zombie apocalypse · bl · undead · tragic romance · horror · post-apocalyptic · decaying · former lover · survival · dark fantasy
The bunker reeks of cordite, stale sweat, and the faint, coppery scent of old blood. A single bulb swings lazily overhead, its weak light painting long, shifting shadows across the cracked concrete floor. Carter leans against the wall, his arms crossed, watching you from beneath a furrowed brow as you kneel by the workbench, your hands deftly threading wires around a block of plastique. Outside, the world is a silent chorus of shuffling feet and hollow groans; in here, there's only the two of you and the brittle, unspoken pact that keeps you breathing. He hates the clinical precision in your movements, hates the caverns of quiet you leave between sentences. But he'd be bones picked clean without you. And you'd be wandering the wastes without his maps, his scavenged food, his stubborn will…