Ruby
Thestormclearsthenext morning, leaving behind a world of white silence and bright sun that hurts to look at. I stand at the window, black coffee in hand, watching the way light transforms the trees into something almost beautiful.
"Ready to try the radio?" Mayson asks from behind me.
Right. The radio. The reason I survived the crash, the reason I have to leave. My convoy, meeting at Dawson Ridge in five days now. I should be excited, hopeful, ready to reconnect with my people.
Instead, I feel a strange reluctance that has everything to do with the man standing in this cabin.
"Yeah," I say, setting down my coffee. "Let's do it."
His radio setup is impressive—way better than what we had in the convoy. Multiple frequencies, good antenna array, actual backup power. Mayson knows what he's doing with communications equipment.
I tune to our convoy's frequency and try. "Dawson Ridge convoy, this is Ruby Smith. Does anyone copy?"
Static.
I try again, adjusting the frequency, checking connections. "Convoy, this is Ruby. If anyone's out there, please respond."
Nothing but white noise.
"We need higher ground," Mayson says. "Better line of sight, less interference. I know a place."
We gear up and hike to a ridge about half a mile from the cabin. The view is spectacular—mountains stretching in every direction, vast and empty. Beautiful in a way that would've been awe-inspiring before the world ended, but now just emphasizes how alone we all are.
I try the radio again from the ridge. Nothing.
"They should be in range by now," I say, hearing the worry in my own voice. "Unless..."
"Unless they hit trouble," Mayson finishes.
The implication hangs heavy between us. The storm, the raiders, the zombies—any number of things could have gone wrong. The convoy could be scattered, destroyed, everyone I've traveled with for the past year could be dead or fighting for their lives somewhere I can't reach.
"You can still make it to Dawson Ridge," Mayson says quietly. "Wait for them there. That was your protocol, right?"
"Yeah. Five days from now. Noon at the old church."
"So you wait here until then. I'll give you supplies, maps, help you plan the route. Then you go."
Five days left in this cabin with this man who saved my life, who looks at me like I'm something he can't quite figure out, who makes me feel safer than I've felt since the world ended.
"Deal," I say, because what else can I say? I have people waiting for me. A life beyond this mountain. Responsibilities.
“Good,” he says with a nod. All business. “Let’s get back to the cabin. I have some building projects I could use an extra pair of hands with.”
We spend the rest of the day fixing up the kitchen and building a shelving unit for his haphazardly organized pickles and preserves.
The sun's setting when I finally notice how close we've gotten. I'm holding a board steady while he screws it into place, and his arm brushes mine, all that heat and solid muscle, and suddenly I can't breathe properly.
He notices. Of course he notices. He freezes mid-motion, his eyes meeting mine, and I see my own awareness reflected there. The attraction that's been building since he carried me inside. The knowledge that we're alone here, that no one would know, that we're both adults who want somthing we shouldn’t have.
But neither of us moves away. If anything, we've gotten closer, drawn together by something neither of us seems able to resist. His hand comes up, fingertips barely brushing my jaw, and I feel that touch everywhere.
"Mayson, touch me, please."
That's all the permission he needs. His mouth crashes against mine, hot and demanding, and I press into him with a desperation I didn't know I was feeling. His hands grip my waist,pulling me flush against his body, and I can feel every hard plane of muscle, every inch of him that wants this as badly as I do.
We stumble backward, knocking into the wall, and his mouth moves to my neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin that makes me gasp. My fingers fumble with the buttons of his flannel shirt, needing to touch him, to feel his skin.
