The door creaks as I open it. I freeze. It’s too loud. The loudest bloody door creak I’ve ever heard.

Panic rushes through my head. Don’t move! Don't breathe, idiot! You can’t let him find-

I can't afford to finish that thought. So I wait, dead still, holding my breath, counting down the seconds.

I reach thirty. No response. Good. Better than good.

I inhale and enter the room swiftly. My soft bare feet patter softly across the smooth cement. In seconds I’m in the kitchen, using my good hand to silently place the first aid kit onto the bench.

The other is pressed against my chest. To suppress the bleeding.

As I shift my weight, I feel a wet patch sticking to my leg. It means I didn’t clean the scalpel well enough. It means a stain on my PJs. It means questions better left unasked.

I take the blade out of my pocket, into the blue-black artificial night surrounding me. Without the color red, it looks almost innocuous. Innocent.

I barely muffle my wincing, as I slowly pull the hurt hand away from my torso. The wound on my lower arm slowly oozes, looking vaguely like caramel. But the smell of salt and iron remind me otherwise.

The medical wipes are something I never skimp on. Reaching into the kit, I open a packet, hold the blade up to the glow to clean it and-

‘BULL?’

No. Please, no.

Despite the near darkness I can see Sam, across the room, sitting bolt upright in bed. Eyes on the evidence.

Lie, damnit! The thought erupts inside my mind.

‘Sam?' I respond. 'I, I, it’s not what it-'

‘-I’m gonna find him, Bull. He’s close. I can feel it.'

What?

I expected 'WHAT THE DAMN HELL IS THIS, YOU SICK BASTARD?'

Did he not see me?

Slowly, inch by inch, I take a risk and lower the blade into the murky darkness.

‘Ah, find who?’ I ask gently, probing.

‘You know who. Got the gun?’

Oh. I really hoped for a moment there. 

But yes. I know exactly who.

Please don't make me choose. Please don't make me choose. I have to change his mind.

‘The gun? Please. You, you can’t. He’s-'

‘Hahaha!’ Sam giggles. He giggles at my response? Something really strange is going on.

‘Bull? You look, hmmm, way better with a tan.’

It's the absolute last sentence I expect out of his mouth...

Then he does the strangest thing. Sam reaches out and caresses the air in front of him.

It takes five seconds of unadulterated confusion, terror and averted heartbreak to realise that my beautiful Sam, is talking in his sleep.

‘I’ll just go get some water down at the-’

He doesn’t finish his sentence. He just rolls over again. Back into dreamworld.

I don’t pause to relax. If I was a cat, that would be five of my nine lives gone at once. I can't risk losing anyone else. Not during the apocalypse.

I immediately take the scalpel again and wipe it clean.

Almost there.

I silently lift the false bottom out of the kit. I conceal the scalpel underneath. The false bottom is returned. AND THAT’S IT.

I did it. Deniability intact. Secret kept. Lie maintained.

I take what must be the biggest sigh of my life. That was too bloody close.

Speaking of 'bloody', the wound still needs attention. I bite my lip from the sting of the wipe. The pain from the bruising around it, settles into the recesses of my awareness as a dull ache.

I unwrap my bandaid and push the big white button on the wall. Another 'day' begins. The lights slowly begin to hum into action, gradually illuminating the trail of clothing leading to the bed.

Well, beds is more accurate.

Last night, we finally dragged them together. That happened.

And there is Sam, his long raven-black hair still somehow looking pristine. Peaceful. I couldn’t count the number of times I watched him sleeping. How it soothed my fears.

I get to have this, at least for now. I know I don’t deserve it. But I want it so much.

I sit on the edge of the mattress and run my good hand down his cheek.

Sam moans a little. It’s insanely cute. He smiles and covers my hand with his. Pulling it down to his chest, he opens his wonderful chestnut colored eyes.

‘Hey.’

His voice is full of goodness. Everything about him, well okay, almost everything about him is good. The rest is forgivable. He's the kind of person who deserves to be safe. Safe from others and for now, safe from himself.

‘Morning,’ I respond. I can't help but crack the biggest smile as my heart jumps a few miles.

‘Oh, is it?’

‘If the clocks are still right,’ I joke. Lame, I know. You fall for someone and you turn into Mr Pathetic. Guilty as charged.

Sam doesn't laugh back. He looks a little off. Disturbed. Was last night a mistake?

‘Sam, you okay? I mean, after we-‘

He looks at me and softens. Like I just said the dumbest thing ever. He squeezes my hand. Doesn’t even answer with words.

‘How long you been up?’

Damn.

This is the first lie I need to tell him this morning. And it’s different to before. Because we are no longer in the friend-zone. No longer strangers. Not “Survival bunker buddies”. We are more. The more makes this worse.

I can’t stay sitting so close to him, so I stand up.

‘Oh, uh not long,' I respond. 'You hungry?’

‘Yeh! I am!’ Sam always maintains a near constant state of enthusiasm. But his eyes flicker and his mood darkens a little.

‘Hey, your scratch. Did it start bleeding? Again?’

Another lie. In this never ending series of them. ‘Yeh. Every time it looks like it’ll heal.’

’S’my fault, Bull.’

If only you knew, Sam.

‘It’s not. I was being careless.’ I put the first aid kit away on the shelf and grab a couple of shirts. I keep my back to him because it's easier.

'While you were saving me,' he answers.

He's talking about the worst day of our combined lives. I had one job. I failed.

‘No more "thank-yous". I’m okay,’ I assure him.

He gets up from the bed. Walks right up to me and pulls me into the most gentle embrace I could never do enough to earn. His love radiating like the morning sun.

What the hell do I do?