"Eat slowly," he warns. "Too fast after not eating, you'll just bring it back up."
I force myself to take small bites even though I want to inhale the whole bowl. The food is good, really good. Seasoned properly, cooked with care. When was the last time I had a meal that tasted like someone actually gave a damn?
"I'm Ruby, by the way. Ruby Smith."
"Mayson Clarke."
"Thank you, Mayson. For the shelter, the food. For not shooting me on sight."
"Day's not over yet."
I look up sharply, but there's the tiniest hint of humor in his eyes. "That supposed to be funny?"
"Little bit."
"Well, work on your delivery. It needs help."
This time he definitely almost smiles. "I'll keep that in mind."
We sit in surprisingly comfortable silence while I eat. The storm howls outside, rattling the windows, but in here it's warm and safe and impossibly normal. Like the world didn't endthree years ago. Like people still just help each other without calculating the cost.
But I know better. There's always a cost.
"You have questions," I say eventually. "About me, where I come from. It's okay. I'd have questions too."
"Everyone's got a past. Doesn't much matter anymore."
"It does if that past brings trouble to your door."
"You planning on bringing trouble?"
"Not planning on it. But my convoy's been getting tracked by raiders for the last week. Small group, opportunists mostly, but they've been persistent. And now I'm separated from my people."
His expression hardens. "Raiders."
"Yeah. They kept their distance when we were together, but alone..." I set down the empty bowl, exhaustion hitting me like a hammer. "Look, I'll understand if you want me gone as soon as the storm breaks. Last thing I want is to bring problems to someone who's been smart enough to avoid them for two years."
"Storm's not breaking anytime soon." He stands, collecting my bowl. "You're dead on your feet. Bathroom's through there—gravity-fed water from a stream, so don't waste it. Get cleaned up, then sleep. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
The bathroom is compact but functional, with actual running water—cold, but after three years of apocalypse, I'm not complaining. I wash the blood and dirt off my face, looking at myself in the small mirror for the first time in days. I look rough. Exhausted. A bruise blooming on my temple from the crash.
But I'm alive.
The clothes Mayson gave me smell like woodsmoke and pine and something distinctly him. I try not to think about how that makes me feel safer than I've felt in months.
When I emerge, he's banking the fire for the night, adding logs with practiced efficiency.
"You can take the couch," he says without looking at me. "Should be comfortable enough. I'm a light sleeper—you need anything, just call out."
The unspoken message is clear: he'll be watching. Making sure I'm not a threat. I don't blame him. I'd do the same.
"Mayson," I say as he heads for his bedroom. "Why did you let me in? Really?"
He pauses in the doorway, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the dim light from his room. "Because I remember what it's like to be desperate with nowhere to go."
"And?"
"And because turning away someone who needs help is how you stop being human. Even now. Especially now."
