather shifting. Maybe it’s the way the light fades earlier now. Maybe it’s just the simple truth that even in peace, two people living in the same space will eventually bite at each others’ throats.

You come out of the bedroom with a blanket draped over your shoulders, ready to settle into the couch with your book, and you stop short.

The shelves. Your shelves. They’re… different.

Your books, once arranged in the chaotic system that made perfect sense to you—half by series, half by mood, half by whatever one you last touched—are now lined up in clean, precise rows, tallest to shortest, spines aligned perfectly like soldiers standing at attention. Your painted stones have been shifted slightly. Your half-used candles have been grouped by height.

You stare at it. Levi is kneeling near the bottom shelf, adjusting the last stack carefully, clearly pleased with himself.

“What did you do?” you ask slowly.

He glances up, expecting approval. “Fixed it.”

“…Fixed it.”

“It was messy,” he says matter-of-factly. “I thought you’d like it better organized.”

You step closer, staring at the row where the third Éternel book now sits two inches away from where you always left it. “I knew exactly where everything was.”

He frowns faintly. “You had three different stacks on the coffee table and two on the floor.”

“Why did you move them?”

He stands slowly, sensing the shift in your tone. “Cin, I just straightened them up.”

“You straightened them up without asking.”

He pauses. “I didn’t think I needed permission to move books.”

“It’s not about permission. It’s—you decided my way was wrong.”

“I didn’t say it was wrong, baby,” he says, eyebrows drawing together. “They were scattered everywhere.”

“They were accessible!”

“You had to move three piles to find one book.”

“Because that’s how I remember things!” Your voice echoes slightly off the bunker walls, louder than you intended.

He stares at you for a moment, then mutters, “Fine.” Something in that clipped tone pokes at you harder than it should.

“Oh, don’t ‘fine’ me,” you snap.

He gives you a look. “You’re acting like I rearranged your entire life.”

“You basically did,” you shoot back before you can stop yourself.

“That’s dramatic.”

“Maybe I’m dramatic!”

“Maybe,” he counters. You huff and turn away, pacing toward the kitchen. “And what about you? You want to talk about moving things without asking. You moved my farming stuff into the storage room last week.”

“It was everywhere, Levi.”

“I had it set up the way I needed it.”

“You had irrigation tubing draped over the sink!”

“I was working on it!”

“And I needed counter space!”

“You could’ve told me!”

“You were asleep!”

“That doesn’t mean you just move it!”

You cross your arms defensively. “You found it, didn’t you?”

“After ten minutes of looking.”

“Oh, poor you.”

He takes a step toward you. “You’re mad at me for organizing books, but you hid my tools?”

“I didn’t hide them. I relocated them.”

“That’s hiding.”

“Organizing.”

There’s a split second where you both just glare at each other. Then you shove him. Not hard, just a frustrated push to his shoulder.

“Stop being so—” you start.

He reacts instantly, his hands catching at your hips to steady himself—and you—and suddenly you’re much closer than either of you planned to be. His fingers dig firmly into your waist. Your hands are still half-raised from the shove.

You both freeze. And then it cracks. The absurdity of it all sinks in. The fact that you’re arguing about books and irrigation tubing in a fortified bunker at the edge of the world. The fact that you’re safe enough to have an argument this small.

A sound bubbles up in your chest before you can stop it—half-laugh, half-exhale. He feels it too. His mouth twitches.

“You shoved me,” he says, trying and failing to sound stern.

“You deserved it.”

“Oh, did I?”

“You moved Éternel,” you accuse.

He snorts. “You moved my drip lines.”

You stare at each other for one more second. And then you both laugh. It starts small, just breathy and reluctant, but it builds quickly, dissolving the tension. His hands are still on your hips. You lean into him slightly without thinking.

“This is stupid,” you admit.

“Yeah,” he agrees, his thumbs brushing absently against your sides.

You sigh, the frustration draining out of you as quickly as it arrived. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

You glance up at him. “You can organize them. Just… ask me first.”

He nods. “Deal.”

“And I won’t relocate your farming empire without warning.”

“Appreciated.”

You rest your forehead lightly against his shoulder, still smiling faintly. You slide your arms around his waist, hugging him properly now. It hits you then. You’re arguing about clutter, not survival or food or about who keeps watch first or whether the door will hold. Just goddamn clutter.

“Hey,” he murmurs, hands smoothing up your back.

“Hey.”

You breathe him in. This is what forever looks like. Small arguments about books and tubing and whose mess is worse.

He leans down and presses a kiss into your hair. “Next time, we make a shared system.”

You laugh into his shirt. “God help us.”

༻━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━༺

Six weeks later…

Christmas arrives quietly.

There’s no snowfall announcement, no distant church bells, no lack of traffic or shut down shops. Just the bunker and the winter light coming into the bunker when you crack the door that morning to let in fresh air.

Christmas. Your birthday, his birthday. The symmetry of it makes you smile every time you think about it.

A few weeks ago, you both made the trip back to Seattle and you stood together in the hollowed-out Northgate mall. The one you once powered up. You left it unpowered this time. You and Levi decided to save it for an anniversary of some sort. Those halls once saw holiday crowds and impatient shoppers and now it was just you two.

You remember the way Levi disappeared into the bookstore for longer than necessary. You didn’t question it. You had your own errands. And earlier this week, you walked up to Anacortes again, scavenging what you could.

Now, the presents are tucked beneath the small artificial tree you found in a house weeks ago, its once green branches faded but still holding shape. You light candles around the living space, their flames flickering against the walls. Levi leans back against the couch, arms crossed, eyeing the small pile of wrapped gifts.

“You first,” he says.

“No, you,” you counter immediately.

He shakes his head. “You.”

“It’s your birthday too.”

“Exactly.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m not stalling.”

“You are absolutely stalling.”

He smirks faintly. “Open yours.”

You huff dramatically but kneel down in front of the tree, your fingers brushing the wrapped packages. Your heart flutters unexpectedly. You tear the paper carefully—old habit—revealing the first present. Wool socks. They’re thick and soft, the kind that can survive real winters.

You grin immediately. “Okay, this is practical and romantic.”

“Romantic?” he repeats dryly.

“Warm feet are romantic.”

He rolls his eyes. The next package reveals a sweater in a neutral color, something he clearly picked with care. You run your fingers over the fabric, feeling how warm it will be when the bunker cools deeper into winter. Then comes the candle set. Three of them, different scents. You lift one and smell it.

“Mulled wine,” you read off the label.

He shrugs. “You like candles.”

That you do. You really do.

The last package is heavier. You peel the paper back slowly, already suspicious, already hopeful. And then you see them. The fourth and fifth Éternel books. For a second, you can’t speak. You stare at the covers, at the familiar font, at the promise of more of the story waiting for you.

“Oh,” you breathe.

Levi shifts slightly, suddenly unsure. “I found them in the backstock at the Northgate mall bookstore,” he says, trying to sound casual. “They weren’t out front.”

You look up at him, eyes wide and bright and probably a little ridiculous. “Oh, I could marry you right now,” you blurt out.

He freezes. Completely. It’s subtle—just a slight stiffening in his shoulders, a flicker in his eyes—but you catch it. Color rises faintly along his cheekbones. You grin, unaware of the exact direction his thoughts have just sprinted.

“I mean it. You went digging in the backstock for these?”

He clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“I love you.”

He looks down at his hands briefly, suddenly shy in a way you don’t see often. “Just figured you’d want them.”

You clutch the books to your chest dramatically. “Want them? I’ve been emotionally unstable without them.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “Alright,” you say, wiping at your eyes with the heel of your hand even though you’re not actually crying. “Your turn.”

He shifts forward reluctantly, pulling one of the packages into his lap. You watch him carefully, your heart thudding with anticipation. He unwraps the first gift, the sketchbook and pencil set, and pauses, running his fingers lightly over the cover.

“You said you used to draw when you were tattooing,” you say.

He nods once, eyes tracing the edge of the paper. “Yeah.”

“I figured… maybe you’d want to again.”

Something tender flickers across his face. “I do. Thank you.” The next gift reveals the stack of CDs you carefully selected after overhearing him mention the bands he used to like. His mouth twitches. “You were listening.”

“Always.”

Then comes the thermos. He turns it over in his hands. “For coffee?”

“For your dramatic, overly serious morning rituals,” you confirm. “And tea.” He snorts softly.

Finally, you hand him the smallest box. He eyes it suspiciously.

“Just open it,” you say, biting back a grin. He unwraps it carefully.

And then he sees the ring box.

For half a second, real panic flashes across his face. His eyes dart to yours, wide and startled, his posture stiffening, bracing for something monumental. You burst out laughing.

“Relax,” you say quickly.

He opens the box. Inside sits a simple guitar pick. He exhales sharply, relief flooding his features so quickly it almost makes you feel guilty for a second.

“Seriously?” he mutters.

“You’ve been trying to learn guitar from that one we found,” you remind him. “Figured you needed a proper pick.”

He stares at it, then at you. “You’re evil,” he says flatly.

“Maybe a little.”

He closes the box gently, still looking faintly rattled. Then he glances at it again. “Can I keep the box?” he asks casually.

“Yeah. Why?”

He slips the guitar pick back inside carefully. “Might as well keep it as storage for the pick. Don’t wanna lose it.”

“Fair,” you say easily. You think nothing of it. He sets the box beside him. “Happy birthday.”

“Happy birthday,” he says before leaning across and kissing you.

After the gifts are opened and the wrapping paper is gathered into a neat pile, because neither of you can fully shake the impulse to conserve and tidy even on Christmas, you remember the tin tucked in the back of the pantry. Hot chocolate. Technically ten years expired.

You hold it up. “We either die from food poisoning, or we achieve peak holiday tradition.”

Levi arches an eyebrow. “You’re dramatic.”

“You love it.”

You reach for the kettle. The powder pours out in a faint, dusty cloud that smells surprisingly normal. A little stale, but not catastrophic. You stir it carefully into hot water, watching the liquid darken and swirl, both of you hovering like scientists conducting a questionable experiment. He takes the first sip. You watch his face intensely.

“Well?” you ask.

He pauses, considers, and swallows. “...It’s fine.”

“That’s it? That’s your review?”

“It tastes like chocolate.”

You snatch the mug and take a cautious sip yourself, fully prepared to gag dramatically. But he’s right. It’s not great. It’s thin. Slightly chalky. But it’s warm, sweet, and undeniably comforting.

You let out a soft laugh. “Okay. That’s kind of incredible.”

You sit on the couch with your mismatched mugs, legs tangled under a blanket, sipping ten-year-old hot chocolate like it’s the most luxurious thing in the world. Maybe it is.

Dinner that night is simple. Vegetables from the farm roasted with oil and salt, rice steaming in a pot, no game this time because the snow has driven wildlife deeper into the woods and you haven’t had much luck hunting lately. You don’t complain. The rice and vegetables fill you up anyway.

“It’s weird,” you say between bites. “Christmas without… everything. No crowded stores or—”

“Mariah Carey blasting for the twentieth time,” he adds.

You smile. “Just us.”

He glances at you. “Yeah.”

After dinner, you scroll through the movie collection and pick something with a snowy cover and red lettering that screams holiday spirit. The opening scene begins. Within ten minutes, you know you’ve made a mistake. The acting is horrible. The plot absolutely makes no sense. A woman from the city returns to her small hometown to save a bakery that appears to have no employees and unlimited funds. You stare at the screen in disbelief.

“Are you serious?” you whisper.

Levi leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Did he just pick this off a thrift store shelf and throw it in with the others?”

You burst out laughing. “I’m now starting to question Kenny’s taste.”

The love interest appears on screen delivering a line so painfully cliché that you choke on your hot chocolate.

“Oh my God,” you wheeze. “No one talks like that.”

Levi rubs his face with one hand. “This is torture.”

You end up talking over half the movie, making up alternate dialogue, predicting every plot twist with alarming accuracy, and by the time the inevitable snow-kiss ending happens, you’re both laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

“It’s officially the worst movie we’ve ever seen,” you declare.

“Agreed,” he says.

You leave it in the collection anyway. It’ll be your yearly Christmas tradition now.

Later, when the candles have burned low and the bunker feels warm and close around you, you step into the shower together. The water runs hot—one of the bunker’s quiet luxuries—steam rising and curling against the tiled walls as you stand beneath it, close enough that there is no space between your bodies.

You wash his hair first, fingers working gently through the strands. He tips his head forward slightly to make it easier for you, hands resting at your hips. Then he washes yours, fingertips tracing along your scalp in a way. You close your eyes and lean into him without thinking.

When you step out, toweling off side by side, the air feels cool against your damp skin, and you both move toward the bedroom without speaking. The bed is warm from the heater, the blankets soft and heavy. You crawl beneath them together. He reaches for you first this time, his hand sliding along your waist, drawing you closer until your bodies align naturally.

You tilt your head up to kiss him. It starts slow. But it deepens quickly. Your hands slide into his hair. His palms settle at your back, fingers spreading wide. You kiss him harder, breath catching when he responds in kind, and you pull him closer. Your lips part, the taste of chocolate lingering between you, and you feel the way his restraint loosens in increments, careful but no less hungry for it.

His hands move slowly at first—one sliding from your back to your waist, the other traveling up the curve of your spine—as though reacquainting himself with terrain he already knows but never takes for granted. You shift closer, your leg sliding between his, your body fitting against his. It still startles you sometimes. The ease of this. The way your body responds to him without fear.

His mouth leaves yours and trails slowly along your jaw, down the curve of your neck, and your breath catches. He’s never careless with you. Never rushed. Even when the hunger is there, it’s wrapped in care. Your fingers curl into his hair, guiding him back up to you, kissing him with more urgency now, because the warmth pooling low in your stomach is no longer patient.

He rolls slightly, bringing you more fully beneath him, but not trapping you, his weight supported on one forearm so you can still move, still shift, still choose. You slide your hands down his back, feeling the firm line of muscle beneath skin, the faint scar along his shoulder blade you once traced with your fingertips on a sleepless night, and you think, absurdly, about how every part of him is something you know now.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. There’s no rush in his gaze. “You okay?” he asks, thumb brushing along your cheek.

“More than okay,” you reply, nodding. You draw him down again.

The blankets shift and tangle around you as your bodies press closer, layers peeling away gradually. He kisses you like you are something precious and irreplaceable. Your fingers slide down his arm, guiding him, and he follows without hesitation, his mouth finding yours again as the space between you disappears entirely.

You gasp, your fingers digging into his back. He starts to move, his hips rolling. It’s slow at first—an unfolding rather than an explosion—the two of you moving together with a rhythm learned over months of trust and laughter and arguments about irrigation tubing and shared mugs of expired hot chocolate.

You breathe his name into his shoulder. He murmurs yours against your skin. You meet him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving in perfect sync. The sound of your bodies coming together fills the room, a symphony of desire and love. The world outside could be ice and ruin and endless quiet, but here there is warmth, friction, heartbeat, the steady reassurance of another body choosing yours.

Your legs circle sharound him instinctively, drawing him closer still, and he exhales sharply at that, forehead pressing briefly against yours as the tempo shifts, deepens. He fills you so completely, so perfectly that you feel empty without him. You feel half of yourself when he’s not near. You hold onto him out of the simple need to feel him completely.

You think of the first nights you slept beside him, rigid and uncertain. You think of the first time you kissed him, heart pounding with guilt and longing in equal measure. You think of the version of yourself who believed she would never survive loving again. And you want to reach back through time and tell her that she does. That love does not die.

The pressure builds inside you, a coil tightening with each thrust. You can feel him getting closer too, his breath coming in short gasps, his body tensing. You reach between you, your fingers finding your clit. You rub in circles, your body tensing as you get closer and closer to the edge.

Levi leans down and smashes his lips against yours, linking your free hand with his own. His breath stutters against your ear as the moment peaks, and you feel the way he clings to you in those final seconds, just needing to be close, to stay connected. You reach your high as well, your body convulsing with ecstasy.

When it settles, when the intensity softens, you remain wrapped around each other, skin still flushed, breaths gradually evening out. He lowers himself carefully, resting partly atop you but shifting his weight so you’re comfortable, his hand sliding into your hair. You trace slow circles along his shoulder, feeling the thrum of his pulse beneath your fingertips. You press a kiss to his temple.

“I’m glad you found me,” you whisper.

He lifts his head slightly, eyes half-lidded but clear. “I was always going to.”

You smile against his skin. You don’t just love him. You trust him. With your body. With your heart. With whatever future is left to you in this reclaimed world.

༻━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━༺

Two months later…

2025. A year Levi never thought he would see. A year he certainly never imagined he would spend in a bunker by the river. He never imagined you sleeping beside him every night.

It’s the beginning of February when he lies awake long after your breathing has evened out. You’re curled on your side, facing him, one hand tucked loosely under your pillow, the other resting near his ribs as if even in sleep you need to confirm he’s still there. Levi studies your face in the candlelight. He looks at the crease in your brows that only appears when you dream, the faint scar near your temple, the way your hair spills messily across the pillow.

He knows what he wants. The question is whether he’s brave enough to ask for it.

Carefully, so carefully he could pass for a ghost, he slips out from beneath the blankets. He dresses quietly. He leans down before leaving and presses a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead, whispering your name against your skin. You stir faintly, but don’t wake.

“I’ll be back,” he says, though you can’t hear him.

He exits the bunker and walks. The road to Anacortes is familiar now, worn into muscle memory from previous trips. He makes his way toward the sleeping city, wondering multiple times if he should turn back.

But there’s no turning back now.

.

When he arrives, the jewelry store sits where it always has. The sign is faded by legible, and Levi stands outside for a moment longer than necessary, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, pulse ticking faster than it ever does in a fight.

This is ridiculous. He’s faced infected in stages he didn’t even know existed. He’s stared down men with rifles. He’s survived worse than most. And yet, he thinks this is what’s finally going to kill him.

Inside, the store smells metallic, the glass display cases coated in dust. He moves behind the counter, scanning the rows of rings still sitting where they were left, frozen in time from a world that used to care about anniversaries and proposals.

He stares at them. Too big. Too flashy. Too thin. Too ornate.

He rubs a hand down his face, irritation rising. What do you like? You like soft sweaters and painted river stones. You hate the squirrel statue. You read fantasy novels like they’re oxygen. You keep your books in controlled chaos and get upset when it’s disrupted. Are you simple? Are you extravagant?

He remembers the ring Arden gave you. He remembers the many times he saw it. It isn’t gaudy, but it isn’t minimalist either. It sits somewhere in between.

He swallows. What if this is a mistake? What if you say no? What if you look at him with an apologetic expression and tell him you can’t do it again? You are the marrying type—you were married before. You believe in vows. In choosing someone and staying. But what if you don’t want to choose him that way? What if loving him is one thing, and marrying him is another? What if the world has taken too much already?

His thoughts spiral before he can stop them. What if you think it’s pointless? What if you think it’s foolish to bind yourselves in a world with no future guarantee? What if you think he’s trying to replace Arden? What if he is?

Levi exhales slowly. None of the rings in the display cases feel right. They feel like remnants of someone else’s story.

Frustration prickles under his skin, and he moves toward the back room, stepping over fallen boxes, shifting through trays that were never set out for customers. He almost tells himself to leave. Almost.

Then he sees it.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not blinding. It’s not oversized. It’s a band with the same metal Arden’s ring has, and the diamond set into it is small enough to catch light without demanding attention. It’s subtle.

His mind goes quiet. For the first time since he stepped into the store, the frantic questioning stops. He lifts it carefully, turning it between his fingers. He can picture it on your hand.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the ring box you gave him on Christmas. The same one that held the guitar pick. The same one that made him panic for half a second before laughing. He opens it now. The pick rests inside. He removes it gently, slipping it into another pocket for safekeeping, and sets the ring in its place. It fits perfectly.

His heart pounds once, hard. He snaps the box shut. For a moment, he just stands there in the dark storage room, holding it. He thinks about you saying “I’m home.” He thinks about you shoving him during that ridiculous argument in November. He thinks about you reading Éternel on the couch and painting stones and massaging his scalp. He thinks about the way you said you were glad he survived. He thinks about the way you never look at him like he’s beyond redemption.

Is this a grave mistake? Maybe.

But so was loving you in the first place. And he would make that mistake again without hesitation.

He slips the ring box back into his jacket and leaves the store, the cold night air biting at his cheeks as he walks back toward the bunker.

By the time the bunker comes into view, dawn is beginning to soften the horizon with pale gray light. He pauses at the door. His hand hovers over the keypad. His heart hammers in his chest.

He imagines you saying yes. He imagines you saying no.

He imagines both futures, and in both of them, he still chooses you.

༻━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━༺

One month later…

One year.

One full year since you and Levi stood in the doorway of the bunker, unsure whether it would save you or swallow you.

You lie in bed for a few extra minutes that morning, staring at the ceiling, listening to Levi’s breathing beside you, and you let yourself feel it—the disbelief, the gratitude, the faint, lingering fear that still whispers sometimes that none of this can possibly last. But it has.

You turn toward him and brush your fingers lightly over his shoulder. “Happy bunker-versary.”

He huffs softly, eyes still closed. “That’s a terrible name.”

“It’s accurate.”

He opens one eye. “Happy anniversary.”

You smile and press a kiss to his jaw before climbing out of bed, already mentally planning dinner. Tonight will not be vegetables and rice. Tonight will be indulgent.

When dinnertime comes, you pull the venison you’ve been saving from the freezer, the good bottle of wine from the back of the cabinet, the last of the fresh herbs from the hydroponics shelf. Levi joins you in the kitchen without being asked, sleeves rolled up, hands steady as he chops onions and trims meat.

It feels good, cooking together like this, bumping elbows, passing utensils back and forth, working in tandem the way you have learned to over the months.

But something is… off.

It’s small at first. You brush past him to reach for the salt, and he flinches. It isn’t dramatic by any means. Just a slight tensing in his shoulders, a barely perceptible jerk. You pause.

“Sorry,” you say automatically.

“It’s fine,” he replies too quickly. You study him for a second, then return to the stove.

Later, when you call his name to ask whether he prefers more rosemary or thyme, he doesn’t answer. “Levi?”

He blinks, surfacing from his thoughts. “What?”

“Rosemary or thyme?”

“Uh. Rosemary.”

You watch him for a moment longer than necessary. His movements are precise, maybe even more precise than usual, knife slicing through vegetables with an almost surgical focus.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

He doesn’t look at you when he answers. “Yeah.”

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

He finally meets your eyes then, and there’s something guarded there. “I’m fine.”

You don’t buy it. Not for a second. But you also know him. He won’t speak until he’s sorted through the noise in his own head first. So you nod slowly.

“Okay,” you say simply.

If he needs time, you’ll give him time.

Dinner turns out beautifully. The venison is tender and rich, the potatoes are crisped just right, the wine is deep and warming as it slides down your throat. You sit across from each other at the table, candlelight flickering between you, glasses half-full.

“To one year,” you say, lifting your glass.

“To one year,” he echoes.

You drink. The wine loosens something in you, makes your limbs feel warmer, your thoughts softer. You talk about the early days. How terrified you were of the mansion, how you painted the shelves green, how you nearly threw the squirrel statue into the bay. He smiles at that. But he still seems distant.

After the plates are cleared and the last of the wine poured, he stands abruptly.

“Sunset walk?” he suggests.

You blink. “Now?”

“Yeah.”

You glance toward the door. You’re sure the sky is already beginning to shift toward gold and rose. “Okay.” You grab your jacket, your boots, and your bird field guide.

Levi notices immediately. “You don’t need that,” he says, almost too quickly.

You raise an eyebrow. “Of course I do.”

“It’s just a walk.”

“Yes, and birds exist during walks.”

He exhales through his nose. “Cin.”

“You know I’ll regret it if I leave it,” you say, tucking it under your arm. He opens his mouth to argue again, then closes it. You grin. “Thought so.”

Outside, the air is cool but not biting, the kind of late-winter chill that carries the promise of spring somewhere just beneath it. The sky is streaked with soft orange and violet. You walk side by side down the familiar path, your shoulders brushing occasionally.

He’s quieter than usual.

Normally, he would point out something—the way the tide has shifted, the tracks near the brush, the sky—but tonight he just walks, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, gaze forward. You try not to stare at him. You try not to let your worry bloom too loudly. Instead, you open your field guide and scan the shoreline.

“There,” you murmur, pointing toward a cluster of rocks. “See that? That’s a black oystercatcher.” He glances where you’re pointing, nodding faintly. “They have those bright orange beaks,” you continue, flipping the page.

You turn to make sure he’s actually looking, but he isn’t looking at the bird. He’s looking at you. There’s something in his expression that makes your breath catch. It’s both soft and intense at the same time. It’s almost unsettling.

“What?” you ask, a small laugh escaping you.

“Nothing,” he says quietly.

“You’re not even watching the bird.”

“I am.”

“You’re watching me.”

He doesn’t deny it. The wind moves gently through your hair, carrying the faint salt of the bay, and for a moment the world pauses—it’s just you, the shoreline, and the fading light.

“You’re being weird,” you say.

He steps closer then, reaching out as if to brush something from your sleeve, though there’s nothing there.

“You’re just…” he trails off.

“Just what?”

He shakes his head slightly, like the words won’t line up properly. You search his face, your heart thudding faintly now, not from fear, but from the unmistakable sense that something is coming. Whatever it is, he’s doing it carefully. And whatever it is, you trust him enough to let him bring it to you when he’s ready.

So you close your field guide gently and slip your hand into his. You don’t realize he’s steering you until the path shifts. The familiar trail that curves back toward the bunker branches slightly, opening into a small clearing you’ve passed before but never stopped in for long—a quiet dip in the forest where low wildflowers grow stubbornly through the grass, pale even in early spring, and the trees part just enough to frame the horizon.

It looks like the perfect place to die, you think darkly.

Levi slows first. You feel it before you see it. There's a subtle change in his pace, the way his shoulders tense slightly, the way his fingers flex once at his sides. You almost comment on it, but then the clearing opens fully, and the sunset steals your breath. The sky is gold bleeding into deep violet and the grass around your boots glows softly in the dying light.

“Oh,” you say, stepping slightly past him to take it in. “Levi, look at that.” You turn your head toward the horizon. “It’s perfect.”

For a moment, you forget everything else. You forget the tension in him. You forget the quiet distance in his eyes all evening. You just stand there, watching the sky burn.

You turn back toward him.

Levi is on one knee.

He’s holding a ring box.

The field guide slips from your hands before you consciously release it, landing softly in the grass. Your hands fly to your mouth, fingers pressing against your lips.

He looks… nervous. Not terrified. Not uncertain. Just human. Vulnerable in a way that strips the air from your lungs. The wind moves gently through the clearing, brushing the flowers, tugging faintly at his jacket.

“I don’t need a different world,” he says. “I don’t need anything else.”

Your vision blurs instantly.

“I just need you.”

The words hit you harder than any elaborate declaration could. He swallows once, glancing down briefly as if steadying himself, then back up at you.

“You’re my home,” he says simply.

He opens the ring box—the same one you gave him jokingly at Christmas—and inside, nestled where the guitar pick once sat, is a ring that catches the last slant of sunlight.

It’s perfect.

“Marry me,” he says.

It’s awkward.

And it devastates you.

A laugh escapes you through the tears already spilling down your cheeks, your hands still covering your mouth because you’re afraid if you lower them your heart will burst free.

“Yes,” you breathe. You don’t hesitate. You don’t question. “Yes.”

You step forward on trembling legs, kneeling in front of him before he can even rise, your hands shaking as you lower them from your face. You glance at your left hand. The old ring still sits there. The one you kept not out of obligation, but out of respect for who you were, who you loved, what you survived.

You slide it off slowly. You press it briefly to your lips, then tuck it safely into your jacket pocket. Levi’s hand is steady when he takes yours. His fingers brush yours gently as he slides the new ring into place. It fits. It feels… right.

You both stare at it for a second. Then you launch yourself at him. Your arms wrap around his neck, knocking him slightly off balance as he rises, and he catches you easily, pulling you tight against his chest. You bury your face against his shoulder, laughing and crying all at once.

“You idiot,” you whisper breathlessly.

He huffs a shaky laugh into your hair. “You said you’d marry me.”

“I know.”

You pull back just enough to kiss him. It’s messy, hurried, and passionate. It’s everything you could ask for in a moment like this.

You think of the woman you were when the outbreak started. Terrified. Grieving. Certain she would never feel this again. You think of all the nights you nearly gave in to fear. All the times you considered choosing numbness over hope. And you didn’t. You endured. You survived. You kept walking. You found him.

And now you’re here, standing in a clearing with flowers at your feet and a ring on your finger and the man you love holding you like you are the only important thing in the world.

You rest your forehead against his. “I’m so glad I didn’t shoot you,” you joke. He laughs softly, brushing his thumb along your cheek. You laugh quietly through tears that won’t stop.

You are grateful to have existed. To have survived. To have endured long enough to meet him. Long enough to choose love again. Long enough to stand here, alive, with a ring on your finger.

You didn’t choose fear. You didn’t let the world end inside you.

Now, you exist for love.

Only for love.

Well. This is the end. Did those tissues come in handy?

I cannot thank each and every one of you enough for sticking through until the end to read my silly little story. To be honest, this was something I wrote two chapters for on a whim, put down for two years, and then picked up once my obsession for The Last of Us resurfaced. It really is one of my favorite games, and I love Levi Ackerman to an unhealthy extent, so I thought why not mix the two?

This is the first fic I've finished that isn't a part of a series, and I am goddamn proud of it. I've always been the type to start something and never finish it, so I'm glad I can finally look at something that I've completed.

I never planned on sharing this anywhere, but since sharing, I've received so much support! I even made a friend through this. I am so so grateful for everyone who stuck around, and even those who didn't, for giving this fic a click at all in the first place. That means I'm doing something right.

If you didn't read Chapter 20, the canon ending to this fic, Levi is bitten by a Clicker when you open the door in the mansion. You spend your last night with him. He decides to take medication to end his life before he can turn. You secretly drink the medication too, not wanting to live without Levi. You both die peacefully watching the sunrise. But I know some of you don't like bad endings, so I'm glad that I wrote this alternate ending. I admit that I myself was distraught from my own ending and needed to write this to cope with the self-inflicted loss. Also my friend demanded it so there's that. Perks of being an author lol.

BIG shout-out to wellitcouldbeworse3 for writing As The Spark Dies because that was one of the reasons I decided to write this fic when I first started. Sydney is an incredible writer and I strongly recommend you check out her stuff!

Thank you so much for reading, and all of your support. I'd be happy to answer any questions you have about the story or the characters or the behind the scenes processes (please ask I want to yap it's my passion). If you don't think my writing sucks, consider following! This will not be my last Levi fic. Regardless of whether you stay for more or not, thank you for reading Exist For Love.

With all love, Miles

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