Everyone watched in stunned silence as Cindy slipped out to the backyard garden, the door closing behind her with a soft, final click.

All eyes then turned toward Mei, the accusations clear and sharp in their stares. She sat unmoved, casually spearing another bite of food with her fork.

"I don't have eyes in the back of my head, unfortunately," Mei said coolly, not bothering to look up from her plate. "You can't blame me for stating the obvious. And if she has nothing to feel guilty about, she should have just ignored me. It's not my fault if the truth stings."

The room fell even quieter, if that was possible. Everyone wondered, not for the first time, if Mei was capable of feeling guilt at all. Her arrogance seemed an impenetrable armor, forged from whatever pre-apocalypse life had thrown at her—perhaps a privileged upbringing in a world that no longer existed, or simply a personality that refused to bend under pressure. In their group, where emotions often ran high and vulnerabilities were shared like lifelines, Mei's detachment was both a strength and a source of friction. She contributed—fixing equipment, strategizing runs—but her words were quite ruthless.

Rachel was the first to recover.

"Mei, that was uncalled for. You know how delicate things are right now. Words like that... they hurt more than you realize."

Mei shrugged, finally meeting Rachel's eyes with a lazy blink. "Delicate? This world isn't delicate. It's brutal. Pretending otherwise doesn't help anyone. If Ryan's actions drove Christopher away, better to face it than tiptoe around like we're in some pre-virus tea party."

Rebecca leaned forward, her red hair falling loose from its tie, eyes flashing. "You say that like you know everything. But you don't. None of us do, really. All we have are pieces—Christopher leaving, Ryan pulling away, Cindy looking like a ghost half the time. If you're so insightful, why don't you explain it instead of just throwing barbs?"

"Because it's not my drama," Mei replied flatly, setting her fork down with a clink. "I observe. I comment. If you want fairy tales, read a book—from before, when they still printed them."

Alisha shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Elena, who had quite annoyed. "This isn't helping. Mei's right about one thing—the truth matters. But timing it like that... it's cruel."

Daisy, still clutching her dishrag, looked like she wanted to disappear into the floor. "Maybe... maybe we should all just eat and not fight? The food's getting cold."

The suggestion hung awkwardly, but it broke the tension enough for forks to resume their clinking.

But some couldn't just stay seated.

"I will speak to her," Elena said suddenly, standing up before Rachel could even move. Her chair scraped against the floor, the sound sharp in the heavy silence. She didn't wait for responses, her steps quick as she headed for the back door.

Alisha glanced at Elena's retreating form, concern etching her features, but she didn't say anything. As her sister sister, she knew when to let Elena handle things her way—especially matters of the heart, which this clearly was. The door opened and closed with a soft thud, leaving the kitchen in uneasy quiet once more.

Outside, the backyard garden a patch of tilled earth where hope stubbornly took root amid the ruins. The July sun beat down mercilessly, turning the air wavy with heat and coaxing beads of sweat from anyone who lingered too long. Rows of vegetables—tomatoes swelling on vines, beans climbing makeshift trellises, carrots pushing through the soil—fought for survival in the nutrient-poor ground. They'd expanded it over the weeks, using seeds scavenged from abandoned stores and water rationed from their precious reserves. It was Daisy's pet project, a symbol of renewal, but today it served as Cindy's refuge.

Elena found her sitting on an old lounge chair near the edge of the plot, the kind that once flanked swimming pools in suburban backyards. The fabric was faded and torn, but it provided a spot to sit away from the house's confining walls. Cindy stared at the garden with a lost expression, her blonde hair catching the sunlight like spun gold, but her blue eyes were distant, clouded with pain. She swung her legs idly.

A month had passed since Christopher's abrupt departure, and Elena wasn't blind to the undercurrents that had led to it. She'd seen the way Cindy and Christopher had danced around their feelings—shy glances, awkward conversations, a budding romance that had promised so much in their dark world. They were both too hesitant, too guarded by the apocalypse's cruelties to confess outright, until fate intervened in the most devastating way. Christopher's exit had left Cindy heartbroken, a shell of her former self, but Rachel, Sydney, and Elena had rallied around her, offering comfort through long nights of tears and shared stories. Slowly, Cindy had begun to heal, piecing together fragments of her spirit, but wounds like that never fully closed—they just scarred over.

"Cindy," Elena called softly, approaching with careful steps across the uneven ground.

Cindy didn't look up immediately, her gaze fixed on a cluster of green tomatoes hanging heavy on the vine. "Did you ever love anyone, Elena?" She asked suddenly.

The question caught Elena off guard, her cheeks flushing as she sat down beside Cindy on the edge of the chair. "T…that's..."

"Before Ryan," Cindy added, a knowing smile tugging at her lips despite the sadness in her eyes.

Elena's blush deepened, spreading like wildfire across her face. As expected, Cindy had picked up on her feelings for Ryan. It might have been subtle before, but in the last month, those emotions had become harder to hide—the way her eyes sought him out in crowds, the concern that knotted her stomach when he vanished for hours. "No one really," Elena admitted. She didn't remember ever being in love. Perhaps it was her upbringing, surrounded by expectations and status that made genuine connections rare. Men had pursued her, but none had impressed her enough to spark that elusive flame.

Cindy nodded, swinging her legs a little more vigorously. "What did you feel when Ryan cured you the first time?" She asked, her tone curious. "If you want to talk about it, that is."

Elena hesitated, her mind flashing back to that pivotal moment—the fear, the vulnerability, the strange mix of pain and relief. But speaking with someone who'd gone through something similar felt easier, less like exposing a wound. "I don't know really... I was scared for sure. I'd never been with anyone before, never been that close to a man. It hurt, but Ryan was kind during the act. Gentle, even. At the end, I think I mostly felt relieved—that I'd been cured, that I wouldn't become one of the infected."

Cindy nodded again, her expression thoughtful as she processed the words. "I felt the same," she said, her voice soft, almost wistful. "But I thought about Christopher the whole time. At the end, I felt... empty, like I'd lost the last piece of family I had."

"You're not alone, Cindy," Elena said, sitting closer and patting her hand gently. "We're all here for you. You have us."

Cindy squeezed Elena's hand back, a small smile breaking through her melancholy. "I know. Thank God I'm surrounded by good people. I've somewhat managed to turn the page on Christopher."

"That's good," Elena replied, relieved to hear it. "He's doing well at the Municipal Office, from what I've heard. Working hard, loved by everyone there. It doesn't surprise me—he's always been that way."

"It doesn't surprise me either," Cindy chuckled, the sound light but tinged with sadness. She paused, fidgeting slightly, her cheeks flushing as she gathered her courage for the next question. "Elena... how many times has Ryan stabilized you so far?"

Elena's face turned a deep crimson. She glanced away, focusing on a butterfly fluttering near the tomato vines. "Three times..." It had been a week ago, and truthfully, it should have happened earlier. But she'd been too embarrassed to ask, and Ryan, respecting her space, hadn't pushed. He'd waited for her to come to him, assuming she'd speak up when ready. The delay had left her feeling unsteady, the virus's instability manifesting as subtle pains and fatigue. Finally, a week ago, they'd shared their third intimate moment, and she'd felt much better since—stronger, more balanced. But oddly, there was a lingering craving, a pull she couldn't quite explain. Was it the virus demanding more, or something deeper, a need for connection in this lonely world? She pushed the thought aside, not ready to examine it.

"What about you?" Elena asked, turning the question back to Cindy. "You must have had your stabilization already, right?"

Cindy nodded, her flush deepening. "Two weeks ago... but I think I need a third time. I've been feeling pain for days now..."

"Then ask Ryan, Cindy," Elena said, panic creeping into her voice. "It's dangerous to ignore it. The virus can become unstable if you wait too long."

She was clearly the last one who should complain like that but she was concerned for Cindy.

One thing Elena had come to understand was that the stabilization process varied wildly between individuals. For her and especially Rachel, the intervals could stretch weeks without issue—Rachel's resilience made her particularly resistant to the virus's demands. But for Cindy, it seemed the Dullahan virus asserted itself more aggressively, perhaps due to her recent infection or some quirk of biology. Delaying could lead to complications—intense pain, weakness, or worse.

"B…but I don't know how to ask him," Cindy admitted, her voice small with embarrassment. "It's... awkward."

"You just ask him, Cindy," Elena insisted, though her own cheeks burned at the memory of her hesitations. "You know how he is—that blockhead. If you don't tell him, he'll just assume you're fine and give you space."

Cindy nodded, but her expression was troubled. "He is staying away from me, leaving me space even though I'm fine now..."

Ryan's intentional distance was obvious to those who knew him well. He believed he'd stolen something irreplaceable from Cindy—her first intimate moment, meant for Christopher—and in his guilt, he'd erected barriers to avoid making things more awkward. But it was backfiring, leaving Cindy feeling isolated when she needed connection most. She'd begun to understand Ryan better over the past month—his quiet strength, his self-sacrificing nature—and she wanted to bridge the gap, to talk more, to see beyond the distant facade he'd adopted. But his mindset, shadowed by regret and that perpetually cold, distant look in his eyes, made her too nervous to approach.

Elena sensed the deeper turmoil in Cindy's words. "What's really bothering you? It's not just the stabilization, is it?"

Cindy hesitated, her legs swinging slower now, as if the motion helped her gather her thoughts.

"It's... complicated," Cindy said finally. "The first time, it was all about survival. I was terrified, thinking of Christopher the whole time. But the second time... Ryan was so kind, so gentle. He made sure I was comfortable, talked me through it, like he was trying to make it as easy as possible. It wasn't just physical—it felt... caring."

Elena listened, her heart twisting with a mix of empathy and surprise. She remembered her own experiences—the initial fear giving way to a strange sense of security in Ryan's presence.

Cindy continued, her cheeks flushing deeper. "He always comforts me when we're together. Even outside of... that. If I'm having a bad day, he'll sit with me, listen, make me feel like I'm not alone. And now, with him being so distant, I miss him. I miss seeing him smile, really smile, not that forced one he gives everyone. I want to see him happy."

Elena's eyes widened slightly, piecing it together. "Cindy... are you saying you like him? As more than a friend?"

Cindy nodded hesitantly, her gaze dropping to her lap, guilt etching her features. "I... I think I am. It's starting to feel like that. But I feel so guilty. I know you, Rachel, and Sydney like him too. You're all so close to him, and here I am... I can't help it. I think he helped me turn a page on Christopher and it only made me think more about him. He's just... he's kind, Elena. Always comforting me, making me feel safe. Even during the second time, he was so gentle, so attentive. I miss him sometimes, and I just want to see him happy, smiling like he used to…"

Elena was speechless.

It seemed the long, arduous process of getting over Christopher—which had dragged on unusually for what was essentially an unofficial love, built on shy glances across the dinner table, tentative brushes of hands during supply runs, and unconfessed affections whispered in quiet moments—had unexpectedly blossomed into something new: a crush on Ryan. The healing hadn't been linear; it was a winding path through grief, where the void left by Christopher's departure had been gradually filled by Ryan's quiet, constant presence. He'd been there for her in ways that started as friendship but had evolved, at least in Cindy's heart, into something deeper, more confusing.

Even though Ryan had been acting distant—burying himself in solitary work outside the house, deliberately maintaining a respectful space from Cindy to give her room to process her emotions—his innate kindness had a way of piercing through the barriers. Each time Cindy showed even a hint of sadness—a downcast look during their evening meals, or a quiet moment alone in the garden where tears would silently fall—he would immediately notice. He'd approach with that gentle, unassuming way of his, offering comfort not through grand gestures, but through simple acts: a soft word of encouragement, a reassuring hand on her shoulder, or just sitting beside her in companionable silence until the weight on her chest lightened. He did it as a friend, nothing more, his intentions pure and devoid of expectation. But for Cindy, it had become something entirely different—a spark that ignited feelings she hadn't sought or wanted.

At first, she'd rationalized the warmth in her chest as mere gratitude, a natural response to his support during the stabilization process and the emotional wreckage that followed Christopher's exit. But a week ago, right after their second sex, everything had shifted irrevocably. Her heart would race when he spoke to her, a flush creeping up her neck as his concerned gaze met hers, holding it with that steady intensity that made her feel seen in a way no one else could. Her body would grow hot, a strange, exhilarating heat that had nothing to do with the sweltering summer days or the feverish remnants of the virus. The sensations were confusing, leaving her breathless, guilty, and yearning for more. If she had confided in Rachel or Elena about this budding attraction, they would have nodded in empathetic understanding—they felt the same inexplicable pull around Ryan, a magnetic draw that transcended friendship, amplified by the intimate necessities of the Dullahan virus.

"B...But don't worry," Cindy rushed to add, her voice trembling as she tried to reassure the silent Elena. "I won't go after him. After I'm fully stabilized, I'll forget about these feelings. I'll push them down, bury them deep where they can't hurt anyone. It's just... a phase, right? From everything that's happened—the trauma of the bite, the closeness we had to share... it'll pass once the virus settles."

Elena's response was awkward, forced, a weak smile plastered on her face to mask the sadness welling up inside like a rising tide threatening to overflow. Her hands twisted in her lap, fingers interlacing and unlacing as she struggled to maintain composure. "N…no, don't worry," she stammered, her voice catching slightly, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I was just surprised, that's all."

Beneath her composed exterior, Elena's heart ached with a pain she didn't want to voice, a sorrow that clawed at her insides and made it hard to breathe. She didn't want to say it aloud, to make it real—the devastating truth that regardless of her own deepening love for Ryan, she couldn't be with him. The conversation with Alisha replayed in her mind like a relentless loop, each word a fresh stab to her hopes. When her sister had first broached the subject of leaving for their father's location so back home, Elena had been shocked, her world tilting on its axis as if the ground itself had given way. "We can't just go," she'd protested, tears streaming down her face in hot, angry rivulets. "This is our home now, our group. Ryan... he's part of us. Not after everything…."

Alisha had been firm however, her eyes filled with a protective fire that brooked no argument, her voice steady despite the pain it caused her to inflict this on her sister. "Elena, think about it logically. The danger we're in—it's amplified by our presence here. Ryan's got enough on his plate without us adding to the risks. And once you're fully stabilized, what reason do we have to stay? We shouldn't be selfish. Leaving would give them more space, more provisions. Two fewer mouths to feed in this house—it's practical, Elena. We can start fresh, away from all this constant fighting and loss."

Elena had argued fiercely, her voice breaking as she listed every reason to stay—the bonds they'd formed through shared battles and quiet nights, the safety found in their numbers, the unspoken feelings she harbored for Ryan that had grown from gratitude into something profound and undeniable. She'd paced the room, her hands gesturing wildly, tears blurring her vision as she pleaded. "What about what I want? What about the life we've built here? Ryan... he needs us. I need him."

But Alisha's logic was relentless, painting a picture of a future where their presence only endangered those they cared about most. She spoke of the infected hordes growing bolder, the resources stretching thinner, the emotional toll of constant loss.

In the end, Elena had accepted regretfully but not without extracting a promise that felt like a lifeline in the darkness: they would only leave after the Screamer—the latest monstrous threat lurking on the edges of their territory, a creature whose screams could summon hordes of infected—was defeated. It was a delay, a reprieve that allowed her to cling to hope a little longer, but the inevitability loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon, casting long shadows over her growing feelings for Ryan.

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