The storm of footsteps and gunfire was long behind them now. The silence inside the shelter was no longer tense, it had shifted. It felt padded, settled, like the kind of quiet that came after surviving something violent.
They'd decided to stay three days underground. Enough time to let the Vultures lose interest.
For the first time in days, Iyisha and Malcolm ate something warm.
Iyisha's fingers trembled as she held the tin bowl. The moment the food hit her tongue, she moaned softly—not from pleasure, but from sheer relief. Her shoulders sagged.
"Oh my God," she mumbled. "Real food."
Malcolm gave a small huff that could've been a laugh. He scooped more into her bowl with care, as if afraid it might spill.
Her hands shook as she reached for it.
He didn't comment.
Later, she gestured for him to sit. "Let me check your leg."
Malcolm obeyed without a word. He sat against the cot as she knelt, unwrapping the fabric bandage.
The wound had closed but the skin was still dark and swollen. She cleaned it gently with water from the jug, dabbing the raw skin with a soft cloth. When she looked up—
He was watching her.
The flickering lantern light cast shadows across his face, turning the angles sharp and fierce. His eyes were focused, mouth set in something unreadable.
She swallowed. Her hand paused.
Something shifted as she looked down again. She tried not to stare but the thin fabric clung to the shape of him, unmistakable, pressing up against the waistband.
Her breath caught. He was hard.
Again.
Her eyes widened. Her body echoed the heat, a flush crawling up her spine.
She said nothing. Quickly, she finished and stepped back.
Malcolm watched her rise, eyes not leaving her even as he reached for his pants and pulled them up with slow, deliberate movements.
She sat down across from him, trying to shake it off. Her chest felt tight, skin flushed, and—God—it was weird noticing it, but her body reacted too. A flush crawled up her spine. Her nipples were hard.
"Let me see."
For a second, she panicked and thought he'd noticed the way her shirt clung, how her chest reacted to just being near him.
He raised his brows slightly.
Then pointed at her hand.
Heat flooded her cheeks. God. Of course. She flushed and extended her hand toward him quickly, hoping he hadn't noticed her hesitation.
The slice on her palm had crusted at the edges, but the skin still looked red and angry. Malcolm opened the first aid kit they found earlier, pulled out a small antiseptic vial and gauze, then poured a little clean water over the wound.
He dabbed it gently and began wrapping it with practiced care, every move efficient and calm. His eyes flicked up just once and met hers. Something electric passed between them. But he said nothing.
Iyisha's eyes drifted to his mouth. His jaw. The slow, careful way he moved. She blinked, caught herself staring.
His long lashes. Those focused blue eyes. He didn't react.
"So…" she said quietly, "how long have you been a wanderer?"
He paused in his wrapping. "Over two years."
Iyisha lowered her gaze.
"So, two years… no girlfriend?"
Malcolm frowned, his head turning slightly. "What?"
Her eyes shot to the wall. "Nothing. Never mind."
Silence again.
But she felt his gaze on her. Burning. Sharp. She couldn't breathe.
Finally, she whispered, "It was my first time."
His voice was flat. "First time what?"
She met his eyes. "Being kissed."
He laughed—a short, disbelieving sound. "Seriously?"
She nodded. "I was always too focused on med school. I told myself love could wait. Then I graduated and… still nothing. The guys in Redridge were sleazy. I didn't want any of them."
Malcolm had been sharpening a piece of broken wood with his knife. Now he stopped.
He looked at her. "Why are you telling me this?"
She blushed. Hard.
Her voice barely came out. "I want to try again."
He stilled. The knife stopped mid-carve.
"With me?"
She didn't answer.
She didn't have to.