I know, I think too far ahead. But with her, every goal feels within reach, every challenge surmountable. She makes me feel so certain we can achieve anything. The stench outside makes me gag again.


"Maybe we should move him," I say.


"You mean before calling it a night?" she asks.


"Yeah, Mia, I ain't used to this kind of living yet," I admit.


"Understandable," she says.


We both get up and step outside the tent, the cool desert air rushing over us, carrying the scent of blood and dust. My stomach churns as we approach the corpse, my fingers flexing involuntarily at the thought of touching it. Handling the body makes my skin crawl, an unbearable sense of revulsion prickling over me like a swarm of insects. Every instinct tells me to step back, to find an excuse, but there is no avoiding it. We have to do this.


Mia, on the other hand, moves with an unsettling ease, her grip firm and sure as she lifts the dead weight. There’s no hesitation in her actions, no sign of discomfort. It’s like she’s done this a hundred times before, like the presence of death no longer has power over her. I swallow hard, forcing myself to match her pace as we carry the lifeless form away from the tent, my mind screaming to be anywhere else but here.


Mia goes back toward our tent, but I hesitate, glancing back at the lifeless form. A strange guilt tugs at me. Leaving them like this feels wrong. I start piling sand over the body, my fingers digging into the gritty desert floor. The entrance of our tent rustles as Mia stops to watch me.


"That's... a new one," Mia says.


"My family told me this was an Old World practice. To give the dead respect," I admit.


Mia stifles a giggle, but as she steps forward, her amusement fades into something more uncertain. She kneels beside me, her hands hovering over the sand as if second-guessing whether this act holds any real meaning. Her fingers twitch before she finally scoops up a handful, the grains slipping slowly through her grasp like she’s unfamiliar with the weight of such a gesture. Her movements are hesitant, deliberate, nowhere near as fluid as mine. She glances at me, as though searching for reassurance or understanding. Maybe she doesn’t entirely see the point, but despite the unease in her eyes, she helps anyway.


"You don't have to help. It's just something I was taught," I say.


"You're learning my stuff... least I can do is try to learn yours... right, Etha?" she asks.


"I guess you have a point there. This doesn’t have to be one, though," I say as I pile an armful onto the now-forming dune of sand.


"It's okay, Etha." She reassures me.


"Thanks, Mia."


As we finish covering the body, a thought creeps into my mind—did they have someone waiting for them? A family, a friend, someone who depended on them? Did they leave camp that morning with promises to return, unaware that the desert would claim them before nightfall? The idea gnaws at me, an uncomfortable weight pressing against my chest. I try to shake it off, tell myself they were just another attacker, another threat we had to eliminate. But the thought refuses to leave, clawing at the edges of my mind. I shove it away before it lingers too long, burying it alongside the body beneath the sand.


"You never had to deal with this kind of stuff before, Etha. It's alright to feel off," Mia says, her voice softer now.


We finish, and she heads back to the tent without another word. I can’t blame her. It’s been a long day, and a strange evening, to say the least.


I follow her inside, and we strip down and kill the lights. I lay down, and before I can fully settle, I feel her warmth curling up against me. I suppose separate beds are a thing of the past.


Our relationship is evolving fast, molded by the relentless trials of survival and the dangers we've braved side by side. Each battle, each narrow escape, has bound us tighter, forcing us to trust in ways neither of us ever expected. The Old World cursed this land, leaving behind ruin and despair, yet somehow, we still endure. We fight, we adapt, we push forward because we have no other choice. I take a deep breath, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me, yet for the first time in what feels like days, I allow myself to relax. Here, in this fleeting moment of stillness, I find a strange kind of peace.


"Hey, Mia..." I speak groggily.


"Yeah, Etha?"


"We are together, aren’t we?" I ask.


"Wha—yeah, of course," Mia blurts out, her voice stumbling over the words as if caught off guard. There's a split-second pause, like she hadn't expected the question, and then a quick breath as she regains her composure.


"Good. I'm on the same page," I admit.


I feel her settle back down, exhaling softly, but the hesitation in her voice lingers in my mind. I never expected to hear nervousness from her—Mia, who always carries herself with unwavering confidence. It’s strange, almost disarming, to see even a flicker of uncertainty in her. A warmth spreads through me, something deep and unshakable. She meant what she said. This is real. And for the first time in a long time, the future doesn't seem like an empty stretch of survival—it feels like something worth building.


"You never were with anyone either, huh?" she asks.


"No. Hard to want a life when life is only survival," I admit. "Although, I know with you, everything seems better."


She sighs in the darkness, the sound soft but weighted, as if she’s exhaling the burdens of the day alongside her breath. Moments like this anchor me, reminding me that even in this chaotic wasteland, there are still things I can count on. The warmth of her presence, the unspoken understanding between us—it makes me feel solid, grounded, as if we are carving out something unbreakable in the midst of ruin. We’re a team, bound by trust and necessity, covering each other’s backs, surviving together. And in that, there’s a quiet kind of strength, a reassurance that no matter what comes next, we’ll face it side by side.


"Well, just look at what we pulled off for New Boston. We’re good together, Etha." Her body shifts, and I can hear the quiet laughter in her voice.


The world seems at peace, yet I can’t sleep. The bed is warm, a contrast to the chilled desert air. I listen to her breathing, deep and steady.


Lying here, holding her, I feel something I never expected—contentment. But the quiet is too eerie to fully embrace. My thoughts wander, picturing shadows moving in the dunes, the sand twisting like living things. Just my imagination, I tell myself. The only thing we’ve seen that large was the Asag.


I shake the thought away. I need to sleep. Time feels frozen, each second stretching too long. I inhale deeply, catching the scent of blueberries and roses—her hair.


Mia shifts in her sleep, pulling herself tighter against me with a quiet groan. A deep, burning pride swells in my chest. She’s strong, fearless, and yet, here she is, trusting me to protect her. The thought fills me with an undeniable sense of honor, a silent vow forming in my heart to never let that trust be misplaced.


I sigh deeply, trying to shut my mind off. Did she feel this way the first night she slept beside me? Does she lie awake thinking about the future as I do now? The thought lingers, curling around my mind like the desert wind. I imagine her as my wife, both of us working toward something bigger than just survival.


I sigh once more, exhaustion finally weighing down my body. Mia shifts again, turning away from me. I follow, wrapping my arms around her, letting her scent lull me into rest.


At last, drowsiness washes over me. My thoughts blur, my body melting into the embrace of sleep. With one final deep breath, I let go.