Page 17 of Immune

Careful to keep out of sight, Stranger moves toward the window again. I closely watch how they walk, the way every movement is controlled and already thought out, the placement of each foot something to be in awe of. I catch how they favor one knee over the other after their fall earlier, spot the tension that has returned to their shoulders, the exhaustion they’re carrying. There’s no doubt they’re tired. Hurt. Hungry, if the small grumble I heard only seconds ago is anything to go by.

And they’re alone.

That thought comes with a weird pull in my chest, one I can’t even explain. One that isn’t exactly disliked, either. Which is wildly inconvenient, because I’ve known this person for less than thirty minutes and they’ve done nothing but threaten to shoot me twice, glare a lot, and given me exactly one answer to all the questions I’ve asked.

Stranger looks back at me suddenly, and I startle a little, only for them to snap, “Quit staring.”

“I’m not staring,” I argue, even though I very much was staring.

“You literally are,” they counter, calling me out on my own bullshit.

I shake my head in denial. “I call it observing.”

“That’s just a fancy word for staring.”

“Fine. Then I’m staring,” I relent, lips twitching with that strange amusement.

I receive a sassy look from the unimpressed stranger before they make a single demand. “Then how about you stop?”

Instantly, I drop my gaze to the floor like it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen in my life, even though every single one of my instincts remains one hundred percent trained on them. On the scent under the blockers. The fear hidden in the sarcasm. The way they keep their body between me and the window, and not because they’re trying to protect me. Oh, no. They’re keeping every exit within reach.

“You’re not from one of the nearby groups,” they suddenly note, and I almost look up from the floor.

“Nope,” I say, shaking my head slowly, answering even though it wasn’t a question.

There’s a pause before they ask, “Rogue?”

I don’t bother withholding an answer. “For now.”

I look up just in time to catch their questioning gaze, and I tell them, “I don’t really stay in one place for very long.”

“Smart,” they note, sounding almost impressed but not quite.

“Lonely,” I counter, the word slipping out without really meaning to. It’s made worse when Stranger grows still, the word hanging between us like it’s third-wheeling a very awkward moment.

Regretting my loose tongue, I’m internally cursing myself when Stranger quietly speaks. “Lonely keeps people alive.”

I’m shaking my head before I can stop myself, lifting my eyes to theirs before I can think better of it. “Nah. Careful keeps people alive. Lonely? That just makes it quieter when they die.”

I feel the air change suddenly. It’s only a small change, damn near nothing, but I definitely feel it. They feel it, too, because their fingers loosen on the gun for all of two seconds before tightening again, right before they dryly retort, “Pretty poetic for an apocalypse, don’t you think?”

“It’s something I carve into bathroom stalls,” I joke, trying to break the tension. Trying to ease Stranger’s shoulders even a fraction.

“Huh. Classy. I figured you were stealing lines from greeting cards,” they counter, and I’m almost certain I hear an undercurrent of humor in their words.

“I have a wide range of talents,” I quip, and a small sound escapes them. It’s not a laugh, exactly, but it’s definitely close enough that something in my chest wraps around it with a strange kind of satisfaction. A dangerous feeling if I’ve ever felt one.

Stranger ruins it a moment later, muttering, “The street is clearing.”

It’s not. Not fully. Only enough for someone fast and reckless to make it to the building over. Someone like Stranger.

Sure enough, they start gathering their things with a practiced speed that impresses me. They check their pockets, tighten the single strap on their backpack, then check their pockets again. I haven’t seen the blockers, but I know they’re carrying them. Pretty sure I know where they are, too, if their lingering hand near their zipper is anything to consider. Something tells me there’s a hidden pocket stitched on the inside of that jacket, close to the body and well protected.

I look away before they catch me noticing things I have no business noticing, swallowing hard as I fight the strange little panic that’s flared to life in my chest as I say, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to travel alone when you’re hurt.”

As though my words carry very little impact, Stranger shrugs and mutters, “I probably shouldn’t do a whole lot of things, and yet here we are.”

Refusing to let their prickly side get the better of me, still combating the strange panic bubbling in my chest, I offer, “I can go with you.”