The forest outside breathed in rhythms of wind and creaking branches, but inside the cabin, the night stretched slow and heavy. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, painting long, wavering shadows across the walls. It wasn't warmth that held them together—it was the unspoken need to feel less alone in the vast silence of the wilderness.
Meriem pulled a thin blanket around her shoulders, her small hands clutching it tightly. Her eyes lingered on the embers, half-lost in their dance, but every so often they flicked toward Abderrazak. He sat near the door, crowbar leaning against his knee, dark eyes sharp and alert even in weariness. His posture was rigid, shoulders taut, as if bracing against invisible threats.
Soufiane noticed every glance. Something twisted in his chest—protectiveness, fear, an uneasy knot of jealousy—but he said nothing. Amal, noticing his tension, nudged him gently with her elbow.
"She's not a child anymore," she whispered. "You can't guard her from everything."
Soufiane's jaw tightened. "I can try."
Amal only shook her head, lips curling into the faintest smile before she settled back against her pack, arms folded, eyes closing briefly as exhaustion claimed her.
For a while, the only sound was the crackle of the dying fire. Then Abderrazak spoke, his voice low but steady, eyes not leaving the shadows beyond the window.
"You ever notice how silence feels louder out here than in the city?"
Meriem tilted her head, curiosity threading through her exhaustion. "In the city, there was always noise—cars, voices, music. Here…" She hesitated, swallowing against the memory of the wilderness. "Here it feels like the world is holding its breath."
Abderrazak nodded, expression unreadable. "Exactly. Like something's waiting out there."
Soufiane frowned. "Don't start with your doom talk again."
But Meriem smiled faintly, a small, brave curve of her lips. "Maybe he's not wrong. But it doesn't mean we stop living, right?"
For the first time in hours, Abderrazak didn't reply with sarcasm. Instead, he leaned back against the wall, letting the silence stretch, this time lighter, almost thoughtful. There was a subtle shift in the cabin's energy, a quiet acknowledgment that they were, however briefly, safe together.
Later, when Amal drifted into uneasy sleep and Soufiane took first watch, Meriem stayed awake a little longer. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, then spoke softly, just enough for Abderrazak to hear.
"Thank you… for earlier."
He glanced at her, brow slightly furrowed. "Earlier?"
"When you pulled me away… when they rushed us. If you hadn't—" Her voice faltered, swallowed by the memory of claws and teeth snapping inches from her skin. "I just wanted to say it."
Abderrazak's gaze lingered, unreadable, then shifted away. "Don't thank me. I didn't do it for thanks."
But Meriem caught a flicker in his eyes—something unspoken, a glimpse of concern beneath his hardened exterior. For the first time in weeks, she felt a fragile warmth that had nothing to do with the fire.
Soufiane, pretending not to listen, heard every word. His chest tightened, caught between relief that someone had protected her and unease about who that someone was. The quiet moments felt heavier than the chaos they had fled, every heartbeat a reminder that trust was as dangerous as the infected lurking in the forest.
Hours crawled by. Shifts were taken, yawns stifled, the cabin holding them in its fragile embrace. Outside, the forest groaned with distant noises—too far to be immediate danger, yet close enough to remind them that nothing here was truly safe.
When dawn's gray light finally seeped through the cracks in the wooden walls, Meriem had fallen asleep, her head resting lightly against the wall. Abderrazak hadn't moved from his post near the door, eyes rimmed with fatigue but still watchful, his crowbar within easy reach.
Soufiane stretched, shoulders stiff, staring at the two of them. He didn't know what unsettled him more—the monsters clawing through the wilderness or the possibility that trust, once given, might change everything.
The cabin had given them rest, warmth, and fleeting reprieve. But it had also given them something more dangerous: time. And in this world, time was a gift that could kill as easily as it could heal.
Soufiane's fingers tightened around the handle of his machete. Somewhere outside, in the gray hush of dawn, the next threat was already waiting. And this time, survival would demand more than vigilance—it would demand choices.