Page 146 of Romancing in Rot

Edith keeps smiling at me.

Driving a stake through my dignity and twisting it.

Clair is thankfully still out of earshot with Poppy.

Small miracles exist.

Edith pats my arm again. “It’s good to see you finally with someone. Earl and I were worried you were going to be a grumpy hermit your whole life.”

Then she limps away, leaving my soul somewhere near my boots.

Trish pats me on the back, still smiling. “Go help pack up, lover boy. And maybe put something on that bite mark before Edith starts offering aftercare tips.”

My hand shoots to my shoulder.

Trish loses it all over again.

Across the clearing, Clair glances back.

Her gaze finds mine.

She smiles.

Soft. Bright. A little wicked.

My embarrassment doesn’t disappear, but it shifts.

Turns warmer.

I’ll take Edith’s ridicule any day for that woman.

Fucking worth it.

After breakfast, we split up and take inventory.

Bags open. Metal clinks. Boxes scrape over gravel. Mom sorts canned goods with the focus of a surgeon while Jacob takes notes. Earl checks tools, then goes back to showing Carlos the map, making the kid trace routes with two fingers instead of guessing. Edith sits near the fire with her cast propped up, counting loose bullets like a queen on a folding-chair throne. Trish lays medical supplies across the hood of the ER van while Poppy and Luis sit on top beside her, counting bandages.

Every few minutes, Luis throws the tennis ball down for Wesker, and the dog trots it back like the happiest boy in the world.

Carlos and Joanie sift through the cars to see if anything has fallen under seats or into small crevices, which mostly means Joanie makes rude comments and Carlos pretends not to be amused.

I take weapons.

Arrows. Knives. Rifles. Handguns. Anything sharp enough, loud enough, or heavy enough to keep the people in this camp breathing.

Clair helps Trish for a while, then shifts toward me with the rifles. Her hands move over them with more confidence than she gives herself credit for. She checks chambers. Lines up ammo. Counts magazines twice.

Those fingers graze cool metal, and my mind goes straight back to last night.

Clair coughs.

Her attention cuts sideways to me.

Caught.

“If you keep looking at me like that,” she says, continuing to count while biting her lip, “we’ll have to sneak away and take care of your naughty thoughts.”

I mean, I’m not opposed.