"Yes, you are. And that's okay. That's normal." He turns to face me fully. "You think I wasn't terrified when I asked you to join the crew? You think I don't lie awake wondering if I'm making the same mistakes that got that Alaska settlement killed?"
I look at him, really look at him. There are shadows under his eyes I didn't notice before.
"But here's the thing," he continues. "If I let that fear control me, I'd never help anyone. I'd never build anything. I'd just exist, and that's not living."
"But what if—"
"What if raiders attack? What if someone dies?" He doesn't flinch from it. "Then we deal with it. Together. Same as we would if you'd stayed in Old Pines and raiders hit there. Same as we would anywhere. The danger doesn't go away just because you hide from it."
"That's not—I'm not hiding."
"Aren't you?" He's gentle about it, but the question lands. "You're sitting here convincing yourself you made the wrong choice, that you should go back to Old Pines where it's 'safe.' That's hiding, Hazel. That's your fear talking."
The truth of it stings.
"I don't know how to do this," I whisper. "How to care about people knowing they might die. Knowing I might lose you the way I lost them."
"You do it scared." He takes my shaking hands in his. "You do it knowing it might end badly, and you do it anyway. Because the alternative—shutting everyone out, surviving alone—that's not better. That's just dying slowly."
"Is that what you did? After Alaska?"
"No." His jaw tightens. "After Alaska, I shut down for months. Stayed professional with everyone, kept my distance, convinced myself that caring made me weak. And you know what? I was miserable. Effective, maybe, but miserable."
"What changed?"
"You." He says it simply. "Finding you on that road, watching you refuse to give up even when your body was failing. You reminded me what courage looks like. Not the absence of fear—the decision to keep going despite it."
I want to believe him. Want to believe I'm brave instead of just terrified.
"I keep seeing them," I admit. "Every time I close my eyes. Tommy's face. Susan's blood. The sound Reggy made when—" My throat closes.
"I know." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "After Alaska, I saw those thirty faces for months. Still do sometimes. But Hazel—" He waits until I meet his eyes. "They're dead. We're alive. And we get to choose what we do with that."
"Choose what?"
"Whether we honor them by building something worth their sacrifice, or dishonor them by letting fear make us useless." He pulls me closer. "Your crew died protecting supplies for the network. They died believing connection beats isolation. You want to honor them? Then stop trying to run back to the safe option. Stop letting guilt convince you that you don't deserve to live."
He's right. Some part of me thinks I don't deserve this—doesn't deserve Travis or his crew or a future or anything good. Some part of me thinks I should suffer forever because I survived when they didn't.
"That's fucked up," I say out loud.
"Extremely fucked up." He almost smiles. "But also pretty normal for someone dealing with survivor's guilt. Doesn't mean you have to live there."
"How do I stop?"
"You start by staying present. By being here, with me, with this crew. By doing the work instead of spiraling about worst-case scenarios." He cups my face. "You're not on watch anymore, Hazel. You're not alone. You don't have to see every threat coming or protect everyone or carry all the responsibility. That's what a crew is for."
"What if I panic again?"
"Then we deal with it." He kisses my forehead. "You're allowed to be scared. You're allowed to grieve. You're just not allowed to run away because of it."
"That seems like a lot of rules."
"One rule. Stay." He says it firmly. "Everything else we can figure out."
I take a breath. The memories are still there—probably always will be. But Travis is here too, solid and real, refusing to let me collapse under the weight of what I've lost.
"Okay," I say. "I'll stay."
