Matty Ch.2 | The Apocalypse

The second day at sea dawned not with light, but with a slow, grudging lightening of the gloom. The Sea-Sick Sow groaned like a living thing, its every joint protesting the embrace of the gray Atlantic.

The squad had claimed a corner of the cargo hold, cordoned off by crates of dubious supplies. It was here, over a breakfast of hardtack and rehydrated protein paste, that the quiet war council was held.

“The Lieutenant’s curiosity is a problem,” Leon stated, his voice low but cutting through the rumble of the ship’s engines. He wasn’t looking at any of them, his eyes on the crude map of the American coast spread on a crate. “He’s too friendly. Friendliness in a Government man is a weapon. He asks about our ‘quiet one’.” He finally lifted his gaze, letting it rest on where {{user}} sat, partially shielded by Matty’s broader frame.

Marcus grunted, stirring his paste as if it had offended him. “Protocol is clear. A Stray is contraband. He sees her, he’ll have a duty to report. Or worse, claim her as salvage rights for the Interim Government. She becomes a line on a manifest, not a person.”

“So we keep the ruse,” Jax said, his voice oddly tight. He was meticulously cleaning his knife, not looking up. “Bandages, low hood, speak in grunts. He thinks she’s a sickly boy, we keep him thinking it.”

Finn, leaning against a crate with his arms crossed, snorted. “Easy for you lot. But keepin' her hidden means keepin' her cooped up. And it means he,” he jerked his chin toward Matty, “gets to be her shadow. Again.” His blue eyes were sharp with a possessive frustration. The yellowing bruise on his jaw, a mirror to the one on Matty’s cheekbone, was a stark reminder of the line drawn in the concrete hallway.

Doc adjusted his spectacles. “The Lieutenant seems... decent, in his way. A bit clumsy. But Marcus is correct. The institution he represents is not. Our priority must be Miss {{user}}'s safety. Secrecy is her armor.”

Matty listened, his gut twisting. The thought of Kevin, with his stupidly friendly smile and Government-issued boots, even looking in her direction made his hands curl into fists.

“I won’t let him near her,” Matty said, the words coming out more fiercely than he intended. Everyone looked at him. He cleared his throat. “I mean... I’ll keep her covered. Literally. My coat’s big.”

Leon gave a slow, approving nod. “Good. That’s your primary duty, Matty. You’re her cover. But I need you for something else this morning. Stitches, the engineer, is complaining about fouling in the bilge pump intake. Says it’s organic. I need you to go down, take a sample. If it’s something toxic, or worse, something that could draw Infected if it’s blood... we need to know. Take a kit.”

The bilge. Great. Matty’s heart sank. The idea of leaving her here, even for an hour, with Finn’s simmering gaze and the lurking presence of the Lieutenant on the decks above, felt like a physical abandonment. But his father’s order was clear. Duty, again, pulling him away from the one thing that felt like his own.

“Yes, sir,” he said, the words tasting like ash.

He fetched the small medical sampling kit, his movements slow with reluctance. He caught {{user}}’s eye as he turned to go, offering a small, strained smile he hoped was reassuring. Finn’s smirk was anything but.

The descent into the bowels of the Sow was a journey into a different kind of hell. The air grew thicker, hotter, stinking of stagnant water, diesel, and rot. The throbbing of the engines was a physical pressure against his skull. He found the access hatch Stitches had grunted about, a rusted ring in the deck plates. With a heave, he pulled it open, a gust of foul, damp air hitting him in the face.

Grimacing, he clipped a small flashlight to his vest and climbed down the slick metal rungs into the absolute dark and deafening roar of the ship’s lowest level. The bilge water was a shallow, sloshing black soup. He waded through, following the pipe Stitches had described, the beam of his light dancing over weeping rivets and strange, fuzzy growths.

He found the intake grate. It was clogged, not with seaweed or trash, but with a thick, fibrous, pearlescent mesh. It looked almost... manufactured. Not plant matter. What the hell? He pulled on thick gloves and carefully pried a sample loose, sealing it in a sterile vial. As he did, his light glinted on something half-buried in the muck beside the pipe—something angular and smooth, not a part of the ship.

Curiosity, his constant companion, overrode the disgust. He reached down, his fingers closing around a solid, rectangular object. He pulled it free, wiping the slime on his trousers.

It was a case. A waterproof, hard plastic case, the kind used for sensitive electronics or... He fumbled with the latches, rusted but intact. The lid sprang open.

Inside, nestled in foam, was a device. It was sleek, pre-Fall design, with a small screen and a series of buttons. A personal music player. An iPod. Doc had shown him pictures. His heart gave a wild, hopeful leap. But that wasn’t all. Tucked beside it, in a sealed plastic bag, was a pair of wired earbuds, and beneath the foam, a sheaf of laminated papers—song lyrics, by the look of them, and a carefully drawn, colorful diagram of guitar chords.

Oh my god. Music. Not just Doc’s stories. Real music. She could... we could... The thought was a sunburst in the grim darkness of the bilge. The ship, the Lieutenant, Finn, the endless gray sea—it all fell away for a glorious second. He had found something to give her, something that wasn’t just food or protection, but beauty. A connection to the world his mother had told him about.

He slammed the case shut, clutching it to his chest as if it were the cure itself. He scrambled back up the ladder, his boots slipping on the rungs in his haste, the sampling kit forgotten in his pocket.

He found her alone in her cabin. Matty didn’t waste a second. He crossed the hold quickly, his heart hammering not from the climb but from anticipation. He knelt in front of her, his eyes wide with excitement, his grin making them seem brighter. He placed the plastic case carefully on the deck between them like a holy relic.

“Look,” he said, his voice a hushed, reverent whisper, barely audible over the ship’s groan. He pried the latches open, revealing the sleek device. “I found it. Down in the deep. It’s a music player. From before.” His fingers, still damp, were gentle as he lifted the iPod, then the bagged earbuds. “The case kept it dry. And look—” he unfolded the laminated sheets, the colorful chord diagrams glowing under the bare bulb. “There’s whole songs on it. And you can learn how to play them. See?”

He was beaming, the bruises on his face forgotten. He fumbled in his many pockets, pulling out a small, universal power bank he used for medical scanners. With trembling hands, he connected it to the old device. The screen remained dark for a heart-stopping moment, then flickered to life with a soft, blue-white glow. A tiny apple icon appeared.

It works. It actually works.

“Here,” he breathed, his voice thick with awe. He carefully untangled the earbuds, wiped the buds on the cleanest part of his shirt, and offered one to her. He took the other for himself. “We have to be quiet. But... just listen.”

He navigated the click-wheel with a clumsy, wondering touch, scrolling past lists of artists with magical names. He chose a song at random and pressed play.

The sound that filled his ear was not the static-laced warble of Radio 143’s endless, melancholic love songs. It was crisp, clear, and alive. A gentle piano melody, soft and intricate, flowed into the space between them, followed by a voice—warm, human, singing about blackbirds and broken wings. It was music with layers, with a heartbeat, with a sorrow and a hope that felt ten times more real than anything broadcast on the common wavelength.

Matty’s eyes widened. He looked at her, his own breath caught in his throat. He reached out, his calloused fingers gently brushing hers where they held the earbud wire.

The third morning on the Sea-Sick Sow found a rare patch of weak, gray sunlight illuminating a cleared space on the aft deck. The air was still cold, smelling of salt and diesel, but the relentless damp had lifted slightly. It was here that Lieutenant Kevin Miller, having finished his official rounds with the Captain, found Matty checking the straps on a storage locker.

“L-Langley,” Kevin called, his voice friendly but carrying the crisp tone of command. He approached, his Government-issued boots silent on the worn deck. Up close, he was a paradox—sharp, observant brown eyes that missed nothing, set in a face that seemed to default to an earnest, slightly goofy smile. “Saw you m-moving crates earlier. Good form. But hauling is one thing. Close-quarters is another. The c-coastal strips we’re heading into... they’re close work. Brutes in alleys, Looters in ruins. You ever done any proper hand-to-hand?”

Matty straightened, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Some. My father and Marcus have shown me the basics.”

“The b-basics get you killed,” Kevin said, but his smile took the sting out. He began rolling up the sleeves of his clean, olive-drab shirt, revealing forearms corded with muscle. “I’ve got t-time before my next log entry. Let’s see what you’ve got. A friendly check. No weapons, just k-kinetics.”

Matty hesitated. The man was a Government observer, a potential threat to everything they were hiding. But he was also offering training, and Leon had emphasized learning from any source. Matty glanced toward the hatch, where his father had emerged, leaning against the bulkhead with his arms crossed, watching silently. Leon gave a single, slow nod.

Alright. If Dad approves.

“Sure,” Matty said, trying to sound confident. He carefully removed his glasses, folding them and placing them on a nearby crate. The world softened at the edges, details blurring. He pulled his worn t-shirt tighter, the thin fabric doing little against the chill.

They squared off. Kevin moved with a relaxed, economical grace that spoke of thousands of hours of drill. Matty came in first, a testing jab. Kevin deflected it effortlessly, his hand a blur, and countered with a light tap to Matty’s ribs. “Good initiative. Leave less of an opening.”

They began to circle. Matty pushed harder, a combination of strikes he’d seen Marcus use. He was stronger than he looked, his muscles honed by years of wasteland labor. But Kevin was like water, flowing around his attacks, redirecting his force. A block, a parry, a sweep of the leg that Matty just barely jumped over. He was breathing hard already, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. A hot, youthful adrenaline began to pump through him, burning away the awkwardness. He’s good. Really good. But he’s not trying to hurt me.

“You’re quick,” Kevin said, not even winded as he easily caught Matty’s wrist, twisted it gently to demonstrate a lock, then released him. “But you’re telegraphing from the sh-shoulders. Keep y-your core tighter.”

From his spot by the hatch, Leon spoke, his voice carrying over the slap of waves against the hull. “What’s the real picture in Newport, Lieutenant? Your briefings must be more current than our maps.”

Kevin didn’t break eye contact with Matty. He ducked a wilder hook and stepped inside Matty’s guard, planting a palm on his chest and pushing him back with controlled force. Matty stumbled but stayed upright, his blood singing.

“N-Newport’s a Government port. Heavily fortified. Only safe harbor on that stretch of coast,” Kevin said, his stutter smoothing out as he fell into a report. He feinted high; Matty fell for it, and Kevin swept his legs out from under him. Matty hit the deck with a thud, the air rushing from his lungs. Kevin offered a hand, hauling him up easily. “But it’s an island. Beyond the perimeter... volatile. Prion storms roll in off the dead zones. They c-corrode metal, poison fresh water. You’ll need full environmental seals for travel.”

Matty came at him again, driven by the cheerful fire in his veins now. He got a solid grip on Kevin’s arm, trying to remember Jax’s dirty close-quarters tricks. Kevin just smiled and reversed the hold, putting Matty in a headlock that was firm but not choking. “Your target, this Eden...” Kevin continued, his voice close to Matty’s ear as Matty struggled. “Intelligence places it in the Appalachian complex. Former West Virginia.”

Leon moved closer, his interest palpable. “The contamination levels?”

“The mountains are a patchwork,” Kevin grunted, releasing Matty and shoving him away to reset. Matty was panting, his t-shirt sticking to his back and chest with sweat. He felt alive, electric. “Some valleys are hot enough to kill in hours. Others... our satellites show persistent, verdant canopy. Unexplained. Possibly natural springs diluting the prion load, or some terraforming quirk of the original site.”

Matty lunged, aiming low. Kevin caught him, and they grappled, strength against technique. “To reach it,” Kevin said, his voice strained slightly with effort, “you pass through a dozen petty fiefdoms. Tech barons with salvaged pre-Fall weapons, cults, militia groups who think the virus is God’s will. They’re paranoid, armed, and they don’t recognize Government authority. They especially don’t like outsiders.” With a final, powerful heave, Kevin broke Matty’s grip and sent him sprawling onto his back again, this time pinning his shoulders to the deck with a knee. “And a Stray,” he said, the word hanging in the air, “would be a death sentence there. A prize to be fought over in the bloodiest way imaginable. They’d skin a man for a rumor of one.”

The hatch clanged open. Jax emerged from the lower decks, his movements a silent prowl. His hand was on the shoulder of {{user}}, guiding her with a professional, impersonal touch, placing her slightly behind him as they took in the scene. Jax’s eyes, flat and cold, immediately found Kevin’s.

The Lieutenant froze, the friendly instructor vanishing. His brown eyes locked onto Jax, the wistful, conflicted look flashing across his face before being schooled into blank officialdom. The tension was instant and profound, a live wire strung across the deck.

Leon stepped forward, intercepting. “Report, Jax?”

“Deck three is clear. Some rust, nothing structural,” Jax said, his voice a low monotone. He didn’t look away from Kevin. “Brought the kid up for some air. The hold’s suffocating.” He shifted subtly, his body angling to better shield {{user}} from Kevin’s line of sight.

Matty, still pinned and breathing heavily, saw her look at him. Her gaze swept over him—his flushed face, his heaving chest, the sweat-darkened fabric of his t-shirt clinging to the defined planes of his stomach and arms. A fresh, different kind of heat flooded him, mixing with the adrenaline.

She’s looking. At me. Like I’m... fighting. Like a man fights.

Self-consciousness crashed over him. He pushed against Kevin’s knee, and the Lieutenant, distracted by Jax’s presence, released him and stood up. Matty scrambled to his feet, trying to control his ragged breaths. He ran a hand through his sweat-damp, black hair, pushing it back from his forehead. He rolled his shoulders back, standing a little taller, sucking in his stomach slightly. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers, adopting a wider, more solid stance—a pose he’d seen Marcus take, one that felt confident, masculine.

Is this right? Do guys stand like this? It feels strong. I hope it looks strong. Not like I’m trying too hard. Oh god, I’m trying too hard. His cheeks, already flushed from exertion, burned hotter. He risked a glance at her, his gray-green eyes shy but alight with a curious, hopeful energy, as if testing a new and unfamiliar form of communication.

The makeshift lab was less a room and more a storage closet Matty and Doc had commandeered, its walls lined with humming, jury-rigged equipment. The sample from the bilge intake—the pearlescent, fibrous clog—had yielded nothing definitive under the portable microscope. Not a known fungus, not a parasite, not a prion marker. Just an inert, stubborn organic mesh. Matty rubbed his tired eyes, the frustration a dull weight in his gut.

Useless. Can’t fight like Marcus, can’t negotiate like Dad, can’t even identify weird gunk from a pipe. What good am I?

He stretched, his spine popping after hours hunched over the eyepiece. He needed air, even if it was the ship’s damp, metallic air. He slipped out of the closet-lab and into the slightly wider service corridor that ran along the starboard side, lit by flickering, caged bulbs.

He’d taken only three steps when he saw them.

At the far end of the corridor, where a deep shadow was cast by a dormant hydraulic assembly, two figures were pressed against the riveted wall. Not fighting. The opposite.

Jax had Kevin—Lieutenant Miller—pinned. Kevin’s Government-issued cap was knocked askew, tumbling to the deck. Jax’s hand was fisted in the front of Kevin’s crisp uniform shirt, but it wasn’t a punch. It was an anchor. Their faces were fused together in a kiss that was nothing like the gentle, fleeting pecks Matty had seen his parents exchange in their old, privileged life.

This was all teeth and desperate hunger. A raw, consuming clash. Kevin’s hands were gripping Jax’s hips, pulling him closer, while Jax seemed to be trying to devour the man, his usual predatory stillness transformed into a fierce, kinetic need. A low, ragged sound—of pain or pleasure, Matty couldn’t tell—echoed in the narrow space.

Matty froze, his brain short-circuiting.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

They’re... kissing. That’s... kissing?

A riot of sensation erupted in his stomach—hot embarrassment at witnessing something so intensely private, a strange, dizzying joy at the sheer aliveness of it, and a profound, bewildering shyness. His understanding of the world, already fractured by apocalypse, tilted on a new axis. He knew, intellectually, that men could love men. Doc’s old books mentioned it. But knowing and seeing were galaxies apart. The restrained affection of his parents was a quiet sonnet. This was a thunderstorm.

It’s so... much. So passionate. Is that... is that what it’s supposed to be like?

He backpedaled silently, his heart hammering against his ribs, and fled the corridor as if the Infected were on his heels.

He didn’t think. His feet carried him on a panicked, embarrassed autopilot to the only place that felt like a sanctuary in the echoing metal labyrinth—her cabin. He knocked once, a frantic tap, and didn’t wait for an answer before slipping inside, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it.

His cheeks were burning. He ran his hands over his face, feeling the rough stubble and the lingering heat of his flush.

“Hey,” he breathed, the word shaky. He saw her there, and the normalcy of her presence in the small, dim space made the chaotic image in his head feel even more surreal.

He slid down the door to sit on her bed. He couldn’t look at her directly. His gaze was fixed on the scuffed toes of his boots.

“I just... I saw something,” he started, his voice a confused murmur. “Jax and... and the Lieutenant. They were... they were kissing. Like, really... kissing. Not like a... a greeting. It was... intense.” He chanced a glance up at her, his gray-green eyes wide with a mixture of awe and trauma. “I’ve never... I mean, my mom and dad, they’d kiss. But it was soft. This was... it was like they were trying to climb inside each other’s skin. Or like a fight, but... not.”

He buried his face in his hands again, his shoulders hunched. “I shouldn’t have stared. I just... it blew my mind. I didn’t know it could be like that.” He felt a deep shame, not at the act itself, but at his own juvenile reaction, at the way it had scrambled his circuits. He was supposed to be a medic, an adult, but he felt like a child who’d stumbled upon a fundamental, terrifying secret of the universe.

The silence in the cabin felt heavy. He needed to ground himself, to connect this alien experience to something, anything, familiar. He lifted his head, looking at her with utter, vulnerable sincerity.

“Have you...?” he asked, the question escaping in a shy rush. “Ever been kissed? Like... like that?”

As soon as the words were out, he realized the intimacy of the question, the implication. His eyes, almost of their own volition, dropped from her eyes to her lips. He stared, captivated, the memory of Jax and Kevin’s fierce connection superimposing itself in his mind. What would it feel like? Not like that, maybe, but...

He suddenly became acutely aware of how close they were in the small cabin. The air between them felt like a charged vacuum. He hadn’t looked away from her lips. A fresh wave of heat, different from the earlier embarrassment—warmer, more focused—washed over him, tightening his chest and making his hands feel clumsy.

Her lips look... soft. The thought was simple, devastating, and utterly captivating.

The storm didn’t arrive; it seized the world by the throat and shook it. One moment, the Sea-Sick Sow was groaning its perpetual complaint; the next, it was a toy in the grip of a furious god. The lights flickered, died, and were replaced by the hellish, intermittent strobe of emergency reds. The world became a cacophony of shrieking metal, howling wind, and the terrible, deep-throated roar of the sea itself.

Matty’s world, already narrowed to the precarious balance of the ship, snapped into a single, panicked vector: Find her. He was already moving towards the hatch leading to the main deck when a hand like an iron clamp closed on his shoulder.

His father’s face was a mask of grim practicality in the hellish light, his voice cutting through the noise not with volume, but with absolute authority. “The infirmary. Now. Secure the medical supplies. Everything that isn’t bolted down will be a projectile.”

“But she’s—” Matty started, his voice thin with terror.

“Is not your first concern right now!” Leon barked, his grip tightening. “A loose bottle of antiseptic to the head will kill her as dead as the sea. You secure the means to keep her alive. That is your job, Matty. Do it.”

The order was a physical blow, but it landed on the part of him trained for duty. The medic overrode the panicked boy. He’s right. Chaos kills. I have to prepare. The logic was cold, clinical, and it felt like a betrayal of his heart.

“Yes, sir,” he choked out, the words tasting of salt and fear.

He stumbled through the tilting, screaming corridors toward the infirmary, his body slamming into bulkheads as the ship was tossed. Inside the white-painted closet, Doc was already there, a frail scholar turned desperate acrobat, trying to cradle a case of glass vials against his chest. Matty moved on autopilot, his hands—don’t let them shake, don’t let them shake—flying over the cabinets, securing latches, wedging drawers shut with rolled bandages. He worked with a frantic, focused speed, but his mind was a splintered thing.

She’s up there. In the dark. On that deck. What if she’s hurt? What if she’s overboard? Oh god, please no. I have to go. As soon as this is done, I have to—

The door crashed open. Marcus filled the frame, water sheeting off him, a deep, ugly gash weeping blood down his forearm. He held the squirming puppy, Kayla, tucked tightly and silent against his chest. “Loose pipe,” he grunted, his voice barely a ripple in the storm’s roar. He didn’t ask for help; he just stood there, a monument of contained injury.

Before Matty could even process it, a second, more terrifying shape blotted out the light.

Finn. Soaked to the bone, wild-eyed, and in his arms, a limp, hooded form. Blood, shockingly bright, was a dark blossom at her temple.

The world stopped. The ship’s groan, the storm’s fury, the metallic taste of fear—it all drained away into a silent, high-pitched whine. Matty’s breath left his body in a silent rush.

No. No no no no.

Finn was laying her on the narrow, bolted cot, his movements frantic yet oddly gentle. “She’s out. Head’s bleedin’. Got crushed.”

Doc’s voice came from a thousand miles away. “Concussion. Possible intracranial.”

Then Matty was moving. His body acted before his mind could catch up, pushing past the solid, immovable bulk of Finn. His training kicked in, a cool, procedural script unfurling in the white-hot panic. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Head injury. Spinal precautions.

His fingers, those same fingers that had trembled over bandages moments before, went to her throat. Her pulse was there, a frantic butterfly beat against his fingertips. Alive. He gently probed the wound, assessing the laceration, the swelling beneath. His touch was clinical, swift, but inside, he was screaming.

“Pupils,” he muttered, his voice shockingly steady to his own ears. He leaned in, his hands cradling her face, his thumbs carefully lifting her eyelids. He was looking for dilation, for asymmetry, for any sign of the catastrophic damage he feared.

A low, possessive snarl came from beside him. Finn’s heat was a furnace at his back. “Just fix her, don’t... don’t paw at her.”

The words were a spark in a room soaked in gasoline. Matty didn’t look up. He couldn’t. His entire being was focused on the subtle, terrifying messages her unconscious body might be sending. “I need to assess her level of consciousness, Finn. I need to see if there’s spinal concern. Get back and give me light.”

“I ain’t movin’.”

The heat pressed closer. Finn’s breath was on his neck. The implication—that Matty’s necessary, terrified touch was something vulgar—ignited a fury so pure and cold it was atomic.

Leon’s voice, a warning from the doorway. “Finn. Stand down. Let him work.”

It was a dam holding back a flood. Finn ignored it. “You heard me, Matthew. Do what you gotta do and be quick about it.”

Something in Matty’s core, something that had been bending for weeks under the weight of the world, his grandfather’s sin, Finn’s taunts, and his own gentle nature, finally broke. But it didn’t shatter into pieces. It fractured into a razor-sharp edge.

He stood up. The motion was so violent he swayed with the ship’s lurch. He turned, and the look on his face made even Marcus stiffen. All the tenderness, the shyness, the awkwardness was burned away, leaving only a white-hot core of protective rage.

“Shut your fucking mouth!”

The scream tore from a place he didn’t know he had. It wasn’t just loud; it was final. It contained every frustrated lecture from his father, every condescending glance from Marcus, every crude leer from Finn, every moment of terror since he’d pulled her from the river. It was the sound of a line being drawn in blood and seawater.

“You want to help?” Matty seethed, every word a scalpel. “Then be a wall. Be a weight. But be a silent one! Your jealousy is a luxury we don’t have! She is unconscious! She could have a brain bleed!”

He jabbed a finger toward the cot, his hand trembling not with fear now, but with the intensity of the truth forcing its way out. “You think this is about you?” His voice cracked, not with weakness, but with the sheer, unsustainable pressure of it. “I am touching her because if I don’t, she might die. And I am looking at her, and I am terrified, because I love her!”

The confession wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t whispered in a quiet cabin. It was a war cry, a diagnosis, a fundamental law of his universe stated aloud for the first time. It echoed in the small metal room, louder than the storm.

“I love her enough to forget you’re even in this room!” The tears came then, hot and furious, scouring his cheeks. “I love her enough to let my hands shake if they have to, as long as they do what she needs! So get out of my light, get out of my way, or so help me God, Finn, I will make you!”

He was breathing in ragged, sobbing gasps. He didn’t wait to see the impact. He had said all that mattered. He turned his back on Finn, on his father, on all of them, and returned to her.

His hands, now visibly shaking, went back to her face, to her pulse point. The room was utterly silent save for the storm and his own ragged breath. He heard, rather than saw, the heavy, deliberate shift of boots on the deck plating. A shadow moved out of his light.

A grating, hollow voice came from behind him. “Just... fix her.”

Matty didn’t acknowledge it. He was already gone, lost in the terrifying geography of her injury, his love for her the only compass he had left.

As he worked, his voice dropped from its furious roar to a low, continuous murmur meant only for her, a soft counterpoint to the storm’s rage outside. “You’re okay, Sunshine,” he whispered. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. Just stay with me, okay? Just stay right here with me.” Each word was a suture against the chaos, a fragile spell of comfort woven in the dark, sterile light.

The storm had passed, leaving behind a bruised, quiet sea and a ship that felt like a spent shell. In the infirmary, Matty had kept his vigil long after Doc had confirmed the concussion was mild, long after her breathing had deepened into true sleep rather than unconsciousness. He’d held her hand, his thumb stroking the back of it, whispering fragments of old songs his mother had sung until his own voice gave out.

In the clear, cold light of the following day, something had settled in him. The cataclysm of his confession had not, as he’d feared, made things awkward or changed the gentle rhythm of their connection. Instead, it had laid a foundation. He was still the same Matty—offering her the choicest bit of rehydrated fruit, his touch careful, his smiles shy—but the undercurrent of terror that had always accompanied his feelings was gone. It had been burned away in the fury of the storm, leaving behind a pure, steady certainty. He loved her. He had said it to the world. Now, he could simply be it.

It was this new, quiet confidence that had him on watch on the port deck, the afternoon sun a pale coin behind the haze. His gaze, however, wasn’t on the horizon. It was drawn to a figure leaning against the rail further down: Finn.

Finn wasn’t looking at the water. He was hunched over, his back to Matty, his shoulders tense. In his hands, he was fidgeting with something small, turning it over and over. The sun caught a flash of metal—a dull, yellow glint. A band. A ring.

Matty’s stomach didn’t clench with the hot, possessive jealousy of before. Instead, it performed a slow, cold somersault. This wasn’t about posturing or primal competition. This was a different language entirely.

It landed deeper, colder—a tactical assessment. It wasn’t about Finn’s feelings; it was about his intent. A claim. A symbol. In the brutal arithmetic of the Wasteland, a ring, however makeshift, was a statement more potent than a hundred fights. It was a step towards permanence, towards a contract Finn believed he could enforce.

He’s planning something. Something formal. Something he thinks will decide this.

The understanding was a cold shock. It wasn’t enough to love her. It wasn’t enough to have shouted it. He had to show her, in a way that mattered, in a way that was just for them, before the world—or Finn—tried to impose its own brutal terms.

He didn’t hesitate. He found her in the corridor leading to the companionway up to the fresh air deck, a shadow in the dim, artificial light of the ship’s interior. His heart was a steady, strong drum in his chest, not a frantic flutter.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft but clear. He stepped close, the space between them feeling both intimate and right. Gently, he took both of her hands in his. His palms were warm, his grip sure. He was surprised to find his hands were perfectly steady.

He looked down at their joined hands, then up into her face, a soft, wondering smile touching his lips. He leaned in, and with a tenderness that held the weight of all his fear and all his newfound courage, he pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. It was a kiss of gratitude, of relief—a silent thank you for being alive, for being here.

He didn’t pull far away, his lips lingering near her skin, breathing in her scent—clean, human, her.

“I don't know if you heard me then, in the storm... But I meant it,” he whispered, the words a warm breath against her brow. “Every word. I was so scared. But saying it... it just made it more real.” He finally leaned back just enough to look into her eyes, his gray-green gaze open, affectionate, and radiant with a love that had shed its last layer of boyish uncertainty. He was still Matty, but he was a Matty who knew his own heart and was no longer afraid to offer it.

“I love you,” he said, simply, openly. “Not because you’re a miracle in this hellscape. Not because you’re rare.” He gave her hands a gentle squeeze. “I love you. The way you listen. The way you make the quiet moments feel like a whole world.” He swallowed, his voice dropping to a hushed, romantic timbre, full of wanting and devotion. “I want to be the one who finds beautiful things for you. I want to be the one who makes you feel safe. I want... you. However you’ll have me.” He smiled foolishly, tenderly. “Before the Apocalypse, it was called a boyfriend and a girlfriend.”

He stood there, holding her hands, his declaration hanging in the dim, humming air of the ship’s corridor. He was offering her everything he was—no longer a boy stumbling through a script, but a young man, certain of his heart, standing firmly in his own love.