Page 34 of Immune

Stranger doesn't laugh easily. They almost do, but that almost might actually make it worse.

Their age bothers me a whole lot, too. I can’t pin it down, not in the dark, under the cap and bandana, or swallowed by oversized clothes. They could easily pass for a small Beta male anywhere between late teens and mid-twenties. But their eyesfeel younger when they forget to harden them. Their exhaustion is somehow as young as their stubbornness. But their restraint? Hell, that shit is ancient. It belongs to someone who has learned much too early in life that wanting things is lethal. That it costs you more than anything is ever worth.

Stranger shifts in the corner, a quiet rustle of fabric against the carpeted floor as they stretch their injured leg out only a little before tucking it securely back under control. The hand holding the knife releases it for only a moment, briefly pressing their fingers against their arm where the fabric is torn, and I catch another flash of pale skin under the sleeve. They hide it just as quickly, and so I start another list in my head.

Size: questionable with the baggy clothing.

Voice: deliberately altered to a lower tone that seems forced.

Hands: too small, too careful, nails painted black. That’s a detail that certainly doesn’t match the disguise, but it definitely feels like it’s worth noting.

Scent: completely wrong on all accounts.

Tension: a constant companion.

Fear: directed at me, but not because of anything I’ve done tonight.

Proximity: incredibly dangerous to them. Not physically. Or, at least, not only physically.

Their body seems to react to closeness before their brain can stop it. When they climbed onto the bed, their pulse jumped. When my fingers closed around their wrist, fear filled the room so quickly it damn near choked me. When they stitched up my side, they held themselves rigidly, as if the mattress between us had grown teeth and would bite if they got too close.

And yet, they came closer anyway. They chose to do that. No one forced them, and that seems like a big deal I lock awayin my brain. Because it matters. It matters in a way I don’t even understand or have a name for yet.

A few hours pass like that. Maybe more, actually. Time becomes a little wonky in the dark, but I lie through it, listening to the rain as it finally softens and the Biters below fall quiet or finally drift away. The room chills significantly until my fingers ache with the chill and my side throbs in tandem with my heartbeat.

And through it all, Stranger never actually fully sleeps. They try, don’t get me wrong. They try twice. The first time, their chin dips for less than ten seconds before their eyes snap open and sweep the room. They go from the door, to the window, to me, to the floor, to the door again. The second time they try lasts a little longer. Maybe a minute, if I count it right. Their grip never loosens on their gun or knife, but I lie there watching them fight sleep the way other people would fight infection.

Eventually, Stranger looks over at me and quietly asks, “You awake?”

I keep my eyes closed. “Nope.”

“Liar.”

“You asked. Not my fault you didn’t like the answer,” I tease, keeping my voice low and measured.

“Your breathing gave you away,” they point out, as if they’re teaching me something while being simultaneously annoyed by my entire existence.

I snort, the sound way too loud in the otherwise silent room. “Apparently, my breathing is very suspicious to you.”

“It’s definitely loud,” they tell me.

“It’s not,” I counter, confident there’s no way...

“It’s loud to me,” they say lowly before I can actually finish my thought, and it makes me pause for a long moment because it doesn’t seem like an insult. They mean it genuinely, their words laced with honesty, because their senses do seemsharp. Almost too sharp, maybe. Or maybe surviving alone has simply made them that way. Could very well be both, honestly. But I’ve found that with every answer comes more questions, and every question makes the weird pull in my chest tighten that little bit more.

“You should try to get some sleep,” I try, changing the subject before I’m berated for taking in oxygen at a decibel that offends their ears.

“I did,” is the response I receive, and I send them an unimpressed look through my eyelashes.

“No, you didn’t. You blinked for a long time,” I argue.

“It counts,” Stranger retorts quickly, and I open my mouth to argue some more when they say, “At least, it counts in my world.”

That little bit lands heavier than they probably meant for it to, and I let it linger without daring to touch it. Stranger looks away first, and a few minutes later, they shift against the wall. They pull their knees closer to their chest, and the gun stays planted in their lap while the knife remains in their hand. Their cap tilts low, hiding their eyes, but I can sense and almost feel their awareness as if it were another person standing in the room with us.

“You should sleep,” they finally say.

“It’s my turn to be the lookout,” I tell them, though I don’t move from where I’m still lying on the bed.