Ashes between us — part 2 (final) (Patreon)

Author's note: Hello everyone! I hope you are all getting some well needed rest. I hope you are enjoying all the one shots and the chapters being posted.

word count -> 6.8K

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The scream tore from her throat before she was even awake.

Y/N jolted upright in the bed, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. The thin blanket clung to her damp skin, her pulse racing like she'd been running for miles. The room around her was pitch dark save for the dying flicker of a lantern in the corner, its orange glow barely reaching the shadows in the corners.

Her breaths came in ragged gasps. She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes.

An arm.

Blood on a sleeve.

Bright lights—

Sirens—

Her name? Maybe? A voice screaming her name?

But then—nothing. Just static. Like a radio that had lost its signal.

She didn’t even know whose arm that was. Could’ve been hers. Could’ve been no one’s.

A deep chill sank into her bones as she threw her legs over the edge of the bed. The floorboards creaked quietly under her bare feet. Her heart was still hammering too fast.

It was too quiet.

The kind of quiet she hated now. It wasn’t peaceful. It was empty.

She moved slowly through the hallway, letting the lantern’s handle warm her palm as she held it in front of her. The glow cast her shadow across the walls of the small cabin like a ghost—long and warped.

Harry wasn’t in his usual place on the couch.

She found him outside instead.

He was sitting on the front steps of the porch, arms resting on his knees, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The ember flared as he took a drag, then dimmed again, his silhouette rigid in the cool night air.

He didn’t look at her when she stepped outside.

“You okay?” he asked after a beat, voice low and rough with sleep—or maybe something else.

She nodded, hugging her arms around her ribs. “Nightmare.”

He finally turned his head, eyes flicking to her. He didn’t ask what it was about. He never did.

But tonight, she told him anyway.

“I saw… someone reaching for me. I think. Lights. Sirens.” She swallowed. “It felt real. Like something that actually happened. Before.”

Harry didn’t speak right away. He exhaled smoke into the dark and watched it curl into nothing.

“You think that’s how it started?” she asked, quieter now. “How I lost everything?”

“I don’t know,” he said. But he did. He knew more than he’d ever admit.

She sat down beside him, knees pulled to her chest.

“I just… I keep wondering how I ended up in the middle of that road. Why there was no one with me. Why it felt like I’d been left.” Her voice cracked. “Like I was supposed to die out there.”

He turned his face away, jaw tightening.

“No one should’ve had to be out there alone,” he said after a while. “Not you. Not anyone.”

His voice was soft, but there was something buried in it—something raw and unspoken.

Y/N glanced at him. “You didn’t find me right away, did you?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t know you were even out there. If I had…” His voice trailed off.

She stared at the ground, digging her fingers into the porch wood.

There was more to it. She felt it like a splinter under her skin—painful, invisible, impossible to ignore.

But before she could press further, Harry stood up. The cigarette burned low between his fingers, ash scattering in the wind.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “You should try to sleep.”

And as she followed him back inside, she didn’t see the way he paused in the hallway—how his hand hovered over the doorknob of the locked room, his fingers curling tight around it before he let go.

The door stayed shut.

For now.

By the time the sun rose behind the trees, the mist was already starting to lift. Dew clung to the tall grass like crystal, and the morning air was crisp enough to sting her lungs.

Harry handed her a scarf first, then a worn-out filtration mask that looked like it had seen better days.

“Don’t forget this,” he said, his voice rough from sleep, or lack of it. “You never go out without it. Not even for a second.”

Y/N fumbled with the straps.

He didn’t speak, but the sigh he let out spoke volumes. A moment later, he reached forward—gentler than she expected—and adjusted it for her, fingers brushing her cheek before tightening the sides behind her head.

“Too loose, and you might as well be breathing it in raw,” he said. “Too tight, you won’t last ten minutes without a headache.”

She nodded slowly. “Got it.”

They started walking, the grass crunching softly beneath their boots. He carried the pack, of course. He always did.

He didn’t look at her much, but he kept her in his periphery—guiding her around soft patches of ground and motioning for her to duck under low-hanging branches. His silence wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t warm either. It was… careful.

“This stream,” Harry said once they stopped near a small trickle of water weaving through moss-covered rocks, “looks clean, but it isn’t. Never trust the surface.”

He dropped to one knee, pulling a small bottle from his pack and scooping some of the water into it.

“Rule one—filter everything. Twice, if you can.”

Y/N crouched beside him, watching as he added a few drops from a smaller vial into the water. It fizzed faintly.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Purification. Takes a while. You’ll know it’s ready when the color clears.”

She nodded, trying to commit it all to memory.

“Rule two,” Harry continued, standing up again, “listen. Always. Animals go quiet when something’s near. If it’s too quiet, you run.”

Y/N glanced around the woods. “What if it’s always quiet?”

He gave a humorless smile. “Then you keep running.”

They sat on a fallen log to rest a while later. Y/N pulled the scarf tighter around her shoulders, shivering slightly. Without a word, Harry shrugged off his heavier blanket from his pack and handed it to her. He didn’t look at her while he did it—just dropped it onto her lap and moved on to inspecting their route back.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

He gave a quiet grunt in return, eyes scanning the horizon.

Even in his silence, she could feel it—the way he watched over her, shielded her from things she couldn’t name yet. He was distant, but only in words. His actions were loud enough. Protective, without trying to be obvious about it. Like it was second nature.

She caught him glancing at her once when he thought she wasn’t looking. It was fast, but there was something there. Something he’d buried so deep it barely showed on his face.

They didn’t talk much on the walk back.

But for the first time since she’d woken up, Y/N didn’t feel like she was just surviving.

She was starting to learn. And he was teaching her.

The wind howled against the cabin’s thin walls the next morning, pushing dust through the cracks. Harry stood by the shelves in the kitchen, arms crossed, staring at the empty tins and half-filled jars like they might magically refill if he stared long enough.

He didn't move when Y/N entered the room, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled slowly and reached for the inventory list he kept folded on the counter. “We’re almost out of everything,” he said. “Food, water tabs, ammo… even batteries. We're on fumes.”

Y/N crossed her arms. “What does that mean?”

Harry looked over at her, jaw tense. “Means I need to go into town.”

She blinked. “Okay. Then I’ll come with you.”

He didn’t even entertain it. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not safe.”

“You just spent the whole day yesterday teaching me how to survive out there. You said I have to learn—”

“That doesn’t mean throwing you into a warzone,” he snapped, sharper than intended.

She flinched, just slightly, but stood her ground. “I’m not made of glass, Harry.”

“You don’t remember anything,” he shot back. “What if something happens and you freeze up? What if—”

“What if I don’t?” she cut him off. “You said yourself I have to learn. So let me.”

Harry’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “It’s different when you’ve seen what’s out there. I have. And I’m not letting you walk into it because you feel stubborn this morning.”

Y/N stepped closer. “I’m not being stubborn. I’m trying to pull my weight. I can’t just sit here like some… prisoner.”

He looked away, jaw ticking, like her words had struck somewhere deeper than she meant them to. “That’s not what this is.”

“It feels like it.”

The silence between them buzzed with unspoken things. Finally, Harry sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

“I just—” he began, then stopped. “I promised I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Her brows furrowed. “You promised… to who?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned away, already regretting saying too much.

Y/N hesitated, studying his back. “I’m going,” she said softly. “With or without your permission.”

He let out a humorless laugh and turned around, eyes dark with a mix of frustration and resignation. “You’re reckless.”

“And you’re overprotective.”

They stared at each other across the room, the weight of the moment sitting heavy between them.

After a long beat, Harry exhaled. “Fine.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Really?”

“I don’t like it. But you’re right. You need to know. We leave at first light tomorrow.”

Y/N nodded slowly, heart racing. Part of her was excited. Another part was scared.

And Harry? He was already planning twenty different ways to keep her alive.

The sun hadn’t fully risen when they left. A cold fog clung low to the ground, and the trees looked skeletal against the grey sky. Harry led the way, backpack slung over his shoulders, rifle in hand. Y/N followed a few steps behind, her own bag light but packed with essentials: water, gauze, a knife she still didn’t quite know how to hold right.

He had made her wear a filtered mask, the good one—his. He wore the spare. That alone told her he was scared.

The silence between them was heavy but not uncomfortable. They moved in tandem now, her footsteps gradually matching his rhythm. She watched how he scanned the trees, the buildings ahead, every shadow. Always alert.

The town came into view like a grave. Buildings crumbled, glass shattered, roads cracked and swallowed by weeds. A burnt-out car lay half on the sidewalk, its door hanging open like someone had fled in a hurry. Signs warning about quarantine fluttered in the breeze, faded and sun-bleached.

Harry raised a hand, motioning for her to stay behind him as they crossed an intersection.

“We’ll hit the pharmacy first,” he said under his breath. “Stay low, stay quiet.”

Y/N nodded.

Inside the store, the shelves had been mostly cleared out. Empty boxes, broken bottles, and a few unopened packets scattered across the floor.

They worked fast, grabbing anything useful. Harry checked labels, his fingers moving efficiently. Y/N found gauze and rubbing alcohol, stuffing them into her bag.

Then a sound.

A shuffle. A breath.

Harry froze.

“Don’t move,” he whispered.

She stayed perfectly still, her heart pounding in her ears.

Another step. Then another.

Across the aisle, just out of the morning light, someone—or something—moved.

It was a man once. Now he was hunched, face pale and slack, eyes milky, skin blotched with gray. He dragged one foot behind him and wheezed like every breath burned. The infection had taken hold, but it was in the slow stage. The quieter stage.

Y/N’s breath hitched. Something about the sound of that wheeze, the way the man’s fingers twitched, clawing at nothing—it sent a jolt through her head.

Images—flashes—bright lights. A gurney. Screams. Someone calling her name.

She stumbled back.

“Y/N,” Harry hissed, grabbing her wrist. “Don’t.”

But it was too late. Her bag knocked over a metal rack with a loud clang.

The infected man’s head snapped toward them.

Harry pushed her behind him and raised his gun.

One shot. Straight to the head.

The silence afterward was louder than the gunshot.

Y/N stared at the body. “That sound… I’ve heard it before. I—”

Harry turned, his voice low but firm. “We need to move. Now.”

She nodded numbly, and they hurried out the back of the store.

Behind the building, Harry stopped and turned to face her. “Are you alright?”

“I saw something,” she said, voice thin. “Just for a second.”

“What did you see?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I think… I was in a hospital.”

Harry went still, eyes searching hers. “You sure?”

She nodded. “There were lights. And—someone… someone called my name.”

He looked away, jaw clenched.

Y/N frowned. “You don’t think it means something?”

“I think,” he said slowly, “we should get what we came for and get back. Talk later.”

She didn’t argue.

But her mind was spinning now.

And Harry… Harry walked ahead of her, shoulders taut, eyes harder than before.

Because he knew exactly what hospital she was remembering.

And exactly what she didn’t.

That night, the silence in the house felt different.

Not peaceful. Not safe.

Heavy.

Harry moved around the small kitchen, lighting the gas burner with practiced ease. He didn’t say much, didn’t look at her for too long. Just stirred the pot of food—canned beans and dried rice—and pretended like nothing had happened.

Y/N sat curled up on the edge of the couch, knees to her chest, eyes on the floor. The bag she’d taken to town still sat by the door, untouched since they came in. Her boots were muddy, her hands still smelled faintly of smoke and antiseptic.

“Were there hospitals,” she asked quietly, “when it started?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. The metal spoon clinked against the pot.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “There were.”

“What were they like?”

He paused again. “Packed. No one knew what they were dealing with. People came in coughing, and they didn’t come out.”

Y/N watched him for a beat. “Do you think I was in one?”

He didn’t flinch. But he didn’t look at her either.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Yes, you do.”

That made him turn.

“What?”

She stood up, crossing the room slowly. “You know something, Harry. Every time I bring it up, your jaw clenches. You look away. You go quiet. You deflect. It’s not just a guess—you know something about me.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he looked back at the pot and turned off the burner.

“You just remind me of someone,” he said, voice clipped.

“No. That’s not it.” Her tone sharpened. “You found me in the middle of the road, Harry. No ID. Nothing. And you brought me here. You gave me your food. Your bed. Your mask. You risked going into town for me. That’s not what you do for a stranger.”

He braced his hands against the counter.

“You want to know the truth?” he asked, voice low and strained. “You’re not the only person I’ve seen lose themselves. This world rips people apart. Up here—” he tapped his temple, “—it messes with you. So yeah, I’ve seen people who forget who they are. And when I found you, I thought you were just another one of them. I don’t know what happened to you before.”

She didn’t blink. “You’re lying.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. And for just a second, the mask cracked.

“I’m not,” he said—but it came out too quiet. Too soft.

She studied his face. The twitch in his jaw. The flicker of pain in his eyes.

“Fine,” she whispered. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll find out myself.”

He didn’t respond.

Instead, he silently handed her a bowl of food and walked past her, disappearing down the hall. The door to his room shut with a final, hollow click.

Y/N stood there, the bowl warming her hands, her heart pounding.

He was lying.

She didn’t know who she was—but she was starting to see who he was.

And now, she wasn’t sure which was more dangerous—the infected outside...

…or the truth inside these walls.

She knew what she needed to do.

The moment Harry’s breathing had evened out and the house had gone still, Y/N slipped out of the thin blanket he’d handed her earlier. The floorboards creaked under her feet, and she winced with every step, holding her breath like the silence itself might shatter.

The hallway felt colder at night. Or maybe it was the nerves threading through her bloodstream.

She paused in front of the door.

The door.

The one place he never let her near. The one place she had to go.

She glanced over her shoulder. No movement. No sound. The faint rise and fall of his chest still visible from the couch where he slept, one arm flung over his eyes like the weight of the world had become too much even for him.

Her hand trembled as she reached into the pocket of her worn pants.

The bobby pin.

She’d kept it from the first day she found it in the bathroom drawer. She didn’t know why at the time—only that it felt important. Necessary. Now she knew why. This was why.

She dropped to a crouch, palms slick with sweat, heart in her throat. The lock was old, slightly rusted. Her fingers worked clumsily at first, but then—

Click.

The sound rang out louder than she expected, like it echoed through the bones of the house.

And before she could turn the handle—

His hand slammed over hers.

She gasped, nearly jumping back, but he was already there—eyes dark, jaw clenched, hand gripping the knob, slamming it shut before she could see even an inch of what was behind it.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled, voice low and sharp.

“I—” she stammered, trying to pull her hand back. “I needed to know.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” he snapped, stepping between her and the door, towering over her in a way he never had before. Not like this. “You don’t just go poking around places you don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me!” she hissed. “Tell me why you’re hiding this from me. What’s in there, Harry?”

He didn’t answer.

His shoulders were tense, breath coming faster than before. And his eyes—God, his eyes were full of something that looked a lot like fear. Not of her.

Of what she’d remember.

She swallowed hard. “You said I remind you of someone.”

“I did.”

“You lied.”

Silence stretched between them like a live wire.

“I didn’t lie,” he said, voice quieter now. “I just didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

Her heart pounded. “Then tell me now.”

But he shook his head, stepping back.

“No.”

“Why not?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Because once you remember, everything changes.”

And then, without another word, he turned the lock again—this time with a key—and walked away, leaving her standing in the hallway with the truth still locked behind wood and steel.

But now she knew.

There was something in that room.

Something about her.

And she was getting closer.

The day had started normal enough.

The sun burned pale behind a film of clouds, casting a cold light over the ruins of what used to be a gas station on the outskirts of the next town. Harry had wanted to check for medical supplies and maybe a backup fuel canister. Y/N had tagged along without asking, and for once, he hadn’t argued.

They moved carefully, side by side.

Harry had taught her what to look for—unbroken seals, faded labels, rusted lids that meant danger. Y/N had been proud of the way she spotted an untouched first-aid tin tucked behind a broken vending machine. They’d almost been ready to leave when it happened.

The sound came first.

A sharp, metallic clatter.

Then a growl.

Then—

Crash.

Glass shattered as a half-collapsed shelf came down, forcing Harry to push her out of the way. She heard his grunt before she saw the blood.

“Harry—”

He stumbled back, eyes wide, hand clamped over his side.

A jagged piece of rebar jutted from the splintered shelf—and Harry was bleeding. Fast.

“Fuck,” he gasped, already sagging toward the ground. “Y/N—”

“No. No. Don’t—don’t talk.”

She was at his side instantly, hands trembling as she pressed her palm to his wound, trying to stop the flow. It was too much. Too dark. Too warm.

Her stomach flipped.

“You’re gonna be fine,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “You’re gonna be fine, I’ve got you.”

His mask had slipped. She fixed it first—because that’s what he would’ve done for her—then looped his arm around her shoulder.

“I can’t—”

“You have to.”

He was heavy, dead weight almost, but she gritted her teeth and pulled him to his feet. The road home wasn’t far, but every step was harder. He was fading. She could feel it in the way he leaned heavier, the way his breaths came in short, painful bursts.

“Talk to me,” she begged. “Say something.”

“Remind me... not to be a fucking hero next time.”

She almost laughed, except for the blood soaking through his shirt and the way the color had drained from his face.

By the time they reached the cabin, Y/N was shaking.

She didn’t let go until he was on the floor, barely conscious, murmuring her name in a way that sounded broken. Panicked, she tore through the supplies—scissors, gauze, needle, thread, antiseptic. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You can do this. He needs you.

She took a deep breath. Ripped his shirt open. Cleaned the wound. He groaned in pain, but didn’t stop her. Not once.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she threaded the needle with trembling fingers. “You’ve done so much for me. It’s my turn now.”

The first stitch was messy. The second, better. By the fourth, she was crying but her hands were steady.

She didn’t breathe until the final stitch was in.

The wound was jagged, deep enough that her knuckles had gone white holding the skin together. But it was closed. Bandaged. Cleaned. Sutured. She didn’t know if it would be enough, but she’d done everything she could.

Y/N swore her legs almost gave out from under her when she pushed the bloodied cloths aside and finally slumped onto the floor beside the couch.

Harry had passed out mid-way through. The antibiotics were in—two of the vials they'd found just days ago now empty on the table—and his fever was climbing. But he was still breathing. Faint, shallow, but there.

His head tilted slightly to the side, curls damp against his forehead, mouth parted as he exhaled unevenly.

Y/N sat there, eyes locked on the slow rise and fall of his chest.

It was the only thing grounding her.

She wrapped the spare blanket around his body, careful not to press on the wound. Adjusted the pillow under his head. Rechecked the mask on his face. Then, finally, finally, she allowed herself to collapse next the couch.

Y/N blinked sleep from her eyes, her limbs aching from where she’d slumped over the edge of the couch. Her neck throbbed from the awkward angle, but she didn’t care. Not when her eyes found Harry immediately—still lying there, right where she’d left him.

She leaned forward, heart already racing.

He looked better.

His skin had color again. The fevered sheen was gone. His breathing, though still shallow, had smoothed out, no longer rattling in his chest. The blanket had fallen slightly down his torso, exposing the fresh bandage at his side, but it wasn’t soaked through. That was a good sign.

Y/N exhaled slowly.

He was going to be okay.

Relief washed over her in a wave so intense it left her fingertips tingling. She hadn’t let herself believe it until now. She hadn’t dared. But now…

Now she could breathe.

And as that breath came, long and full and almost dizzying, her gaze drifted—past the couch, past the small table of medical supplies—until it landed on it.

The door.

The one he told her not to open.

The one he stopped her from opening.

It stared back at her, still closed. Still locked. Still humming with something just out of reach. Something she needed to understand.

She stood before she could talk herself out of it.

The house creaked around her, but Harry didn’t stir. She crossed the floor on quiet feet, glancing back once, just to be sure.

He was asleep.

Her fingers trembled as she reached into the pocket of her jacket—the one he’d given her on her second day here—and pulled out the bobby pin she’d hidden away.

The lock clicked open after a few shaky turns.

Her hand hovered over the knob. She knew it wasn’t the right time. Knew he’d be furious. Knew there was a chance everything would change the second she stepped through that door.

But she had to know.

Y/N pushed it open.

Dust danced in the air, swirling in the faint light that spilled through the cracked blinds. The room was small, warmer than she expected. It smelled like old cedar and something faintly familiar.

She stepped inside.

And froze.

The walls were covered in polaroids. Not just scenery or survival notes—but her. Her face, smiling, laughing, pressed close to his. Photos of the two of them curled up by a fire. Her in a sunlit room, hair damp. Him kissing her cheek. Her kissing him.

A gasp slipped from her lips.

She moved to the desk in the corner, hands trembling as they reached for the open journal resting there. Her name was written in the margins, over and over again—in her handwriting.

There were two mugs on the windowsill. One chipped, one painted. A scarf that matched the one hanging in her closet. A jacket—the same jacket she was wearing now—draped over the chair. His scent still clung to it.

She stumbled back, chest heaving. Her vision blurred.

None of it made sense. And yet it all made too much sense.

Then she saw it—the final photo, pinned just above the desk.

Her lips on his. His hands on her waist. Eyes closed. Smiling. Intimate. Real.

A sob clawed its way up her throat.

She sank to the floor, knees hitting the wood with a quiet thud as the weight of it all crashed down over her.

She loved him.

She had loved him.

And somehow… she’d forgotten it all.

“I always knew you would eventually get in”

His voice cut through the silence like a match striking against stone.

Y/N froze, her breath catching mid-sob. Her hands were clenched in the fabric of her jacket—his jacket—knuckles white and trembling. She turned toward the door slowly.

He was leaning against the frame, one hand still gripping the edge for support, his other arm bandaged tightly across his abdomen. Sweat clung to his hairline, and his face was pale, but his eyes… his eyes were the same.

Soft. Sad. Knowing.

“You should be in bed,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“I should be a lot of things,” Harry said. He limped further inside, ignoring the chair as he carefully sat down on the edge of the bed she hadn’t noticed before. The air between them was thick with everything unsaid, with everything remembered—by him, not her.

She didn’t know what to say.

So he spoke first.

“When it all started, you were at work. You were a teacher,” he said softly, as if the words might scare her. “I was out at the farms—trading routes, supply coordination… we weren’t together that day. I remember how long it took me to get back to you.”

Y/N didn’t move.

He rubbed at his jaw, his eyes drifting past her toward the photos on the wall. “Phones were already down. The highways were blocked. I thought—God, I thought I’d never see you again. But when I finally got home, you were there. Sitting on the kitchen floor. You’d broken a plate, and you were crying because the news had just confirmed that the Strain was airborne.”

He smiled, barely. “You always cried when you were angry.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“I held you for hours that night. We didn’t sleep. The world was ending, but none of that mattered because you were in my arms.”

Y/N’s fingers shook where they gripped the hem of her shirt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because,” he said, and his voice cracked for the first time. “I didn’t want to force you to remember. I thought maybe it would come back on its own. A scent. A sound. A laugh. I didn’t want to confuse you. You looked at me like I was a stranger, and I didn’t want you to feel trapped.”

Her breath stuttered. “So you lied”, eyes sharp with betrayal.

Harry's jaw tensed. He didn’t flinch, didn’t back away.

“I did,” he said, voice low. “I lied to protect you.”

She stared at him, chest heaving with the weight of everything. He held her gaze, his own voice trembling now with the truth he had buried for too long.

“I looked for you for months, Y/N. After they took you... after they took you, I didn’t stop. That day on the road, when I saw you... I thought I was dreaming. You were just standing there. Empty. Lost. But alive.”

Her hands curled into fists. “Why was I alone?” she demanded, voice cracking. “If we were together when all of this started—if we were married—why wasn’t I with you?”

Harry exhaled, heavy and broken. He sat back down, as if the memories were too heavy to carry standing up.

“It was supposed to be a short trip,” he started. “We needed medicine, and you wanted to come with me. You always did. You were stubborn like that.” His lips curled into something between a smile and a wince. “We thought we were careful. But that day things took a turn”.

She didn’t move.

“You got sick,” he said. “Fast. One moment you were laughing at one of my jokes, and the next, you collapsed. High fever. Seizures. Your lungs were shutting down.”

She instinctively pressed a hand to her ribs.

“I took you to a quarantine unit. It was barely a hospital by then—just cots and desperation. No one knew what to do. No treatment worked. People were dying around you every hour.”

Y/N’s lips parted. She couldn’t imagine it. Didn’t want to.

“There was this doctor,” Harry continued, eyes distant now. “He had an idea—a trial serum. Said it might work, but it hadn’t been tested on anyone yet. He said there was a chance… a very small one. Otherwise, you wouldn’t last the night.”

“You said yes,” she whispered.

“I said yes,” he confirmed. “Because there was no world I wanted to live in without you.”

Her eyes burned.

“You were unconscious when they injected you. And then… nothing. For days. Weeks. You slipped into a coma. And during that time, the government came in. They shut the hospital down, tried to seal it off completely to contain the virus. I wasn’t allowed back in. They dragged me out.”

He looked down, shame and fury in equal measure across his face.

“I spent weeks outside those fences. Bribing guards. Trading supplies. Pleading with anyone who would listen. When I finally got in, they told me you’d woken up… and vanished.”

“Vanished?”

“They said you walked out on your own. No memory. No name. Just… gone. They figured you were confused, maybe scared, maybe still sick. I don’t know how you got that far. I don’t know what you saw. But by the time I found you again, you didn’t even know me.”

Silence fell between them like ash.

And now, finally, it made sense—why his eyes always lingered on her face, why he flinched when she spoke too softly or called his name without recognition, why he let her sleep in his bed and always made sure her mask was properly covering her face.

He hadn’t been a stranger after all.

He’d been grieving her.

And now… she was here.

Alive. Breathing. Staring at the man she once loved and had forgotten.

Tears spilled down her cheeks before she could stop them.

“Harry…”

“I thought I lost you once,” he said. “And then I found you. I wasn’t about to lose you again.”

Harry looked at her through damp lashes, still pale from the blood loss but determined to give her back what he could.

“Your name is Y/N Y/L/N,” he said softly.

She blinked at the sound of it. It felt foreign and familiar all at once, like a song she might’ve heard in a dream.

“You were born in a small town just north of here. Third of three sisters. You hated being the youngest because you thought no one ever took you seriously.” His mouth twitched into a small, almost fond smile. “But you were always the boldest one.”

She sat down slowly, legs folding beneath her.

“We’d been married for two years before the world went to hell,” he said. “I always told you we didn’t get enough time. And you’d always say: ‘We’ve got forever.’” His eyes glistened again. “I never knew how short forever really was.”

Y/N’s throat tightened painfully, but she didn’t interrupt.

“We met at a bookstore downtown. You knocked over an entire display of classic novels trying to reach the top shelf. I helped you pick them up, and you gave me this look like I’d just insulted your intelligence by offering.”

She let out a shaky laugh, the first in what felt like forever.

“I asked you what book you were reaching for. You said Dracula, and I said you didn’t look like the type. You told me not to judge a book by its cover.” His voice softened. “I asked you out five minutes later.”

A warm ache pulsed in her chest, just beneath the confusion. Like echoes of a memory knocking softly against locked doors.

“You used to call our car Baby Blue. It was this beat-up little sedan, barely ran, but you loved her. You said she had personality. She got us through the first few months, drove us through hell and back.” He let out a faint breath. “We also had a cat — Mochi. We found her in a dumpster behind the old Italian place on Third Street. Scrawny, mean as hell, wouldn’t let anyone near her but you.”

Y/N blinked.

“She followed us home,” he went on. “Well, followed you home. I tried to pretend I didn’t care, said she wasn’t staying. You told me it wasn’t up for debate. That she’d already picked her human.” He smiled to himself. “I came home the next day and you were asleep on the couch with her on your chest like she owned the place.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. Something about that image—something about a small, warm weight curled on her chest—clicked somewhere deep inside her. She didn’t remember it, but she felt it. Like nostalgia without the memory.

“What happened to her?” she asked quietly.

Harry’s expression faltered. “She got scared during a raid. We left the door open by mistake… she ran off. We looked for her for weeks, but—” He stopped. Shook his head. “You never stopped hoping she’d find her way back.”

Y/N looked toward the window, her throat burning.

She didn’t remember Mochi. Or Baby Blue. Or even her own name until a few minutes ago.

But for the first time since she’d woken up on that road, none of it felt as lost as before.

Harry’s voice was quiet, ragged—strained from everything he’d kept inside.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to break your heart.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. Her hands trembled, still clutching the photo she’d found, the one of her kissing him—her, a version of herself she didn’t remember. Her throat burned.

Harry leaned back slightly, one hand pressed to the stitched wound on his side, the other limp at his knee.

“And it was my decision. I said yes to the injection. I said yes knowing there was a chance it’d kill you… or that you might wake up and not remember a damn thing.” he said, eyes glassy.

Y/N swallowed thickly. Her voice barely came out. “And it did both.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “But you’re still here. Breathing. Alive. Even if you don’t remember me. Even if… even if we’re strangers now.”

Her eyes began to sting.

“I watched you die in that bed, Y/N. And I sat there every day just praying you’d open your eyes. When I got kicked out of that hospital, I thought I’d never see you again. And when I found you that day on the road…” He let out a shaky breath. “I thought I had died too”

She blinked, tears slipping down her cheeks. His next words gutted her:

“You’re still warm. Still stubborn. Still pretty as always. I don’t care if you don’t remember me. I’d rather have a version of you that doesn’t know who I am than not have you at all.”

She was on her feet in a matter of seconds.

The photo slipped from her fingers and floated to the floor as she crossed the space between them, heart pounding so hard she could barely hear anything else. Without hesitation, she sank to her knees in front of him and wrapped her arms around his body, careful of his injury but desperate to hold him. To feel something real.

Harry stiffened in surprise, his breath catching—but then his arms came around her just as fiercely.

She didn’t know his favorite color. She didn’t know the inside jokes they must’ve shared or the life they’d built before the world tore everything apart. But she knew this: the way her chest ached at the sound of his voice, the way her body leaned into his instinctively, the way something in her soul told her that she was safe here.

That she belonged here.

That she belonged to him.

“I don’t remember,” she whispered into his shirt, her voice cracking. “But I believe you. And I believe… I believe we were in love.”

Harry’s hand moved gently over the back of her head. She could feel the way he exhaled—shaky, like he’d been holding his breath for days.

“We still are,” he murmured, voice thick. “Even if it looks different now.”

They stayed like that for a long time. Her arms around him, his lips pressed to her hair. Nothing but the wind against the boarded-up windows and the quiet thud of two hearts learning how to beat in rhythm again.

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