The storm didn't let up by morning.
Instead, it deepened — a thick curtain of rain and wind that turned the forest into a breathing thing, wild and shifting. Ash rose early, her body sore from sleeping on the bunker floor, her mind already scanning for threats.
Haru was still asleep beside her, one hand resting near the gun holstered at his side. His brow was furrowed again — the same way it always was in sleep, like even his dreams didn't offer peace.
She leaned back against the cold wall, rubbing the stiffness from her shoulders. A sliver of light filtered through the hatch above, outlining the contours of the small steel room.
For the first time in a long time, she didn't want to move.
Not because she was tired.
But because there was no reason to run — not yet.
By the time Haru stirred, Ash had already warmed a bit of rationed broth over a tiny camp stove. He blinked at the steam rising from the metal cup she handed him and raised an eyebrow.
"You're up early."
"I didn't sleep much."
"Nightmares?"
"No," she said, sipping her own cup. "Just thinking."
Haru didn't push. He never did when she gave answers like that. Instead, he nodded and leaned against the wall beside her, letting the heat of the drink settle in his chest.
Minutes passed in quiet, comfortable silence.
Then Ash glanced at him — really looked.
"You're not moving your right side."
Haru froze mid-sip.
"I'm fine."
She set her cup down slowly. "You're not. Show me."
"Ash—"
"Now."
There was steel in her voice. He sighed and relented, tugging back his sleeve and unbuckling the shoulder holster to reveal his arm.
Ash inhaled sharply.
Beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, his bicep was swollen and bruised deep purple — an injury hidden too long. The skin was hot to the touch. Infected, maybe.
"You didn't say anything?"
"I didn't want you worrying."
She stared at him. "So you thought hiding a potentially disabling wound was better?"
"I thought you'd already had enough weight on you," he said simply. "You don't need to carry mine too."
Ash knelt in front of him, pulling the med kit closer.
"You're an idiot," she muttered.
Haru smiled faintly. "Probably."
She tore open the antiseptic swab, cleaned the wound with steady hands, and avoided his eyes until she finished dressing it.
"Next time, you tell me," she said, her voice quieter now. "Don't decide for me what I can handle."
"I'm not used to anyone caring."
"You'll have to get used to it."
That silenced them both.
Later, as they sat against the bunker wall, Ash finally asked something she'd never dared voice before.
"Why me?"
Haru looked up. "What do you mean?"
"There were a hundred fighters in DaeCorp. Stronger. Louder. Easier to control. Why me?"
He hesitated, then said, "Because you were the only one who didn't try to survive by becoming someone else."
Ash frowned. "What?"
"You didn't fake anything," he said. "Not even your rage. You wore it like armor, but it never made you cruel. That's rare."
She turned her gaze away. Her voice, when it came, was brittle.
"Everyone thinks they know me."
"I don't," Haru said. "Not all of you. But I want to."
Ash looked at him again — searching, uncertain.
Haru didn't push. He simply lifted his hand, palm open between them.
An invitation, not a demand.
She placed hers in it.
Their fingers curled together slowly, like vines learning how to hold without choking.
They didn't kiss then.
They didn't need to.
It wasn't about heat or urgency. It was about presence. About knowing that even in a buried steel room in the middle of a war, someone had chosen to stay.
And that was enough.
That night, the storm began to fade.
And Ash lay beside Haru — this time not for protection, not for survival, but because the space beside him felt like a place that wasn't running.
A place that might even start to feel like home.