A Momentary Respite

The sun hung low in the sky, barely brushing the tops of skeletal trees that lined the compound's perimeter. The air held the lingering bite of winter, crisp and dry, a prelude to the coming thaw that promised both opportunity and danger. Shadows stretched long over the worn paths that wove between barricades, storage sheds, and makeshift shelters.

Leila sat perched on a half-collapsed retaining wall, the stone beneath her rough and uneven. It had once been part of the old world's infrastructure, meant to hold something firm, something stable. But much like everything else, time had worn it down, left it crumbling.

A fitting metaphor, really.

She pulled her jacket tighter against the chill and scanned the horizon. The world beyond their compound was empty, yet it never felt truly deserted. The vast, abandoned fields that stretched in all directions were nothing but deceptive quiet. The kind that concealed danger just beneath the surface. She knew better than to trust it.

Her fingers idly traced the worn leather of the knife strapped to her thigh, but she wasn't thinking about defense right now—not in the immediate sense, anyway. Her mind was a warzone of its own, replaying old memories, old wounds that refused to heal.

Jace.

Ellie.

Their names alone were enough to coil a sick feeling in her stomach, a relentless, gnawing thing that she couldn't push away. It wasn't just their betrayal that haunted her, but the sheer depth of it. The way they had known her, really known her, and still twisted the knife when she was at her most vulnerable.

Now, they were out there. Somewhere beyond these walls, alive and preparing for something. For her.

Her grip on the knife tightened.

"You're brooding again."

The familiar voice broke through her thoughts, calm yet edged with something knowing.

She didn't startle. She'd sensed him approaching long before he spoke. Kai moved like a shadow when he wanted to, but Leila had learned to pick up on the subtleties of his presence—the steady rhythm of his steps, the way he always gave her just enough space when she needed it.

"I'm thinking," she corrected, still not looking at him.

Kai gave a quiet, amused hum. "You only think this hard when you're brooding."

Leila huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh if it had any warmth behind it. She finally turned her head, meeting his gaze. He stood a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, his posture deceptively casual. But his eyes told a different story—always watching, always reading between the lines.

He was dressed in his usual layers, a worn jacket over a dark thermal shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the faint scars along his forearms. The scar across his cheek, the one he never talked about, caught the dying sunlight in a way that made it seem deeper than it was.

Instead of waiting for an invitation, Kai stepped closer and perched on the wall beside her, careful to leave a sliver of space between them. Not so much distance that it felt like a divide, but enough to remind her that he wasn't pushing.

Leila was used to people pushing.

They sat in silence for a while. The wind played with the ends of her hair, stirring loose strands that had escaped her braid. She was aware of every detail—the sound of distant hammering as Mark's crew reinforced the gates, the soft crackle of fire pits from the central courtyard, the low murmur of voices as survivors went about their evening routines.

And beside her, Kai. Always just there, steady as the walls they were working so hard to hold.

"I don't know how to do this," she admitted suddenly, the words slipping out before she could decide whether she wanted to say them.

Kai didn't react immediately. He didn't demand an explanation, didn't prod. He just waited, letting her set the pace.

Leila inhaled sharply, forcing herself to push past the knot in her throat. "Letting someone in again. Trusting. Every time I think about it, I—" She broke off, her hands clenching into fists against her knees. "I remember how it felt when the people I trusted most betrayed me."

Kai exhaled softly, but he still didn't interrupt.

"I know you're not Jace," she continued, her voice lower now, more raw. "I know that. But that doesn't change the fact that every time I start to let my guard down, I feel like I'm walking into a trap again. Like I'll blink and suddenly realize I was stupid enough to fall for the same lie twice."

The confession felt like dragging a blade across old scar tissue. It wasn't fresh, but it still hurt.

Kai finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "I don't expect you to forget."

Leila turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze.

"I don't expect you to trust me blindly, either," he added. "I just need you to know that I'm not him. And I never will be."

His words settled heavily between them, and for once, Leila didn't flinch away from the meaning behind them.

Kai had never asked her for anything. Never pressed. Never demanded more than she was willing to give.

And that terrified her more than anything.

Because it meant he was real. It meant that maybe, just maybe, he could be different.

She swallowed hard, nodding once. It wasn't a promise. It wasn't even a declaration of belief. Just an acknowledgment. A silent I hear you.

Kai didn't push for more.

Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small ration bar, holding it out to her.

Leila arched a brow. "Seriously?"

"You skipped lunch," he said simply.

She hesitated, then sighed and took it. "You're annoyingly perceptive, you know that?"

He smirked, a faint thing that barely curled the corner of his lips. "It's one of my many talents."

Leila rolled her eyes but broke off a piece of the bar anyway, chewing slowly. It was stale, the taste a mix of dry oats and artificial peanut butter, but it was something.

The moment between them stretched on, unspoken but not empty.

She didn't thank him. He didn't expect her to.

But when she stood up, tucking the rest of the bar into her pocket, she didn't immediately walk away.

Kai glanced up at her, waiting.

Leila opened her mouth, as if about to say something—maybe thank you, maybe I trust you, just a little—but at the last second, she exhaled sharply and shook her head.

"Let's go," she murmured instead. "Before Mark starts lecturing us about being productive members of society."

Kai chuckled softly but followed without question.

They walked side by side, neither of them speaking.

The distance between them was still there.

But it was smaller than before.