Page 59 of Obliterated
On the right, pressed up against the windows, sits a massive tub. It’s deep enough to sink into, big enough for two if you want. When I nod, his stare sharpens, like he’s walked into some godsdamn palace.
“It’s…” He can’t finish. Just shakes his head, hair catching the moonlight, and lets out a quiet laugh. “You’ve been hiding this.”
“Obviously,” I say. “If people knew about this place, I would be hosting.”
“Would earn you a pretty coin,” he answers, a little chuckle riding his words. “How is this even possible?”
I shrug. “I’m told houses like this were pretty common before. Summer getaway for rich folk, probably. When I found it, everything was still covered in plastic.” I gesture toward the furniture, which is in perfect condition. “It’s entirely self-sufficient. The pipes come from a spring in the mountain. Electricity’s solar, hooked to an old battery bank I patched up. Even after all these years, it was untouched. I coaxed it back to life. The entire place is quality craftsmanship.”
I unholster my gun and set it on a low cabinet. It’s stuffed with the scavenged mess I’ve dragged up here over the years: tins of food, stale crackers, shit I traded for on the docks. And books. Piles of them, stacked in uneven towers. Things I’ll never admit I actually read, but I keep hauling more up here, anyway.
It’s a hoard, a home. But it’s mine.
Kieran steps farther in, blue eyes wide. His fingers trail over a stack of books, over a bottle of red, over the edge of the cabinet. He looks like he can’t decide whether to laugh or be impressed. Probably both.
“You live here?”
“You know I don’t.” I roll my shoulders, unclip the straps that hold my swords and let the leather fall loose beside the pistol. “Only when I need to get the fuck away. When the itch gets too bad, or the city gets too loud.”
“And they let you?” he says, eyebrows arched.
“They need me.” The words come out sharp, bitter, automatic. “Roe knows it. The Nine know it. I can go off-grid when I want, because what the fuck are they gonna do? Throw me in the Pit again? Make the crowd love me more? Besides that, they also need my eyes on the wall. I go first when Walkers come up the shore, when things breach. I take the bite so people don’t have to. And they need my blood.”
I don’t have to explain. The tag at my throat does it for me: Immune.
Kieran glances at the tub again. His voice drops. “So you come here and take abath?”
“Yeah.” I smirk, light a smoke, let it burn in my lungs before I exhale slowly. “After I butcher up a bunch of Walkers. Don’t tell anyone. They’d laugh at me.”
“Like you’d care about that…” His voice trails as he moves closer to the tub, and crouches at the edge. His fingers skim the faucet gingerly before he turns it on, and I watch the shiver run up his arm when a thin stream of water pours out. He cups a little in his hands, brings it to his lips, and drinks.
For a second I think he might cry.
“Gods, Max…” His voice comes out rough, like he hasn’t seen anything like this in years. Which I know he hasn’t. “Can you heat it up?”
“Tweak the left valve, then shut off the right if it gets too hot,” I tell him, leaning back against the wall, smoke curling as I watch him fumble with the tub like I’m seeing him for the first time. Golden boy in my den, looking like he belongs here.
And fuck me if that thought doesn’t feel dangerous.
For a while he just crouches there, fingertips skimming the surface as the basin fills, watching the way the water eats the light. His shoulders give a tiny shake, a shudder he tries to hide, but I catch it anyway. It’s human. It’s fragile.
“You’ve been keeping this to yourself,” he says finally, looking back at me. There’s no accusation, just quiet wonder. “The whole city fights over scraps, taps cut off half the time, and you’ve got this.”
“Yeah. If anyone finds out, it’s gone.” My jaw tightens, smoke curling between my teeth. “This is mine. Only mine. And I guess yours now, too.”
He studies me for a long second, eyes searching, then glances back at the tub. “It feels… untouched. Like the world before.”
Something in me twists sharp. I drag hard on my smoke, burn it right down until the filter bites my lips. “The world before’s dead. Don’t fool yourself.”
But he doesn’t flinch at the bite. He just runs his wet fingers over the side of his neck, droplets sliding down his skin, catching in the hollow of his throat. My gaze sticks there longer than it should.
He notices. Of course he does. His mouth tilts, like he’s deciding whether to push. Then he peels his shirt off, slowly, and something in me stutters—chest tight, pulse hitching like I forgot how to breathe.
When he shrugs it aside, I see what’s underneath. Not fragile at all, but all lean muscle. His skin smooth, undamaged, nothing like mine. No scars, no wreckage.Not ruined.
“You mind?” he asks, already kicking his stupid flip-flops off.
“Do I look like I mind?” My voice comes out rougher than I wanted, low in my chest.
