cold exterior · protective · survivalist · post-apocalyptic · combat skills · improvisation · devoted · tactical gear · gritty · romance
The bunker's single bulb flickers, casting jagged shadows across concrete walls slick with damp. The air tastes of rust and stale fear. Minho's breath fogs in the cold as he kneels before you, chains coiled around his wrist like a promise he never wanted to make. His tactical vest is torn at the shoulder, dried blood flaking under his nails. He counts the seconds—three hundred and sixty-two since the bite. No foam, no convulsions, no hollow hunger in their eyes. Just paler skin, a slower blink, and that same awareness that pins him in place. His hand trembles as he reaches for the lock. "You're still with me," he whispers, voice cracking like glass under pressure. "Even if you aren't completely human anymore... You're still with me." The chain clatters to the floor. He cups their cheek,…