“Hey, Southie. Wake up.”

I grumbled a protest as I rolled over on the couch, one arm flipping over the side.

“You need to eat, alright? Then you can go back to sleep.”

When I peeled my eyes open, the sun already lit the room in a fuzzy glow. My words blended. “What time is it?” 

“It’s almost three o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Hmm.” I closed my eyes again. “Then wake me up at four.”

A chuckle. Then a hand grasped my arm and wrenched me up to sitting. I gasped and squinted through the light to glare at the intimidating figure before me. But the anger evaporated the moment a warm bowl of porridge pressed into my hand.

Recluse edged back a couple of steps and watched me devour the porridge. When I finished the entire bowl, he stepped forward to take it from me and nodded at the couch.

I slumped back down on the couch pillow and murmured an automatic “Thank —” before cutting it off with a swallow. Luckily, Recluse was already heading back toward the door. 

* * *

I slept through most of the first day, waking up just to eat, use the bathroom, and turn up the electric heater. The second and third day, I tested my leg by walking around the room. Then I perused a couple of academic books tucked into the back of a shelf beside the dusty mantle. The history book painted the Northern Noble Forces as the hero and the South as the villain in every dispute, and the science book spewed outlandish theories about the virus created by “Looney Lazora.”

Recluse only entered to bring me food, bandages and antiseptic, bathwater, and more oversized clothing. He barely spoke or even looked at me. Each time I saw him, I pushed myself to seize the opportunity. But the men who rewarded me in the past had been desperate and lonely, and this one oozed indifference and self-reliance. And so a different instinct won out — to hide, to stay quiet, to not draw attention to myself.

The days trickled by with the slow inevitability of a gentle stream. Four days, five, then six. Walks around the room grew easier. I finished the books and started them over again. 

On the seventh morning, Recluse handed me a bowl of porridge and broke the silence.

“How’s your leg, Southie? Walking alright?”

Foreboding squeezed my chest. He had promised two weeks, but maybe he was sick of me already. I had wasted this time together, and now I was too late. I fingered the bowl, though my gaze traced Recluse’s boots planted on the carpet at shoulder width, the captivating asymmetry in the lines of his jean-clad legs, the thumbs hitched into his pockets, the relaxed hips. A snug gray sweater hugged his muscular chest and broad shoulders. Ether, had I really thought this masterpiece could want me? 

Failing to fabricate a better plan, I admitted the truth. “It’s getting better. I can walk.”

A satisfied hum. “Good. You’ll have to get your own lunch and dinner because I’ll be out shopping. Well, free-shopping.”

I lifted my eyes to meet his gaze, furrowing my brow. “Shopping for what?”

“Seems my provisions are dwindling more quickly than usual.”

Though I heard no bitterness in his voice, I tightened my grip on the bowl and swallowed. “Well, maybe I can help. Might be safer with two people, right?” 

A single beat of laughter erupted deep from his chest. “You want to help? Do you even know how to shoot a gun?” He shook his head. “No, it’s safer by myself. Anyway, the Infected don’t bother me.”

An image flashed before my eyes of Recluse untouched amid a swarm of Overcooked. But that had only been imagination — hadn’t it?  

Forcing a neutral tone, I said, “What do you mean, they don’t bother you?”

He shrugged. “The Infected are not a problem. I save my bullets for humans.”

“You kill humans?”

“Just ones who inconvenience me.”

I flinched and bit my lip, eyes dropping to the porridge again. The congealing lumps no longer appealed to my ever-greedy stomach. 

“You don’t have to feed me so much.”

Recluse clucked his tongue. “Hey, no, I didn’t mean... these two weeks don’t count. I wouldn’t hurt someone staying with me.”

My eyes darted to his face. “How many others have stayed with you?” 

“Well…” His fingers strummed the pockets of his jeans, and a frown etched crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. “Actually, you’re the first.”

Tentative hope reignited in my chest. Why take in a Southie over fellow Northerners? Could he be interested in me after all?

“Maybe there is something else I can help you with.” I pulled my shoulders back and fluttered my eyelashes. “It must get lonely sometimes, all alone in this fortress.”

His eyes widened, and he jerked back a step.

Shame heated my cheeks. Sweet Ether, I’d been rejected before, but never with such revulsion.  

“I’m not lonely,” said Recluse, voice choked. “And that… that doesn’t work on me.”

“Then what does work on you?”

He huffed a pained laugh. “Nothing.”

“Not even fluffy hair?”

A smile chased his lips, his gaze flicked to my hair, and his hands twitched. For a second, I thought he might actually come and run his fingers through my curls. And fucking Ether, my scalp tingled and stomach melted in anticipation. Even if it didn’t buy me any extra time, I craved that gentle touch and hesitant smile.

Recluse cleared his throat and shook his head.

“Eat, Zafaru. I’ll see you tonight.”

* * *

Over the next week, I split my mental attention between counting the days and hoping Recluse wasn’t. With every little smile or chuckle I earned, hope flickered inside of me. But each time he left the room, I feared it was not enough. 

On the thirteenth day, I awoke to find a cooling bowl of porridge and a short note with tiny, boxy letters. Out shopping. Back tonight. Feed yourself. 

That gave me at least eight hours to plan a last-ditch effort to convince Recluse to allow me to stay. I considered cleaning or cooking to impress him, but Recluse did both better than I could. Instead, I spent the day reading the books a third time and marking the margins with corrections. I savored the burning irritation at all the inaccuracies — the forgotten luxury of caring about something other than survival.

Just as the sunlight faded, Recluse’s footsteps thumped the wood floor in the kitchen. I waited for him to store the new supplies and prepare dinner like usual. Instead, he entered the hallway and approached my room, strides even and purposeful.

I sat up fast and set the book and pencil down on the coffee table in front of me. That kind of stride usually spelled danger, though I feared his words more than his fists. Would he ask me to leave now? I could walk and maybe even climb, but I was not prepared to face the harsh realities of the world again just yet.

Snow clung to his pant legs and melted over his boots. One hand clutched an unopened bottle of whiskey, and the other carried a canvas bag. My lips and tongue flexed over a protest. It’s not two weeks yet. Give me one more day.

Recluse spoke before I could. “I found something for you.”

Then he tossed the canvas bag at me. It landed on the coffee table with a swish and a clunk. I snatched it before it slid off the edge and raised my eyebrows at Recluse.

One corner of his lips ticked in a smile before he flattened his expression and nodded at the bag. “Open it.”

Wariness and giddy anticipation battled in my chest. What would he give me in a zipped bag? Coming from Recluse, that amounted to wrapping paper and a bow. But some of the worst surprises arrived with pretty wrapping.

I unzipped the bag and blinked at the contents. A puffy blue winter coat and sturdy black boots. My gaze lifted to Recluse once more.

“What…” My dry throat swallowed the rest of the question.

“Put them on,” he said.

Numbly, I obeyed. I slid my feet into the boots and slipped my arms into the coat sleeves. After surviving half of the North’s freezing winter in a tattered hoodie barely suitable for the South’s chillier weather, the coat and boots felt so good it hurt. And knowing this came from Recluse — that he looked for this and brought it back for me — just hurt even more. This was somehow worse than a harsh parting. 

It was like my mother promising she loved me before leaving again.

I stared at the sleeves drooping over my hands and clamped down on the bizarre sting in my chest, fighting to remain dry-eyed.

“It’s a little big,” said Recluse, “But if you fold the sleeves a bit, you should be able to climb.”

Fuck, that just hurt worse. Eyes burning with unshed tears, I rolled up the sleeves a few inches as if to test his hypothesis. 

“Yeah, that will work.” My voice came out rough.

A short silence, and then he spoke again. “And the boots? How do they feel?”

“Good. Great.” I cursed the way the words broke. 

I felt his eyes on my face, but I refused to meet his gaze. I heard rather than saw his mouth move in an attempt to form words — the lips parting, the swallow, the intake of breath.

Then, “What happened? You don’t like them?”

“Of course I like them.” I attempted a smile and felt it waver. “They’re perfect.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I was just… I kinda hoped...” I exhaled and rubbed sweaty palms on my sweatpants. Come on, Zafaru. What do I have to lose?

 I nodded at the whiskey. “You gonna share?”