I stare at Luke’s back as he stands, collects both our plates and moves to the sink.Calm.Oblivious.Kind.He doesn’t know he’s stepped on a tripwire I didn’t even realise was still there.He loads the dishwasher as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.Just a man cleaning up after breakfast.In his kitchen.With me.
My whole body wants to bolt.
I press my nails into my thigh, subtly.Grounding myself.Silencing my instinct.I shove the voice in my head –run, run, RUN– down as far as it will go.Now is not the time to be irrational.It’s just laundry, for Christ’s sake.
I blink away the thought and follow him out the back door into the hard, bright sun.I force myself to breathe as if I’m not quietly unravelling, as if this isn’t dangerously close to something real.
We’ve got water to check.
And something I don’t dare name is pressing behind my ribs – something starting to feel too close to wanting.
TWENTY-NINE
The ute rattles as we drive, and I lean out of the window, watching the world blur into gold and red.We stop at each trough, and Luke hops out to check the levels, topping them up from the water tank on the back of the tray.
At the third trough, he stops and frowns.
‘What’s up?’
‘There’s a leak,’ he mutters, crouching down.Water is trickling from a small crack in the base.
‘How bad?’
‘Not catastrophic.’He rummages in the tray and pulls out something that looks like blue Play-Doh.
‘You’re fixing it with Blu Tack?’
‘Waterproof sealant.Dries rock hard.’
I watch him smear it over the crack; he’s capable and unfazed.
‘Where’d you learn all this?’
Luke shrugs.‘My parents taught me a lot.The rest was trial and error.’
‘Huh.See, back home, if I don’t know how to do something, I pay someone to do it for me.’
He snorts.‘That’s why you’d be the first to die in a zombie apocalypse.’
‘Sorry?I would beextremelyvaluable.’
‘Oh yeah?How?’
I open my mouth.Pause.I have nothing.Zero marketable survival skills.
He grins.‘Exactly.’
‘Okay, fine,’ I say and narrow my eyes.‘Maybe I’d be the zombie that keeps coming back.Feral.Unkillable.Weirdly hot.’
He laughs and we drive on.
We’re almost home when a horse comes tearing across the paddock.
Luke swears and slams on the brakes, already out of the ute and running when he yells over his shoulder, ‘Get behind the wheel.’
I’ve barely swapped seats when he intercepts the brown and white horse, holding out his hand and whispering something low and calm.The horse huffs and settles.Then, without ceremony, Luke swings onto its back – no saddle or reins, just hands gripping the horse’s mane.
‘Meet me at the stables!’
