Ashes between us — part 1 (Patreon)

Author's note: Hello loves, halfway through the week! We can do it! I had a rough start to the week with lots of tears and anxiety. Finals are just around the corner so the fast paced clinical life is finally slowing down.

The following one shot is based on a request made through the link:

Apocalyptic trope, maybe they meet in a survivor camp or along the road, enemies to lovers, idk surprise me 😊😊

I really hope you all like it. Expect the last part in a few days!

Her eyes opened to a sky the color of dirty ash.

Grey clouds hung low and heavy, smothering any hint of sun. The air was still—too still. Not peaceful, not calm. Just dead.

She blinked slowly. Her mouth was dry, her head pounding. Her limbs felt disconnected, like she’d been dropped into a body that wasn’t hers. She sat up with effort, her palms dragging along crumbling asphalt. Scraped. Dirty. Bloodied.

She looked around.

An empty highway stretched out in both directions, littered with stalled, rusted cars. Their windows were shattered. Doors left open like people had fled mid-scream. Trash and torn fabric fluttered in the faint wind.

Her gaze dropped to her bare legs. She was wearing someone’s oversized hoodie. No pants. No shoes. Just a white tank beneath the hoodie, stained and torn, and underwear that had seen better days. Her skin was scraped and bruised, her feet black with dirt and dried blood.

She didn’t remember her name.

Didn’t remember how she got here.

Didn’t remember anything.

She stood. Her legs shook. She had to catch herself on the hood of a nearby car, rust flaking off beneath her fingers.

There was a hum in the back of her skull, like the memory was right there, like if she could just reach far enough—

Nothing.

She wandered.

Block after block of shattered buildings. Grocery store signs hanging half-off. A police cruiser with its doors open, long since looted. Glass crunched beneath her feet. She winced, but didn’t stop walking.

She turned down an alley. Kept going.

Eventually, she saw someone.

He was rolling up on a matte-black dirt bike, the engine a low growl beneath the apocalyptic silence. A rifle was strapped to his back, and a hunting knife sat secured to his thigh. His helmet visor was down, face hidden, hood up. He looked like he belonged here. Like this world hadn’t just happened to him—he’d adapted to it.

She stepped closer without thinking.

Glass cracked under her heel.

The bike stopped short. He dismounted in one swift motion, landing light. His hand went to the knife before his eyes landed on her.

She froze.

He stared. Silent.

Then his expression twisted into a tight grimace. “Seriously?”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

He gave her a once-over. “Barefoot. No gear. No mask.” He let out a humorless scoff. “What, did you just crawl out of the grave?”

She swallowed. “I don’t—I don’t know where I am. Or who I am. I woke up—on the street. I think—I think I hit my head. I don’t remember anything.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he turned to his side pack and unzipped it with efficient movements. After a second, he pulled out a pair of worn lace-up boots and tossed them to the ground in front of her. “They’re a size too big. Doesn’t matter. You’ll bleed out walking on glass otherwise.”

She didn’t move.

He glanced up, annoyed. “What? You waiting for a red carpet?”

She stepped forward slowly, watching him. “Thank you.”

“Didn’t do it for you,” he muttered. Then pulled something else from the side pack—a charcoal-filtered face mask, like something out of a medical lab or military unit. He tossed that next. “Put it on. Air’s not clean.”

She caught it awkwardly. “Is it… a virus?”

He paused, then looked at her for the first time—really looked.

And something flickered in his gaze. Too fast to name.

“The Strain,” he said finally. “Engineered bug that went sideways. They made it in labs. Something about immunity manipulation and viral payloads. Was supposed to target tumors. Instead, it killed half the country in two months.”

Her stomach turned.

His voice was flat. Practiced. Like he’d explained this before. Like it was just data now, not devastation.

“It’s airborne,” he continued. “But it doesn’t linger long. Stays alive in moisture—coughs, sweat, blood. Don’t touch anything red. Don’t breathe without a filter. You get it, you bleed out in hours.”

She stared at the mask. Slowly, she pulled it on.

“Good,” he said, securing his bag again. “Now you’re slightly less likely to die in the next ten minutes.”

She stepped into the boots. Too big, just like he said. But they fit well enough.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

He swung his leg back over the bike. “Away from you.”

“But I don’t know where I am—what if—what if I’m not safe here?”

He looked over his shoulder, eyes unreadable. “You’re not.”

“Can I come with you?”

He hesitated.

“You don’t even know who I am,” she added.

“That’s exactly why I don’t trust you.”

And yet—he didn’t drive off.

He sighed through gritted teeth, like the universe was personally inconveniencing him.

“I’m not a babysitter,” he said. “You fall behind, I leave you. You slow me down, I ditch you. You lie to me, I won’t hesitate.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

He looked at her again. This time longer. Harder. Like he was seeing something only he recognized.

But all he said was, “Get on.”

She climbed on behind him, uncertain.

As the engine roared back to life and they pulled away from the ghost city, something deep inside her whispered: Who am I?

The ride was rough.

She clung to him as they tore through broken streets and overgrown roads, the city nothing more than a skeleton behind them. Her hands were numb from the cold, arms aching from holding on so tightly. The air bit through the thin fabric of the hoodie, and the wind felt like needles on her face.

They passed burnt-out trucks and makeshift barricades, faded warning signs fluttering in the wind—biohazard symbols and spray-painted words like INFECTED INSIDE and TURN BACK. Windows were boarded. Some buildings were caved in entirely.

But still, they drove.

It was almost dark when he finally slowed.

The bike rumbled up a long gravel path surrounded by thick woods. The trees bent inwards, casting everything in shadows. At the top of the path, there was a cabin—old, fortified, surrounded by fencing fashioned from car doors, scrap metal, and wooden planks.

It didn’t look like much.

But it looked… safe.

He cut the engine.

They dismounted. She stood unsteadily, her body buzzing from the vibrations of the ride. He moved toward the gate, entering a code into a rusted keypad. There was a metallic click, and the gate creaked open.

She followed him silently, her boots crunching on dead leaves and gravel.

The cabin smelled like smoke and pine and something vaguely metallic. Inside, it was dim. A fireplace crackled in the corner, casting shadows against the wood-paneled walls. There were shelves lined with supplies—cans, first aid kits, jars of herbs. Guns hung neatly on one wall, next to a hand-drawn map and a weathered compass. A loft stretched overhead, its ladder made from welded pipes.

He dropped his bag near the door, yanked off his helmet, and tossed it onto a worn armchair.

And there he was.

Messy curls, jaw sharp under a few days’ stubble, eyes too tired for someone who looked that young. He didn’t speak at first. Just went to the wood stove, grabbed a kettle, and filled it from a jug of clean water.

She hovered awkwardly near the doorway, eyes sweeping the space.

Something about it pulled at her chest. Not familiarity, exactly—but a strange tightness. A hum behind her ribs. The way one corner of the rug curled. The chipped blue mug sitting on the shelf. The half-burnt candle on the table.

She knew this place. Or had been here. Or—something.

But the memories stayed just out of reach.

He noticed her staring.

"Anything?" he asked, voice rough.

She blinked. "No. Just… flashes. Maybe. Nothing useful."

He grunted and poured water into a cup, dropping in a tea bag. He slid it across the table to her.

She took it with both hands, like warmth alone might bring her answers.

"You live here?" she asked.

"Off and on. It’s one of a few safe spots."

She sipped. The tea was bitter but real. It grounded her.

She glanced toward the back of the cabin. A hallway led to a closed door. Something about it made her throat tighten.

"Can I—look around?"

He shrugged. "Knock yourself out. Just don’t touch anything."

She wandered slowly, fingers trailing along the edge of the table. She peeked into a side room—empty, except for a cot and a few crates. Another had a water purifier, tools, and blueprints. A third was clearly a storage room, locked tight.

Then she reached the door at the end of the hall.

She touched the handle. It was cold.

Before she could turn it, he appeared behind her. "That one’s off limits."

She startled.

"Why?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at the door, then back at her.

"Because I said so."

She backed away.

His jaw flexed. "You hungry or what?"

She nodded.

He walked off, and she followed again. Always trailing him. Always in the dark.

But when he turned to the stove and began rummaging for supplies, she caught something in the corner of her eye.

On the mantle. A photo.

Cracked glass. Frame scorched at one corner.

She stepped closer.

Two people stood smiling, caught mid-laugh. One of them was him.

And the other…

Her heart stuttered.

The woman had her face.

Same eyes. Same mouth. Same tilt of the head.

“Who is that?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t look. “No one you need to worry about.”

She turned to him slowly. “But it’s—”

“I said drop it.”

His voice was colder than the wind outside.

She didn’t ask again.

Instead, she sat quietly on the small couch while he moved around the kitchen with deliberate, methodical movements. He didn’t make conversation. Didn’t look at her. But his silence wasn’t cruel—it felt practiced. Like he’d grown used to the absence of people. Or maybe just didn’t know how to speak to someone who didn’t remember who she was.

He prepared the food in silence.

Canned beans. Dried rice. Something that looked like jerky, rehydrated in broth. She recognized none of it, but the smell made her stomach growl, loud and sudden.

He didn’t comment. Just handed her a dented metal plate, then sat down across from her with his own.

For a long while, they ate in near silence. The crackle of the fire was the only sound between them.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she lifted the spoon to her mouth. The food was bland, but it was warm. Real. Heavy in her belly in a way that grounded her.

“I don’t know where to start,” she finally said, voice soft.

He didn’t look up from his plate.

“That’s fine. Don’t need to.”

“But I—” She set her spoon down. “There’s so much I don’t know. What year is it? What day? How long has it been like this?”

He looked at her then.

Something flickered behind his eyes again. Not pity. Something older. Something like regret.

“Years don't matter much anymore,” he said after a pause. “Lost count after the third blackout. Government collapsed not long after that.”

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “And the virus… it’s still active?”

He gave a short nod. “Mutated. Harder to track now. Most don’t last more than a day once they’re exposed. Some faster.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “How did I survive?”

He stared at her.

She stared back.

“I don’t know,” he lied.

She believed him.

Sort of.

Outside, wind rattled the loose tin near the window. A branch scratched against the glass in a way that sounded too much like nails.

She jumped.

He noticed. “Don’t worry. Place is secure.”

“Do you live here alone?”

“Most of the time.”

“And… others?”

His jaw clenched. “Not everyone made it.”

She swallowed.

More silence.

After a while, he stood. “There’s hot water left. I’ll draw a bath.”

She blinked. “A bath?”

He nodded once. “You need it.”

It wasn’t unkind. Just blunt.

He disappeared down the hall and she heard the sound of pipes groaning, the rush of water. When he returned, his sleeves were rolled up and there was a small towel in his hand.

“Go,” he said. “Before it cools.”

She hesitated. “Thank you.”

He didn’t answer. Just turned away again.

As she padded down the hall, the floorboards creaked under her boots. She entered the small bathroom and quietly shut the door behind her.

The tub was old but clean, filled with steaming water that smelled faintly of pine. A bar of soap sat on the edge—cracked but real. A soft shirt and pair of drawstring pants had been folded on the counter.

Something about it all made her chest ache.

The care. The normalcy. The way her reflection in the mirror looked like a stranger.

She undressed slowly.

Lowered herself into the bath.

Closed her eyes.

And for a moment, she could almost breathe.

She scrubbed until her skin turned pink, until the blackened grime gave way to something soft and human underneath. Her nails were cracked. Her knees bruised. Her feet—she winced as she looked at them—raw, swollen, and flecked with embedded dirt and blood.

She washed her hair twice. Let the water run until it turned clear again.

Then she dried off and dressed in the clothes he’d left her—a plain cotton shirt, worn soft with age, and a pair of loose drawstring pants that barely clung to her hips. They smelled faintly like cedar and firewood. Him.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, the cabin was darker than before. Only the fire still flickered, casting long shadows against the walls.

He was on the couch, feet propped up, head tilted back. Eyes closed.

But the second the door creaked, he opened them.

His gaze found her instantly. Scanned her up and down.

“You’re limping,” he said.

She blinked, surprised. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t move.

Just stared.

Then, without a word, he pushed himself up and crossed the room, disappearing into the back. He returned a moment later with a heavy black box—first aid supplies rattling inside.

“Sit down,” he ordered.

“I said I’m fine.”

“And I said sit.”

There was no real bite in his voice, but it was clear he wasn’t about to argue.

She lowered herself onto the edge of the couch, shifting uncomfortably as he crouched in front of her. He gently lifted her right foot into his lap, resting it on a clean towel.

“Walking barefoot through glass,” he muttered. “You trying to win an award for bad decisions?”

“I didn’t exactly have options,” she muttered back.

“Still stupid.”

He clicked the lid open and pulled out a pair of tweezers, a bottle of antiseptic, and a flashlight.

She braced herself.

“This’ll sting,” he warned.

He wasn’t wrong.

The antiseptic burned like fire, and she hissed through her teeth as he dabbed at the rawest parts. Blood beaded where he pressed, but he was precise. Careful. He worked in silence, the only sounds the clink of metal tools and the occasional sharp breath she couldn’t suppress.

His touch was rough, but not unkind.

“You’re lucky you didn’t shred a tendon,” he muttered as he plucked out a small shard of glass. “Would’ve been limping for weeks.”

“I already am limping.”

“Yeah, well. Could be worse.”

Another piece came free. He wiped the wound with gauze.

“You do this often?” she asked, voice tight.

“Patch up stupid people?” He looked up briefly. “Too often.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t flinch when he reached for the other foot.

A long pause stretched between them. The kind that felt too heavy for strangers. But he didn’t ask questions, and she didn’t offer any. It was… oddly comfortable, in a raw, awkward sort of way.

She studied him in the firelight—how his brows knit together in concentration, the way his fingers flexed, steady and sure. He smelled like smoke and pine and something sharper underneath. Something she couldn’t name.

“How do you know how to do all this?” she asked softly.

He paused only a fraction of a second before replying.

“You learn fast when no one else is coming.”

Her chest ached again.

He finished cleaning the last cut and wrapped both feet in clean bandages. Then he stood and began putting everything back without another word.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He didn’t look at her. Just snapped the lid shut and muttered, “Try not to walk through any more war zones barefoot.”

Then he turned away and tossed the first aid kit back onto a shelf.

She watched him, unsure what to say next.

“Is it always this quiet?” she asked softly, her voice barely above the crackle.

He didn’t look at her right away. Just stood near the kitchen counter, finishing the last sip of whatever he’d poured into a dented tin cup.

Then he nodded. “Yeah.”

Her brow furrowed. “You like it that way?”

He glanced at her. “Now I do.”

She waited, but he didn’t say more.

So she prompted gently, “Why?”

His eyes flicked toward the window, out into the trees. The firelight carved shadows into his jaw, made the hollow beneath his cheekbone look sharper than it was.

“Because the quiet now means there are less of us getting infected,” he said finally.

She froze, the weight of his words sinking in slowly.

He walked back to the couch, dropped into the seat opposite her. Rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. His voice came low, like he was talking to the fire instead of her.

“In the beginning, it was constant. You’d hear them through the walls. People coughing until their lungs collapsed. Crying. Begging. Choking on their own blood. No one knew what was happening. Hospitals were overrun. And after a while…” He exhaled through his nose. “You stop trying to help. You just start surviving.”

She stared into the flames. The orange glow danced across her face, and still, the cold in her chest deepened.

“I didn’t hear anything,” she murmured. “When I woke up. Just… silence.”

“You’re lucky,” he said.

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

He didn’t answer.

And she didn’t ask again.

Because the way he spoke about it—with that hollow kind of finality—she knew whatever he’d seen, whatever he’d survived, was etched into his bones. Into the walls of this cabin. Into the silence he now clung to like a shield.

She curled her legs beneath her, resting her chin on her knee, watching him through the firelight.

“I never asked,” she said slowly, her voice still soft from the weight of their conversation. “But what’s your name?”

Harry didn’t move at first, his eyes lingering on the fire. A quiet pause stretched between them before he shifted his gaze to her.

“Harry,” he said, his voice flat, like it was just a name, nothing more.

She nodded, absorbing the sound of it. Harry. It seemed to fit in the way he was, in the quiet, hard edge to him.

He let out a small sigh, leaning back against the couch, his gaze turning inward.

“Sometimes, I don’t even recognize myself,” he added after a moment, almost as if the words slipped out without thought. “Not after everything.”

Y/N swallowed, unsure of how to respond, the weight of his words lingering in the air.

“I can’t even remember my name”

Harry glanced at her, his eyes softening for a moment. “Well, that’s not the worst thing. You could name yourself. Pick something that feels like it fits.”

She furrowed her brow, the idea strange yet oddly comforting. “Name myself?” she repeated, testing the idea in her head. “What would I even call myself?”

Harry shrugged, his shoulders rolling in a casual, indifferent manner. “It’s your life. You get to decide who you are, even if you don’t remember it yet.”

Y/N thought for a long moment. Her fingers twitched against the blanket, and for the first time since she woke up, she felt the stirring of something familiar, something she couldn’t quite grasp. She wanted to be someone, even if she didn’t know who that person was yet.

“I’ll figure it out,” she said quietly, her lips curving into a faint smile, more to herself than to him.

Harry nodded, his eyes flickering back to the fire.

The room settled into another comfortable silence, but this one felt different—less heavy, less full of things unsaid.

Y/N leaned back into the couch, closing her eyes for just a moment. And for the first time since she woke up, she allowed herself the smallest sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, she would find out who she was, piece by piece.

The morning came with grey light bleeding in through the boards nailed over the windows.

Y/N woke to the smell of smoke and something slightly burnt. Her body ached. Her foot throbbed where he’d pulled glass out the night before, but it was bandaged now, and warm socks covered her ankles.

She sat up on the worn couch, blinking at the unfamiliar space. For a moment, she didn’t move. The cabin was quiet, except for the soft clatter of something in the kitchen.

Harry was already awake.

He stood over the stove in the corner, flipping something in a pan. He looked different in the daylight. Still serious, still unreadable—but not as much of a ghost. He wore a thermal shirt with the sleeves pushed up, veins and faded scars running along his forearms.

“Morning,” he said without looking at her.

Y/N’s voice cracked when she spoke. “Is that food I smell?”

He shrugged, plating the contents onto two mismatched tin dishes. “Sort of.”

She limped closer, wincing slightly. He noticed but didn’t comment.

The plate he handed her held a piece of scorched bread and what looked like some kind of rehydrated vegetable mix. She didn’t ask questions. She was too hungry to care.

They ate in silence, like the night before, but it wasn’t uncomfortable now. It was just quiet. Necessary.

When they were done, he rose and pulled on a light tactical jacket. “C’mon,” he said.

Y/N blinked. “Where?”

He opened the door and jerked his chin toward the woods. “Time for a lesson.”

She followed him outside, hugging the hoodie closer to her frame. The morning was cold and damp. Mist clung to the trees. A few birds chirped somewhere far off, but even that sounded wary.

“What kind of lesson?” she asked.

He moved ahead, boots crunching along the gravel path as they headed deeper into the trees. “The kind that keeps you alive.”

They stopped near a stretch of wild growth just past the perimeter fence. Harry crouched beside a small patch of plants and snapped off a few dark leaves, holding them up.

“This is skullroot,” he said. “Looks harmless, right?”

Y/N nodded.

“It’s not. If it touches an open wound, it reacts to moisture and starts breaking down tissue. Fast. Same family as blister vine. You get this in your bloodstream, it’s like lighting a fuse.”

She recoiled instinctively. “And it just grows here?”

“Everywhere,” Harry said. “Started spreading like hell once the Strain burned through the population. No one left to maintain ecosystems. Nature went rogue.”

He stood and tossed the leaves away. “You need to start recognizing the world as it is now. It’s not the one you came from. Nothing’s clean. Nothing’s safe. And if you walk around like the rules haven’t changed—”

“You die,” she finished quietly.

He looked at her, eyes hard. But there was a flicker of approval beneath the surface.

“Exactly.”

They kept walking. He pointed out more hazards along the way—tripwire traps, feral root growth, certain types of birds that mimic voices to lure humans closer. Everything felt unfamiliar and dangerous, like she’d stepped into a parallel version of Earth where the laws of nature had rewritten themselves in blood.

Eventually, they stopped by a wide tree with claw marks scarring the bark.

“What did that?” she asked.

Harry didn’t answer right away. Just pulled a piece of chalk from his pocket and marked the tree. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “All you need to know is how to recognize signs of passage. This one’s fresh. Something big, territorial. We don’t go this way again for a while.”

Y/N swallowed, her stomach knotting.

Harry turned to her then. “You don’t have to remember your old life to survive in this one. You just need to be alert. Smart. Paranoid, if it helps.”

She met his gaze. “Were you always like this?”

There was a long pause before he answered.

“No,” he said. “But the world doesn’t care if you’re ready. It keeps changing. You either learn with it, or it eats you alive.”

They started back toward the cabin. The air felt heavier now. Sharper. Like every leaf, every branch might be watching.

The woods had darkened by the time the cabin came into view again, and though Y/N still limped slightly, she didn’t need Harry’s help this time. The walk had cleared her head. Not entirely—but enough to steady the gnawing uncertainty that had lived in her bones since waking.

Inside, Harry moved without words—tending to the fire, checking the perimeter cams, sorting through his supplies in the dim light.

Y/N sat back down on the couch, her eyes tracing the familiar unfamiliarity of the space. That photo on the mantle still haunted her. She hadn’t asked about it again. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

The quiet stretched for a long while. A peaceful sort of silence, if there was such a thing.

Harry eventually came to sit across from her, a tin cup of water in one hand, the other resting loosely in his lap.

She studied him—just for a moment.

He always looked alert. Tense. Ready to spring into motion. But tonight… there was something softer in his posture. Stillness that wasn’t so heavy.

“What did you do... before all this?” she asked, voice low.

Harry paused, the metal piece in his hand resting still for the first time.

He looked up, eyes reflecting the flickering flames. “I was... a software engineer,” he said.

Y/N blinked.

“A coder,” he explained with a faint smile, “one of those people who sat in front of a screen for hours, writing lines of code that probably changed the world — or at least, tried to.”

She hadn’t expected that.

“Really?” she said, surprised. “You don’t seem like the type.”

Harry shrugged. “Not much choice in what you do when you’re good at it. I worked for a company that was developing AI… stuff to help hospitals manage resources.”

He looked away for a moment, fingers tightening around the rifle’s barrel.

“But then the virus happened. The Strain. The company went dark, and everything else just… fell apart.”

He exhaled sharply, eyes hardening.

“I never imagined the world could go silent like this.”

Y/N nodded slowly, absorbing the weight behind his words.

“Did you like it? Coding?”

“Some days, yeah,” he admitted. “So,” he said softly, “what do you remember? Anything at all?”

She swallowed hard, blinking against a sudden wave of dizziness. “I… I don’t think I remember anything.”

“Try,” he urged gently, voice patient but insistent. “Anything. A name, a face, a place.”

She closed her eyes, trying to pull something from the fog.

A rush of images came—flashing lights, muffled voices, cold steel—but none made sense. Her breath hitched, and suddenly a sharp, searing pain exploded at the base of her skull.

She pressed her fingers to her temples, lips parted in a silent plea for relief.

Harry reached out, steadying her shoulder. “Easy, easy. Don’t push too hard.”

After a moment, the pain dulled to a dull ache.

She opened her eyes, confused and shaken.

“I tried,” she whispered. “But it just hurts.”

Harry nodded, voice quiet but firm. “That’s normal. We’ll take it slow.”

She looked at him, hope and fear tangled in her gaze.