Composing yourself, you gently pull away from Ronnie, releasing your grip from around his body. You slowly bring your arms back to your side, deliberately avoiding eye contact with him, worried he'd see all of your vulnerabilities if you did, especially as you could sense his gaze watching your every move as if he were studying it. Normally you'd feel embarrassed by having an emotional outburst in front of someone but given the near-death experience, you figure it was okay, just this once.
You look down at your injured foot, pulling up your jean bottoms and revealing a swelling around your ankle, a purple and black bruise already forming. You trace your fingers over it, pain radiating from your touch as you let out a small whimper.
"You've sprained it," Ronnie says, still kneeling beside you, examining it carefully.
"Is it bad?" you ask, worried.
"It should be okay in a few days, you just need to rest it," he says, rising to his feet, now looking down at you, "What happened back there anyway?"
You pause, considering your answer, still unsure of why you did it. You felt angry with yourself for making such a decision. If he hadn't gotten himself out of the grocery store somehow, you would've been dead. Was it - was he - really worth the risk? You barely knew him, but for some reason, you were inexplicably drawn to him, and it frustrated you. You couldn't make sense of it, nor control it, and it scared you. If today had taught you anything it was that this feeling wasn't safe during an apocalypse, but you couldn't tell him any of that without sounding mad.
"The horde, it came out of nowhere," you begin, "Steve and I fought off what we could but there were too many. I tried to get to you but I fell," you say, as visions of it come flooding back.
"You tried to save me?" Ronnie questions. You nod, still avoiding his gaze. "Promise me, next time you'll put yourself first? Don't risk your life for mine," he says sternly, almost as if he's annoyed with you.
"Okay ... " you reply, feeling small at his apparent disapproval of your earlier decision.
"Good, now let's get you onto the couch," he says as he bends down, placing an arm around your back and his other arm under the bend in your knees. As he lifts you up, you place your arms around his shoulders for support. He smiles as he carries you. "Looks like I'll be looking after you for a few days."
"I'm sorry," you respond, still annoyed at yourself for being so clumsy and falling in the first place.
"No, it's the least I can do," he says, placing you down onto the cream couch. He places a few pillows underneath your foot, raising it up. "Keep it elevated, it'll help reduce the swelling,". You nod at his advice, feeling slightly powerless in your injured state. "If you're okay, I'm going to have a look around, see if I can find some pain killers."
You smile up at him. "I'll be fine, go look," you say, gesturing with your hands for him to go. As he leaves the room, you look around at your surroundings, or "home" for the next few days. The house you are hiding in looks as if it were abandoned suddenly, nothing has been touched. The living room is decorated in neutral cream colors, with another couch opposite the one you're resting on, a coffee table separating them. Along the main wall, there's a fireplace with family photographs sat on top of the surround. You feel a brief wave of sadness rush through you, as you think of your own family. You wonder if you'll ever see them again. You wonder the same about your friends, remembering the events that caused your separation yesterday. In hindsight, you should've known they'd leave you behind - things weren't the same since the breakup, but they were the only friends you had, and you didn't know any better.
"Hey," Ronnie says, entering the room, interrupting your thoughts, "I found some Advil, and the house is well stocked. We've got food, water, blankets, basically everything we need, so I'm ordering a house arrest," he says, chuckling at his joke.
You laugh slightly, "Well, I'm not going anywhere, Officer," you say as you point towards your ankle. He smiles back at you as he sits on the couch opposite. "So, what was life for you before all of this?" you ask, intrigued.
"Life?" he questions, contemplating his answer "Oh gee, I guess, work. That was a big part," he says as he makes himself more comfortable on the couch "And movies, I watched a lot of films when I wasn't working."
"What type of movies?" you ask, prompting him further.
"Well, Star Wars, Marvel, Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings ..." he pauses, "... I'm not selling myself very well, right now, am I?" he says, looking uncomfortable. His glasses are slightly askew as he rolls his lips and firmly presses them together, causing his brows to furrow as he looks down. You're slightly taken aback by this, you didn't think it was possible to witness him embarrassed like this, almost vulnerable. You smile as you think of a response.
"Hello there..." you say, cooly. Ronnie looks up at you instantly. His eyes begin to widen as a smirk appears.
"GENERAL KENOBI!" he says excitedly, almost jumping out of his seat. "Holy shit, I don't believe it, where have you been all my life?" he says quickly as if he can't control himself.
"Oh, around and about, I guess?" you respond, shrugging, not sure what else to say.
"Yes, right, absolutely. Are you hungry? I'm hungry, I'm gonna go and get something to eat," Ronnie replies quickly, tripping over himself as he stands up, swiftly exiting the room before you've had a chance to respond to his question.
******
As the sun begins to set, you feel your anxiety starting to rise. The food in your stomach from the meal Ronnie had prepared now makes you feel nauseous at the thought of the zombies coming back and you being too injured to fight them. Amid the struggle to escape earlier, you hadn't been able to collect your baseball bat, which left you weaponless. You still had the pistol, but given what a poor shot you had been it didn't give you any comfort. You look at Ronnie as he enters the room; he heads towards the window, pulling the drapes closed before sitting down on the couch opposite you. He had been quieter than usual since your conversation earlier - you hadn't thought much of it initially as he seemed busy securing the house and preparing food, but now that was all done you were beginning to wonder if you had said something wrong earlier.
"Would you teach me how to shoot?" you ask, wanting to break the silence. He looks up at you.
"Sure," he says, pausing slightly, "We won't be able to shoot around here, but I can teach you." He lifts himself from the couch and approaches you. Standing above you he removes his pistol from the holster. Emptying it of ammunition, he kneels on the floor beside you as you stay sitting on the couch. "So, you want to use your dominant hand to grip the back strap as high as you can, place it into the crook between your thumb and index finger, like this ..." he says, showing you how he's holding the pistol, "Then wrap your other fingers around the base below the trigger guard," he says as you watch him intently. "Ready to try it?" he asks, handing you the pistol. You nod as you take it from his grasp, positioning it in your hands as you look towards him for reassurance.
"Like this?" you ask.
He meets your gaze momentarily but breaks away to look down at your hands. "Almost," he replies as his large hands meet yours. He begins gently repositioning your fingers so your grip around the pistol is corrected. The touch of his hands on yours reignites the feelings you had experienced back at the factory as he stood beside you, that inexplicable magnetic effect he has on you, the feeling you want to pull away from as it had proved to be dangerous, but this time you are unable to escape it, thanks to your injury. His hands continue to linger over yours as you hold the pistol. You look up at him, meeting his gaze. Your breath hitches as you realize your eyes are locked on his, but it's not as uncomfortable as you imagined it would be. His body edges closer to you as you stay frozen; you can almost hear his shallow breathing as he moves forward ...
A sound from outside catches your attention, drawing your gaze. "Did you hear that?" you ask, looking back at him, panicked. He nods, letting go of your hand, placing a finger to his lips prompting you to stay quiet. He rises to his feet slowly, grasping his machete as he heads towards the window. You watch as he slowly pulls the drapes back carefully. You sit in silence, watching him intently as he looks outside, and you study his body language to figure out if there's an imminent threat. He stands still and rigid. After a few agonizing minutes, he turns back to you. You study his face, trying to read it.
"It's nothing," he says reassuringly. You exhale deeply, unaware you had been holding your breath. He makes his way back towards you, placing his machete on the coffee table before taking the pistol from your grasp without saying a word. You feel a sense of disappointment come over you as he does. You weren't exactly sure what was happening before the noise disturbed your pistol handling lesson but for once it felt good, as if the outside world didn't exist. There was no fear of the dead, no sadness for all that's been lost, no self-doubt or worry, just comfort. You watch him as you wonder if he felt it too, but he seems distant. It feels like he's actively avoiding you, despite being in the same room. He doesn't look in your direction, instead making himself busy reloading the pistol with the ammunition he had removed earlier, placing it back in his holster. The awkward silence is broken as he speaks. "You should get some rest," he suggests.
"Okay," you respond quietly, and you turn over onto your side, facing away from him, feeling hurt. Now you knew the answer - he did NOT feel the way you had earlier.
*************
Five days had passed since your near-death experience. Your ankle had healed nicely, thanks to Ronnie taking care of you. He made sure you took your pain relief, found bandages to help compress the sprain, even helped you walk about when you felt able; you couldn't fault him. Despite Ronnie acting distant that first evening in the house, he had otherwise been his usual self. You assumed that you had read the situation wrong when he was teaching you to hold the pistol - it wasn't the first time your judgment had been wrong, you had a habit of that, but you were grateful that everything was good between the two of you.
"Hey, look what I found," Ronnie says, entering the bedroom you had been occupying. The sofa had been useful for the first night but you hardly slept, so once you were able to move about you had claimed the master bedroom. It had felt like luxury after the sofa and it was the thing you were going to miss most about the house. You pause packing your bag as you look towards Ronnie, standing in the doorway, almost as tall as the door frame itself. He's holding an aluminum baseball bat, with a smile on his face.
"Oh my god, where did you find that?!" you ask, delighted he had found a weapon that you could use.
"Back of a wardrobe", he replies, gesturing towards another bedroom.
You walk towards Ronnie and take the bat from his grasp, smiling as you place your hands around the handle and take a few swings. "It's perfect," you say, now smiling up at him. "Thank you, I feel much safer leaving now,". He smiles back at you, looking pleased with himself.
"I wouldn't have let anything happen to you anyway," he confesses, blushing slightly. Those words make you feel involuntarily warm and giddy. You push the feeling away as you realize what's happening, reminding yourself that you can't allow these feelings to keep cropping up, especially as you were soon to be leaving the house. You need to be stronger, you can't risk another near-death experience, plus from his actions that first night it was apparent he didn't feel it. Friends, you repeated, just good friends. "How's the ankle?" he asks, pulling you from your thoughts.
"Oh, um, yup, good," you reply, stumbling on your words
"Good, let's get out of here and get back to the factory, I'm sure Steve will be glad to see us," he says with a smirk.
"Yeah, I'm sure he will be, after he left us," you say, still angry at the thought of him driving off. "Why are we going back again?" you ask, genuinely curious. The house had been a safe haven, no attacks, no zombies. It felt almost silly to leave.
"For the others," Ronnie replies, "Safety in numbers, plus the factory is better protected. It wouldn't take many zombies to smash down the door here,". As much as you want to stay in the house, you know he's right. A small bout of jealousy builds up inside of you at the thought of not having him to yourself.
"Fine," you say in defeat, wanting to escape the feeling, you sling your packed bag over your shoulder as you exit the bedroom, baseball bat in hand.
Leaving the house in Centerville had been uneventful - it was only a fifteen-minute walk back to the police car that Ronnie had parked outside of town, almost a week ago. It wasn't until you left the small rural town that you spotted any zombies - luckily it had only been a small handful. Your new baseball bat was much stronger, taking less force to eliminate the lone zombies. Ronnie had mostly stepped back, allowing you to take them down alone - it had helped improve your confidence in being able to defend yourself, something you needed after coming close to death. You were thankful Ronnie could sense you needed the confidence boost too. Once you had finished cleaning the lingering flesh from your bat, you headed towards the police car. "Can I drive?" you ask Ronnie. He pauses as he looks at you - you can see him considering your question.
"Gee, I dunno, I should drive really, but maybe just this once," he replies. You smile smugly at him as you climb into the driver's seat, knowing this must be strange for him, allowing a regular citizen like yourself to drive the police car. You start the ignition as he climbs into the passenger's side, watching him as he makes sure to buckle his seatbelt.
"I'm not that bad!" you say playfully. He looks up at you with a playful smirk
"Safety first, now put yours on," he says, prompting you to buckle your seatbelt. You roll your eyes as you do before driving off in the direction of the factory.