Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air was crisp, carrying the sharp scent of pine and the faint musk of damp earth.

The trail wound through the mountains, a ribbon of dirt and stone that climbed steadily upward, flanked by towering evergreens and the occasional burst of wildflowers.

You and Andy had been hiking for hours, your boots crunching in rhythm, your breaths puffing out in little clouds in the cool morning air. His hand was warm in yours, his long fingers laced tightly with your own, a grounding anchor as you navigated the uneven terrain together.

This was your escape. After years of marriage filled with love but also the chaos of his touring schedule, band obligations, and the constant hum of the outside world, you'd both craved this.

A romantic vacation, just the two of you, tucked away in a remote mountain range where cell service was a myth and the only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the distant call of a hawk. No fans, no paparazzi, no deadlines. Just you, Andy, and the vast, untamed wilderness.

He'd planned it all meticulously, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement when he'd presented you with the itinerary months ago. A cozy cabin nestled in the valley, a week of hiking, stargazing, and lazy mornings tangled in each other's arms.

"No distractions." he'd promised, his voice low and earnest, his lips brushing your forehead. "Just us."

Now, as you paused on the trail to catch your breath, you couldn't help but smile at him.

Andy stood a few steps ahead, his tall frame silhouetted against the endless blue sky. His black hair was slightly mussed from the wind, and he'd ditched his usual leather jacket for a lightweight hiking one, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos snaking across his forearms.

He turned to you, catching your stare, and his lips curved into that familiar, crooked grin that still made your heart skip.

"Caught you staring, Mrs. Biersack." he teased, closing the distance between you in a few strides. His hands found your waist, pulling you gently against him.

"Can't help it." you shot back, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. "You're kind of distracting."

He chuckled, the sound deep and warm, and leaned down to kiss you. His lips were soft, tasting faintly of the coffee you'd shared at breakfast, and you melted into him, your hands resting against his chest. The world around you seemed to fade, the mountains and trees blurring into the background until it was just the two of you, wrapped in each other.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "I love you." he murmured, his voice quiet but fierce, like he was staking a claim.

"I love you too." you whispered, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

For a moment, you just stood there, swaying slightly, the world perfect and still. Then he squeezed your hand, tugging you gently forward. "Come on, we're almost to the lookout. You're gonna love the view."

You laughed, falling into step beside him, your heart light. The trail steepened, and you focused on the rhythm of your steps, the burn in your legs a satisfying ache.

Andy kept pace beside you, occasionally pointing out a bird darting through the trees or a particularly vibrant patch of flowers. His excitement was infectious, and you found yourself grinning, caught up in the simple joy of being here with him.

The lookout was a small clearing perched on a rocky outcrop, offering a sweeping view of the valley below. The mountains stretched out in every direction, their peaks dusted with the first hints of autumn frost. The sky was a brilliant, endless blue, dotted with a few lazy clouds.

You dropped your backpack and sank onto a flat rock, pulling out a water bottle as Andy joined you, his shoulder brushing yours.

"Worth the climb?" he asked, his eyes scanning the horizon.

"Every step." you said, passing him the water. He took a sip, then handed it back, his fingers lingering against yours.

You sat in comfortable silence, sharing a granola bar and soaking in the view. The world felt so far away, like you'd stepped into a pocket of time where nothing could touch you.

Andy's arm slipped around your shoulders, and you leaned into him, your head resting against his chest. His heartbeat was steady, a quiet rhythm that grounded you.

"This," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, "this is what I've been dreaming of. Just you and me, no noise, no chaos. Just... us."

You tilted your head to look up at him, your heart swelling. "It's perfect."

His eyes softened, and he leaned down to kiss you again, slow and lingering. You were just pulling back, your lips tingling, when a low rumble cut through the air. At first, you thought it was thunder, but it was too steady, too mechanical. Andy's brow furrowed, and he turned his head, scanning the sky.

"What's that?" you asked, sitting up straighter.

He didn't answer immediately, his gaze locked on something in the distance. You followed his line of sight, and your stomach dropped. Far off, just above the horizon, a formation of planes streaked across the sky, their shapes small but unmistakable.

They were moving fast, too fast, their engines roaring with a ferocity that made the ground beneath you tremble.

"Andy..." Your voice was tight, a thread of unease winding through you.

That's not normal." he said, his tone clipped, his hand tightening around yours. "Maybe military? But why here?"

You both stood, your eyes glued to the planes as they grew smaller, disappearing over the mountains. The rumble faded, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. You exchanged a glance with Andy, his jaw tight, his eyes dark with something you rarely saw in him: fear.

Before you could say anything, a blinding flash erupted in the distance, so bright it seared your vision.

You flinched, throwing a hand up to shield your eyes, but the light was everywhere, swallowing the world in white.

A split second later, the loudest sound you'd ever heard tore through the air—a boom so powerful it felt like the earth itself had cracked open. It was louder than any concert, louder than any storm, a sound that shook your bones and rattled your teeth.

You stumbled, your ears ringing, and Andy's arms were around you in an instant, pulling you against him.

"Oh my God." you gasped, your voice barely audible over the ringing in your ears. You forced your eyes open, and your blood ran cold.

There, on the horizon, a massive, unmistakable shape rose into the sky: a mushroom cloud, its edges glowing with an unnatural, sickly orange. It billowed upward, monstrous and surreal, a nightmare made real.

"Andy, what—" Your words cut off as more flashes lit up the sky, smaller but no less terrifying, each followed by a bone-rattling boom. Clouds sprouted in every direction, some distant, some closer, their shapes twisting and churning like living things. The air vibrated with the force of it, the ground trembling beneath your feet.

"It's happening." Andy said, his voice low and urgent, almost drowned out by the chaos. "It's actually happening."

You didn't need to ask what he meant. The images burned into your mind from history books, from movies, from whispered fears you'd never thought would come true.

Nuclear War. The words lodged in your throat, choking you.

The silence that followed was worse than the noise. It was absolute, a void that pressed against your eardrums, broken only by the dull ringing in your ears.

You clung to Andy, your fingers digging into his jacket, your breath coming in shallow gasps. His arms were steel around you, but you could feel the tremor in his grip, the barely controlled panic.

Then, a new sound—a low, growing roar, like a freight train bearing down on you. You tore your eyes from the sky and saw it: a wall of fire and dust racing across the valley, the blast wave from the nearest explosion tearing through the landscape.

Trees bent and snapped, flames licking at the air, and the heat hit you even from this distance, a suffocating wave that made your skin prickle.

"We have to move!" Andy's voice snapped you out of your daze. He grabbed your hand, yanking you toward the trail. "Now!"

Your legs moved on instinct, stumbling over rocks and roots as you ran. The roar grew louder, the heat intensifying, and your heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst.

Andy's grip was iron, his long strides pulling you along as he scanned the terrain. You didn't know where you were going, only that you had to get away, had to find shelter.

"There!" he shouted, pointing to a dark opening in the mountainside—a cave, half-hidden by overgrown vines. It was close, but the blast wave was closer, the roar deafening, the heat unbearable.

You sprinted, your lungs burning, your vision blurring with tears and sweat.

You reached the cave just as the wave hit. Andy shoved you inside, throwing himself over you as you hit the ground.

The world around youbexploded into chaos. The heat was unimaginable, a furnace that seared your skin even through the cave's walls. The ground shook violently, a rumbling that felt like the mountain itself was collapsing. Small rocks and dirt rained down from the ceiling, pelting your back as Andy shielded you, his body a barrier between you and the nightmare outside.

You clung to him, your arms wrapped around his waist, your face buried in his chest. Your eyes screwed shut, your breath hitching in sobs you couldn't control. The roar was endless, a beast raging just beyond the cave's mouth, and every second felt like it could be your last.

Andy's arms tightened around you, his breath ragged against your ear. "I've got you." he whispered, his voice hoarse but steady, a lifeline in the dark. "I've got you."

You didn't know how long it lasted—seconds, minutes, an eternity. The heat, the shaking, the deafening roar—it consumed everything.

You waited, your body trembling, your mind screaming, for the end. For the cave to collapse, for the fire to reach you, for the world to swallow you whole.

But it didn't.

Slowly, impossibly, the roar began to fade. The ground stilled, the heat easing just enough to let you breathe.

The cave was dark, the air thick with dust, but you were alive. You were still here.

Andy didn't move, his body still curled protectively over yours. You could feel his heart hammering against your cheek, his breaths uneven.

You opened your eyes, blinking against the grit, and saw his face, pale and streaked with dirt, his blue eyes wide with a mix of fear and relief.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice raw.

You nodded, unable to speak, your throat tight with dust and emotion. He shifted, sitting up slightly, his hands cupping your face as he checked you for injuries. His touch was gentle but urgent, his eyes searching yours.

"We're alive. How the fuck are we alive?" you whispered, the words feeling foreign, like they belonged to someone else.

"What the fuck just happened?" he rasped in terrified disbelief. He glanced toward the cave's entrance, where the world beyond was hidden in a haze of smoke and ash.

The silence was back, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the faint crackle of distant fires.

You clung to him, your fingers digging into his shirt, your body shaking with the aftershocks of panic. He held you close, his lips pressing against your forehead, his breath warm against your skin.

"We'll figure this out." he said, his voice steady despite the fear you knew he felt. "Together."

Together. That was your thing. Together and Always. A sentiment that meant everything to you both.

You nodded, your heart pounding, your mind racing with questions you couldn't yet voice.

What had happened?

How widespread was it?

Was there anything left out there?

But for now, all you could do was hold on to him, your anchor in the dark, and wait.

Wait to die, or wait for the fires raging outside to stop.

The world had changed in an instant, and you didn't know what came next.

But as Andy's arms tightened around you, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against your own, you knew one thing for certain: whatever came, you'd face it together.

Chapter Text

The cave was a tomb, its walls cold and unyielding. The air inside was thick with dust, a gritty haze that clung to your skin and coated your throat with every breath.

You sat on the hard ground, your back against the rough wall, your knees drawn up to your chest. Andy was across from you, his long legs stretched out, his head tilted back as he stared at the jagged ceiling, eyes glazed over, lost in his thoughts.

The faint glow of a battery-powered lantern cast flickering shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the dark circles under his eyes.

It had been a week since the bombs fell. A week since the world you knew had been obliterated in a series of blinding flashes and bone-rattling booms. A week since you and Andy had stumbled into this cave, barely escaping the blast wave that tore through the mountains.

You were alive, but the cost of that miracle was steep. The life you'd built together—your home, your friends, your families—was gone. The weight of that loss sat heavy in your chest, a grief too vast to process.

The cave was your sanctuary and your prison. You couldn't leave, not yet. The world outside was a wasteland of fire and ash, the air choked with radioactive fallout.

You'd caught glimpses of it through the cave's narrow entrance: a sky stained red and black, trees reduced to charred skeletons, the distant crackle of flames that refused to die.

Andy had ventured to the entrance a few times, his face grim as he peered out, but he always returned quickly, shaking his head. "Not yet." he'd say, his voice low. "It's still too hot."

So you waited.

You rationed your supplies, counted every drop of water, every crumb of food. Your backpacks, meant for a week-long hiking trip, held pitifully little: two water bottles, a handful of protein bars, a small first-aid kit, a flashlight, and the lantern. You'd stretched it as far as you could, sipping water only when your throat burned, splitting the bars into tiny portions.

But the math was brutal. You had maybe two days left, three if you starved yourselves. After that, you'd have to face the world outside, ready or not.

Andy shifted, pulling his knees up and resting his arms on them. His black hair was matted with dirt, his hiking jacket torn at the sleeve from when he'd shielded you during the blast. He hadn't shaved, and a faint stubble darkened his jaw, giving him a rugged edge that was both familiar and foreign. He looked older, somehow, the weight of the past week etched into the lines of his face.

"We need to talk about what's next." he said, his voice cutting through the silence. It was steady, but you could hear the undercurrent of exhaustion, the strain of holding it together for both of you.

You nodded, swallowing against the dryness in your throat. "I know."

He leaned forward, his blue eyes locking onto yours. Even in the dim light, they were piercing, filled with a fierce determination that made your heart ache.

"We can't stay here much longer. The food's almost gone, and the water won't last. We need to move, find supplies, figure out what's left out there."

The thought made your stomach twist.

Out there, the world beyond the cave was a mystery, a nightmare painted in ash and ruin. You'd seen the mushroom clouds, felt the earth shake. Whatever was left, it wasn't the world you'd known.

"But the fallout..." you said, your voice small. "It's still out there, isn't it? The radiation?"

Andy's jaw tightened, and he nodded. "Yeah. It's probably still bad. But we don't have a choice. We stay here and starve or we go out and we take our chances. At least out there, we've got a shot."

You hugged your knees tighter, the cold of the cave seeping into your bones. "What do you think it's like out there? Really?"

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting to the cave's entrance. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper.

"I've been thinking about that a lot. You ever play Fallout? Or watch Mad Max?" He gave a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "That's what I keep picturing. A wasteland. Empty towns, burned-out cars, people fighting over the last scraps of food. If anyone's still alive, they're not gonna be friendly. Survival does that to people. Turns them into animals."

The words sent a shiver down your spine. You'd played Fallout with him late at night, curled up on the couch, laughing at the retro-futuristic aesthetic and the absurdity of fighting mutated creatures. It had been a game, a fantasy. Now, it felt like a prophecy.

"You really think it's that bad?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

"I hope it's not." he said, his eyes meeting yours again. "But we have to be ready for it. We can't assume there's help out there, or that anyone's coming to save us. It's just us now."

Just us.

The words hung in the air, heavy and final.

You thought of your parents, your friends, the life you'd left behind. Were they still out there, somewhere, or had they been consumed by the fire?

The uncertainty was a knife in your chest, twisting with every breath. You wanted to cry, to scream, but you'd done that already, in the first days when the shock was raw.

Now, you were too tired, too hollow.

Andy must have seen the pain in your face, because he moved closer, scooting across the ground until he was beside you. His arm slipped around your shoulders, pulling you against him. You leaned into his warmth, your head resting against his chest, the steady thud of his heartbeat a small comfort in the dark.

"We'll be okay." he murmured, his lips brushing your hair. "We've got each other. That's enough."

You wanted to believe him, but the fear was a living thing, coiled tight in your chest. "What if it's not?" you whispered. "What if we go out there and it's... nothing? Just death and ash?"

He was quiet for a moment, his hand stroking your arm in slow, soothing circles.

"Then we fight." he said finally. "We fight for every second we get. We find a way to survive, to build something new. I'm not giving up, and I'm not letting you give up either."

His words were a spark in the dark, a reminder of the man you'd married—the man who'd faced down crowds of thousands, who'd poured his heart into every song, who'd never backed down from a challenge.

You tilted your head to look up at him, his face half-lit by the lantern's glow. His eyes were fierce, but there was something else there too: love, raw and unyielding.

"I don't know how you're so strong." you said, your voice trembling. "I'm scared, Andy. I'm so scared."

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears you hadn't realized were falling.

"I'm scared too.

" he admitted, his voice soft but steady. "But you're my reason to keep going. You always have been. We're gonna get through this, I promise."

You nodded, leaning into his touch, letting his strength anchor you. For a moment, you just sat there, holding each other, the cave's cold walls fading into the background. It wasn't enough to erase the fear, but it was enough to keep you going, at least for now.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of small tasks.

You inventoried your supplies again, counting the protein bars (three left) and the water (half a bottle each).

Andy rigged a makeshift filter using a spare shirt and some charcoal from a small fire he'd built earlier in the week, hoping to stretch the water further if you could find a stream.

You cleaned the first-aid kit, organizing the bandages and antiseptic wipes, though you prayed you wouldn't need them.

Every action was deliberate, a way to keep your hands busy and your mind from spiraling.

Andy talked as you worked, his voice a steady stream that filled the silence. He speculated about what might be out there—abandoned towns, military bunkers, pockets of survivors. He theorized about the bombs, wondering if they'd been a coordinated attack or a chain reaction gone wrong.

"Could've been one country, could've been all of them." he said, his hands busy tying a knot in a piece of rope he'd found in his pack. "Doesn't matter now. What matters is what we do next."

You listened, nodding occasionally, grateful for his voice. It kept the darkness at bay, the creeping thoughts of what you'd lost.

But even as you clung to his words, you couldn't shake the image of the mushroom clouds, the way they'd risen into the sky like gods of destruction.

You wondered if anything could survive that, if there was anything left to find.

Night fell, or what you assumed was night.

The cave's entrance showed only a faint, reddish glow, the sky obscured by smoke and ash.

You and Andy ate your rations—a quarter of a protein bar each, a sip of water. The hunger was a constant ache now, a gnawing pain that made your head throb. You tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the warmth of Andy's body as you curled up beside him on the sleeping bag you'd spread out.

He pulled you close, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against your neck.

"Try to sleep." he said softly. "We need our strength."

You nodded, closing your eyes, but sleep was elusive.

The cave was too quiet, the silence pressing against your ears. You could hear Andy's breathing, slow and even, but you knew he wasn't asleep either. His hand rested on your hip, his fingers tracing small circles, a silent reassurance that he was there.

"Do you think we'll ever go back to normal?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

He was quiet for so long you thought he hadn't heard you. Then he sighed, his breath stirring your hair. "Normal's gone." he said. "But that doesn't mean we can't find something else. Something worth fighting for."

You turned in his arms, facing him. His eyes were half-closed, the lantern's light casting soft shadows across his face.

"Like what?" you asked.

"Like us." he said simply. "Like a future, even if it's not the one we planned. We'll find a way to make it work. We always do."

His words were a lifeline, fragile but real.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his, a slow, desperate kiss that tasted of dust and salt.

He kissed you back, his hand cupping the back of your head, pulling you closer. It wasn't about passion, not tonight. It was about connection, about reminding each other that you were still here, still alive.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, your breaths mingling.

"I love you." you whispered.

"I love you too." he said, his voice fierce. "Always."

You closed your eyes, clinging to his warmth, his strength.

The world outside was a wasteland, a place of ash and ruin, but in here, in this moment, you had him. And that was enough.

The days blurred together, each one a mirror of the last. You rationed your food until it was gone, the final protein bar split between you in a silent, solemn ritual. The water dwindled, each sip a precious currency.

Andy kept busy, sharpening a small knife from his pack, sketching maps in the dirt based on what he remembered of the area. You helped where you could, your hands trembling from hunger, your body weak but determined.

The cave's entrance remained a forbidden threshold. Andy checked it daily, his face grim as he reported the same red sky, the same distant fires.

"It's not safe yet." he'd say, and you'd nod, too tired to argue. But you both knew the truth: you couldn't wait much longer. Hunger was a relentless enemy, and the cave offered no reprieve.

One night, as you lay together on the sleeping bag, Andy spoke, his voice low and thoughtful.

"When we leave, we need a plan. Stick to the high ground, avoid open areas. Find water first, then food. If we see people..." He trailed off, his hand tightening on yours.

"If we see people, what?" you prompted, your voice barely audible.

"We be careful." he said. "We don't know who's out there, or what they're capable of. Trust no one, at least not right away."

The words were a cold reminder of the world waiting beyond the cave. You thought of Fallout again, of raiders and scavengers, of a world where kindness was a luxury few could afford.

"Do you think there's anyone good left?" you asked.

He hesitated, then nodded. "There has to be. People like us, just trying to survive. We'll find them, or we'll make our own way. But we don't take chances until we know."

You nodded, your heart heavy but resolute. Andy was right. You had to be smart, to be cautious. The world was no longer a place of second chances.

As the week drew to a close, you felt the shift in both of you—a quiet resolve, a readiness to face what came next. The hunger was a constant pain now, your bodies weak but your minds sharp. You spent the final day preparing, packing what little you had, checking the flashlight's batteries, tying your boots with trembling hands.

Andy sat beside you, his knife in hand, his eyes distant. "Tomorrow." he said, his voice firm. "We go tomorrow, no matter what."

You nodded, your throat tight.

"Together."

He reached for your hand, his fingers lacing with yours. "Always."

The cave was silent, the lantern's glow fading as the battery weakened. You leaned against Andy, your head on his shoulder, your heart pounding with fear and hope.

Tomorrow, you'd leave this sanctuary, step into the unknown. The world was gone, but you were still here, and so was he.

You didn't know what you'd find out there, but you knew one thing: you'd face it together, no matter what.

Chapter Text

The cave’s mouth was a jagged scar in the mountainside that spat you and Andy into a world you no longer recognized. 

The air hit you first, thick with the acrid stench of smoke and something sharper, metallic, like blood or rust.

The sky was a bruise, smeared with reds and grays, the sun a faint, sickly glow behind a veil of ash. 

The trees that had once towered over the trail were gone, reduced to blackened stumps, their branches clawing at the air like skeletal hands. 

The ground crunched under your boots, a carpet of soot and shattered stone.

You stood frozen, your breath shallow, your heart a frantic drum in your chest. Andy was beside you, his hand gripping yours so tightly it hurt, his tall frame tense as he scanned the devastation. His face was pale, streaked with dirt, his blue eyes wide with a mix of horror and determination. The hiking jacket he wore was torn, his hair matted with dust from the cave, but he stood like a sentinel, shielding you from the nightmare before you.

“We need to move.” he said, his voice low but steady, cutting through the ringing in your ears. “Down the mountain, to the lodge. It’s our best shot for supplies.”

You nodded, unable to speak, your throat tight with fear. 

The lodge. It felt like a lifetime ago that you’d stayed there, laughing over breakfast, curling up by the fireplace with Andy’s arms around you. It had been your sanctuary, your escape. Now, it was a beacon of hope—or a grave. You didn’t know which, and the uncertainty clawed at your insides.

The descent was slow, treacherous. 

The trail you’d hiked just a week ago was unrecognizable, buried under debris and ash. You clung to Andy’s hand, your boots slipping on loose rocks, your eyes darting to every shadow, every flicker of movement. 

The world was too quiet, the only sounds were the crunch of your steps and the distant crackle of fires that still burned somewhere beyond the ridge. Every gust of wind carried ash, stinging your eyes, coating your lips with grit.

Your stomach ached, a hollow pain that had grown sharper since the last of your food ran out. The water bottle in your backpack was nearly empty, its weight a cruel reminder of how little you had left. 

Andy carried the other pack, his knife tucked into his belt, his eyes scanning the terrain like a predator’s. He’d been quiet since leaving the cave, his jaw tight, but his presence was a lifeline, a tether to sanity in a world gone mad.

The mountain sloped downward, the air growing heavier as you descended into the valley. 

The lodge wasn’t far, maybe a mile, but every step felt like a gamble. You didn’t know what you’d find—shelter, supplies, survivors, or something worse. The images from Fallout and Mad Max haunted you, Andy’s words from the cave echoing in your mind: A wasteland. People fighting over scraps. Survival turns them into animals.

“Do you think anyone’s left?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling with the weight of the question.

Andy’s grip on your hand tightened, but he didn’t look at you. “I don’t know.” he said, his tone clipped. “We’ll find out soon.”

The words were cold, but you understood. Hope was dangerous now, a luxury you couldn’t afford. You focused on putting one foot in front of the other, ignoring the burn in your legs, the fear that coiled tighter with every step.

The lodge came into view as you rounded a bend, its familiar shape a punch to the gut. The rustic wooden structure, once warm and inviting, was a ruin. 

The roof had collapsed in places, the walls charred and splintered. Windows gaped like empty eye sockets, their glass shattered across the ground. The surrounding cabins, where other guests had stayed, were in even worse shape, some reduced to piles of rubble, others still smoldering.

You stopped, your breath catching, your knees weak. “Oh God.” you whispered, your voice breaking. The lodge had been your haven, a place of love and laughter. Now, it was a corpse, gutted and lifeless.

Andy’s hand slipped from yours, and he took a step forward, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the wreckage. “Stay close.” he said, his voice low and urgent. “We need to check it out.”

You wanted to protest, to beg him to turn back, but you knew he was right. Supplies. You needed food, water, anything to keep you alive. You forced your legs to move, following him as he approached the lodge, his knife now in his hand, glinting faintly in the dim light.

The front door was gone, reduced to splinters. Andy stepped inside first, his movements cautious, his body angled to shield you. You followed, your heart pounding so hard it hurt, your eyes darting to every corner. 

The lobby was a chaos of overturned furniture, broken glass, and ash. The fireplace, where you’d sat with Andy just days ago, was choked with debris, its warmth a distant memory.

And then you saw them.

Bodies.

They were scattered across the floor, slumped against walls, sprawled over tables. The lodge staff, the other guests—people you’d smiled at, shared small talk with—were gone. Their skin was gray, their eyes vacant, their bodies twisted in unnatural angles. Some were burned, their flesh blackened and peeling. Others looked untouched, as if they’d simply dropped dead where they stood.

A scream clawed its way up your throat, but it came out as a choked sob. You stumbled back, your hands flying to your mouth, your vision blurring with tears. “No.” you gasped, shaking your head. “No, no, no…”

Andy spun around, his eyes wide with alarm. He grabbed your shoulders, pulling you against him, his arms a steel cage around you. “Shh, shh, it’s okay.” he said, his voice urgent, though it trembled at the edges. “Look at me, baby, look at me.”

You couldn’t. Your eyes were locked on the bodies, the horror searing itself into your mind. 

The woman at the front desk, her name tag still pinned to her charred uniform. 

The older couple who’d been celebrating their anniversary, now slumped together on a couch. 

The young man who’d offered you coffee, his face frozen in a scream.

“They’re all dead.” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Andy, they’re all dead.”

“I know.” he said, his hands cupping your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were fierce, but there was pain there, raw and unguarded. “I know, and I’m so sorry. But we can’t stay here. We have to go, okay? We have to keep moving."

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. “I can’t—I can’t do this. It’s too much. They’re gone, everyone’s gone—”

“Hey, hey, listen to me.” he said, his voice sharp now, cutting through your panic. His eyes locked you in place. “You can do this. You’re stronger than you know. We… you're my fucking wife, and I’m not losing you to this. We’re gonna get through this, but I need you with me. Please.”

His words were a lifeline, pulling you back from the edge. You clung to them, to him, your hands fisting in his jacket as you fought to breathe. His arms tightened around you, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“I’m here.” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You nodded, your sobs quieting, though the fear still churned in your gut. You didn’t know how to be strong, not now, not here. But for Andy, you’d try.

He held you until your breathing steadied, until the panic loosened its grip. When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched yours, checking, making sure you were still with him. 

“We need to search the place.” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “Food, water, anything we can use. Can you do that?”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah. I can.”

He gave you a small, tight smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s my girl.”

You moved through the lodge like ghosts, stepping carefully around the bodies, your stomach churning with every glance. 

The kitchen was your first stop, a large room behind the dining area. The refrigerators were warm, the power long gone, but you found canned goods in the pantry—beans, soup, fruit—enough to fill a backpack.

Andy pried open a locked cabinet, revealing bottles of water and a few sodas. You stuffed them into your packs, the weight a small comfort against the emptiness inside you.

The storage room yielded more: a first-aid kit, batteries, a flashlight, and a small propane stove. Andy found a crowbar, tucking it into his belt beside his knife. You grabbed blankets from the guest rooms, avoiding the beds where bodies lay, their faces haunting you. 

Every creak of the floorboards made you jump, every shadow a threat. The air was heavy with the stench of decay, and you breathed through your mouth, trying not to gag.

In the office, you found a map of the area, crumpled but intact. Andy spread it out on a desk, his finger tracing the roads leading out of the valley. 

“We can head south.” he said, his voice low. “There’s a town about twenty miles from here. Might be something left—supplies, people.”

“Or nothing.” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He looked at you, his expression unreadable. “Or nothing.” he agreed. “But we won’t know until we try.”

You nodded, folding the map and tucking it into your pack. 

The silence between you was heavy, filled with the ghosts of the dead. You wanted to say something, to tell him you were sorry, that you were scared, that you loved him. But the words wouldn’t come, locked behind the fear that choked you.

As you moved to the gift shop, scavenging for anything useful, you found a small radio, its batteries still good. You turned it on, twisting the dial, but there was only static, a white noise that felt like the world’s last breath. Andy watched you, his face grim, but he didn’t tell you to stop. You kept trying, desperate for a voice, a sign that you weren’t alone. Nothing.

“We’ll try again later.” he said, his hand on your shoulder. “When we’re clear of the mountains.”

You nodded, setting the radio down, your hands shaking. The fear was a living thing now, a beast that gnawed at your insides. You wanted to scream, to run, to wake up from this nightmare. But there was no waking up. This was real, and you were still here, still fighting.

The final room was the basement, a cold, damp space that smelled of mold and death. 

You hesitated at the top of the stairs, your flashlight beam cutting through the dark. Andy went first, his crowbar raised, his body tense. You followed, your heart in your throat, every step a battle against the urge to flee.

The basement was a storage area, crates and boxes stacked against the walls. But there were bodies here too, their faces hidden in the shadows. 

You stayed close to Andy, your flashlight trembling as you searched. 

You found more canned food, a case of bottled water, and a box of matches. Andy pried open a crate, revealing a stash of emergency supplies—flares, a lantern, a small generator. It was a treasure trove, but it felt like blood money, paid for with the lives upstairs.

As you packed the supplies, your flashlight caught something in the corner—a child’s shoe, small and scuffed, lying alone on the floor. And not far away, the body of a little boy.

Your breath hitched, a sob tearing free before you could stop it. You dropped to your knees, the flashlight clattering beside you, your hands covering your face as the grief crashed over you.

Andy was there in an instant, kneeling beside you, his arms pulling you against him. “I’ve got you.” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ve got you.”

“They’re all gone.” you sobbed, your voice muffled against his chest. “Kids, families, everyone. What kind of world does this?”

“I don’t know.” he said, his voice raw. “But we’re still here. We’re still fighting. And I’m not letting you go.”

You clung to him, your tears soaking his jacket, your body shaking with the weight of it all. He held you, his own breaths uneven, his hands trembling as they stroked your hair. 

You didn’t know how long you stayed there, wrapped in each other, the basement a tomb around you. But slowly, the sobs eased, the panic loosening its grip, and you felt his strength seeping into you, holding you together.

“We need to go.” he said finally, his voice gentle but firm. “Before it gets dark.”

You nodded, wiping your face, your heart still raw but steadier. You helped him pack the last of the supplies, your movements mechanical, your mind numb. The basement felt smaller now, the walls closing in, and you were glad to leave it, to climb the stairs back to the ruined lobby.

Outside, the sky was darker, the air colder. You stood together, your packs heavy with supplies, the lodge a silent grave behind you. Andy took your hand, his fingers warm against your cold skin, and you looked at him, his face etched with determination, his eyes fierce with love.

“Ready?” he asked.

You weren’t. You’d never be ready for this world, this nightmare. But you had him, and that was enough.

“Ready.” you said, your voice steady despite the fear.

He squeezed your hand, and you started walking, leaving the lodge behind, its ghosts watching as you disappeared into the ash.

Chapter Text

The weight of the pack on your back was a constant ache, its straps digging into your shoulders as you trudged through the ash-covered valley.

Each step stirred up clouds of gray dust, the remnants of a world burned to cinders.

Andy walked beside you, his own pack slung over his shoulders, his long strides steady despite the burden.

Behind you, two large duffel bags scraped along the ground, their contents—canned food, water, blankets, tools—clinking softly with every drag. The crowbar and knife at his belt glinted faintly in the dim, red-tinged light, a reminder of the dangers that lurked in this new reality.

The journey from the lodge had been grueling, a two-day trek through a landscape that felt like the surface of another planet. The mountains had given way to rolling hills, then to flat, open terrain where the skeletal remains of trees and buildings dotted the horizon. The air was heavy with the stench of smoke and decay, and the silence was oppressive, broken only by the crunch of your boots and the occasional distant crack of something collapsing under the weight of its own ruin.

You hadn't spoken much, saving your energy for the march. Andy's hand brushed yours occasionally, a silent check-in, and you'd squeeze his fingers in return, grounding yourself in his presence. His face was set, his jaw tight, but his blue eyes burned with a fierce determination that kept you moving, even when your legs screamed and your stomach twisted with hunger.

The map from the lodge guided you south, toward a town Andy had marked as your next destination. But as the day wore on, the terrain shifted, and you stumbled upon something unexpected: a neighborhood, tucked into a shallow valley, its houses clustered together like a forgotten memory of normalcy.

The sight stopped you both in your tracks, your breath catching as you took it in.

The neighborhood was eerily intact, at least compared to the devastation you'd seen. The houses, mostly two-story homes with wide lawns, stood in neat rows, their windows dark but unbroken, their walls scorched but standing. Cars sat in driveways, some overturned, others coated in ash. The streets were empty, the silence so thick it felt like a physical weight. No bodies, no signs of life—just an abandoned shell of what had once been a community.

Andy dropped the duffel he was dragging, his eyes scanning the houses. "This... this could work." he said, his voice low, almost reverent.

"Better than the town. Less exposure, more cover."

You set your own duffel down, your shoulders screaming with relief. "You think it's safe?" you asked, your voice hoarse from disuse.

He turned to you, his expression cautious but hopeful. "Nothing's safe anymore. But this? It's as close as we're gonna get. We need a base, somewhere to regroup, to plan. This place... it's got potential."

You nodded, your heart lifting slightly despite the fear that still gnawed at you.

Potential.

It was a small word, but it carried weight. For the first time since the bombs fell, you felt a flicker of something like hope.

You moved through the neighborhood slowly, your steps cautious, your eyes darting to every shadow. Andy led the way, his crowbar in hand, his body angled to protect you.

The first few houses you checked were empty, their interiors a mix of chaos and eerie normalcy. Overturned furniture, shattered dishes, and open drawers told the story of panic, but there were no bodies, no signs of violence. It was as if the residents had simply vanished, leaving their lives behind.

One house, at the end of a cul-de-sac, stood out. It was larger than the others, a two-story colonial with a wraparound porch and a sturdy driveway.

The windows were boarded up, the paint peeling but intact. A tall oak tree stood in the front yard, its branches charred but standing, a silent sentinel. The garage door was ajar, revealing a cluttered space filled with tools and boxes—potential supplies.

Andy pushed the front door open, the hinges creaking, and stepped inside, gesturing for you to follow. The air inside was stale, thick with dust, but the house felt solid, its walls unyielding.

The living room was spacious, with a stone fireplace and large windows that let in slivers of the dim, reddish light. The kitchen was well-stocked, its pantry lined with canned goods and dry foods—pasta, rice, beans.

Upstairs, the bedrooms held clothes, blankets, and a few personal items: a child's stuffed animal, a framed photo of a smiling family. You looked away, your throat tight, and focused on the task at hand.

"This is it." Andy said, his voice firm as he joined you in the kitchen. "This is home base."

You turned to him, your heart pounding. "Home base?" you echoed, the words feeling foreign, almost absurd. But as you looked at him, his face set with determination, you felt it too—the possibility of a new start, however fragile.

You spent the rest of the day unloading your supplies, dragging the duffels into the living room and sorting through the haul from the lodge. The canned food and water went into the pantry, the blankets and first-aid kit into a bedroom you designated as storage.

Andy checked the garage, returning with a toolbox, a sledgehammer, and a coil of rope. "We can use this." he said, his eyes bright with purpose. "We can start fortifying right away."

That night, you sat together in the living room, sharing a can of peaches, the sweet juice, a small miracle after days of hunger. The house was quiet, the only sound, the faint whistle of wind through the boarded windows.

You leaned against Andy, his arm around your shoulders, his warmth a shield against the cold.

"We can make this work," he said, his voice low, thoughtful. "This neighborhood—it's got everything we need. Houses to scavenge, materials to build. We fortify this cul-de-sac, set up walls, make it defensible. If survivors come through, people like us, we can offer them a place to stay. Other houses, shared resources. It could be... a community. We cant be the only ones left. We cant be."

You looked up at him, your heart swelling at the vision.

A community.

It was a dream, a fragile hope in a world of ash, but it was something to hold onto.

"You really think we can do that?" you asked, your voice soft.

He nodded, his jaw tight. "We have to. We can't just survive, babe. We've got to build something. For us, for anyone else out there. We start small—secure this house, raid the others, gather scrap. There's plenty here: wood, metal, bricks. We can barricade the street, set up lookout points. If raiders come, we'll be ready. If it's just regular people, we give them a chance to join us."

The words painted a picture, vivid and daunting. You imagined walls rising around the cul-de-sac, houses filled with faces, voices, life. It was a long shot, a gamble in a world that had already taken everything. But with Andy beside you, it didn't feel impossible.

"We'll need rules." you said, your mind racing. "A way to vet people, to make sure they're not dangerous."

"Exactly." he said, his eyes gleaming. "We take it slow, stay cautious. Trust is earned, not given. But we can do this. Together."

Together.

The word was a vow, a promise forged in the fire of the past weeks.

You reached for his hand, your fingers lacing with his, and squeezed. "Let's do it." you said, your voice steady despite the fear. "Let's make this place home."

The next morning, you began the work. The neighborhood was a treasure trove, each house yielding supplies to bolster your new base.

You and Andy moved methodically, house by house, your packs filling with canned food, bottled water, batteries, tools, and clothing. One house had a generator in the garage, its tank half-full of gas. Another had a stash of medical supplies—bandages, antiseptic, painkillers. A third had a small arsenal: a hunting rifle with a box of ammunition, a baseball bat, and a machete. Andy took the rifle, slinging it over his shoulder, his face grim but resolute.

"Never thought I'd be this guy." he said, catching your eye as he adjusted the rifle's strap. "But I'll do whatever it takes to keep us safe."

You nodded, your heart aching at the weight he carried. "You're still you." you said softly. "You're just... adapting."

He gave you a small smile, the kind that made your chest tighten, and you kept moving, dragging your finds back to the house. The cul-de-sac became your focus, its circular layout a natural defense.

You scouted the perimeter, noting the materials scattered across the neighborhood: wooden planks from a collapsed shed, sheets of corrugated metal from a garage, bricks from a crumbled chimney. You could push as many cars as you could to fortify some spots.

Andy sketched a rough plan in the dirt, mapping out where walls could rise, where lookout posts could stand.

"We start with the basics." he said, pointing to the sketch. "We block the entrance the cul-de-sac—here. Use the metal and wood, pile up debris for extra weight. We can reinforce it later with bricks, maybe dig a trench if we find shovels. The houses on the outer edge become our watchtowers. We board up the lower windows, keep the upper ones clear for visibility."

You nodded, the plan taking shape in your mind.

It was daunting, the scale of it overwhelming, but it was a purpose, a reason to keep going.

"What about traps?" you asked. "Like in the games—ways to slow down anyone who tries to get in?"

His eyes lit up, a spark of the old Andy, the one who loved strategy and creativity. "Yeah, we could do that. Tripwires with cans to make noise, maybe sharpen some stakes for the ground. Nothing too complex yet, but enough to give us an edge."

You spent the day hauling materials, your muscles burning as you dragged planks and metal sheets to the cul-de-sac's entrances.

Andy wielded the sledgehammer, pounding stakes into the ground to anchor the first sections of the wall. You stacked bricks, your hands scraped and sore, but the work felt good, a defiance against the despair that lingered at the edges of your mind.

By evening, the first barrier was up—a rough wall of wood and metal blocking one entrance to the cul-de-sac. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start, a tangible sign of progress. You stood back, wiping sweat from your brow, and looked at Andy, his face flushed with effort, his hair sticking to his forehead.

"Not bad for day one." he said, his voice warm with pride.

"Not bad at all." you said, a small smile tugging at your lips.

That night, you sat on the porch of your new home, sharing a can of soup warmed on the propane stove. The air was cool, the sky a deep, unnatural red, but the house felt safer, its walls a promise of protection. Andy's arm was around you, his body a steady warmth against the chill.

"This place," he said, his voice soft, "it's more than just a hideout. It's a chance to start over. To make something good, even now."

You leaned into him, your heart full despite the ache of loss. "A home." you said, the word a beacon in the dark. "A place for us, and for anyone else who's still out there."

He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering. "We'll make it happen." he said. "For us."

The neighborhood stretched out before you, its houses silent but full of potential. You imagined them alive again, filled with voices, with hope. It was a long road, fraught with danger, but you had Andy, and you had this place—a fragile haven in a world of ash.

You didn't know what tomorrow would bring, but for now, you had a plan, a purpose, and each other.

Chapter Text

3 Weeks Post Bombs

The morning was cold, the air sharp with the bite of ash and frost. The sky hung low, a heavy curtain of gray and red that seemed to press down on the abandoned neighborhood you and Andy had claimed as your own. 

Your breath puffed out in small clouds as you stood in the cul-de-sac, your pack slung over one shoulder, the weight of it a familiar ache. 

Andy was beside you, his tall frame bundled in a scavenged jacket, his black hair tucked under a beanie you’d found in one of the houses. His blue eyes scanned the street, sharp and focused, the crowbar in his hand a constant reminder of the world you now lived in.

The past few days had been a blur of labor, your bodies pushed to the brink as you fortified your new home base. 

The cul-de-sac was taking shape, its perimeter marked by makeshift walls of wood and metal, the houses on the outer edge boarded up and reinforced. 

You’d scavenged every house in the neighborhood, hauling back canned food, tools, clothing, and anything else that could keep you alive. The work was grueling, but it was a purpose, a defiance against the despair that lingered in the ashes of the world.

Today’s task was the gate—a main entry and exit point for the cul-de-sac that would serve as your stronghold’s lifeline. 

Andy had sketched the plan the night before, his fingers smudged with dirt as he traced lines in a notebook you’d found. 

“We need something sturdy but movable.” he’d said, his voice low and thoughtful. “Cars are our best bet. Heavy, hard to break through, but we can roll them into place.”

You’d nodded, the logic undeniable. The neighborhood was littered with abandoned vehicles—sedans, SUVs, a pickup truck—all coated in ash but intact. Moving them would be a challenge, but it was a step toward security, toward turning this cluster of houses into a true sanctuary.

You started at the western entrance to the cul-de-sac, where the street curved into the main road. Two cars, a silver minivan and a black sedan, sat in nearby driveways, their tires flat but their frames solid. 

Andy checked the minivan first, prying open the driver’s door and leaning inside. “Keys are gone.” he said, his voice muffled. “But it’s in neutral. We can push it.”

You joined him, your hands gripping the door frame as you braced yourself. The minivan was heavier than it looked, its wheels grinding against the pavement as you and Andy heaved. 

Your muscles burned, your breath coming in sharp gasps, but the vehicle inched forward, leaving tracks in the ash. Andy steered, his jaw tight, his eyes flicking to the horizon as if expecting trouble.

It took nearly an hour to maneuver the minivan into place, its nose pointed toward the cul-de-sac’s entrance, its rear bumper aligned with the makeshift wall you’d built. 

You collapsed against it, your chest heaving, your hands scraped and sore. Andy leaned beside you, wiping sweat from his brow, his breath visible in the cold air.

“One down.” he huffed, his voice strained but warm. “You okay?”

You nodded, managing a small smile. “Yeah. Just… not used to this kind of workout.”

He chuckled, the sound a rare spark of light in the gloom. “You’re doing great. We’ll get the sedan next, then figure out a way to lock them together.”

The sedan was easier, its lighter frame rolling smoothly once you got it moving. You pushed it into place beside the minivan, creating a barrier that spanned the entrance. 

Andy scavenged a chain from a garage, wrapping it through the cars’ bumpers and securing it with a padlock he’d found in a toolbox. It wasn’t impenetrable, but it was a start—a gate that could be opened for allies and closed against threats.

You stepped back, surveying your work. The cars formed a solid wall, their ash-covered surfaces blending into the gray landscape. The cul-de-sac felt smaller now, more defensible, a pocket of safety in a world gone mad. 

Andy’s hand found yours, his fingers warm despite the cold, and you squeezed back, grounding yourself in his touch.

“Not bad.” he said, his eyes scanning the gate. “We’ll need to reinforce it—maybe add some spikes, make it harder to climb. But it’s a good start.”

You nodded, your heart lifting slightly. “It’s starting to feel real. Like we’re actually building something.”

He turned to you, his expression soft but fierce. “We are. This is ours now. Our home, our future. Whatever comes, we’re ready.”

The words were a vow, a promise that carried you through the fear. You leaned into him, his arm slipping around your shoulders, and for a moment, you let yourself believe it—that this place could be more than a refuge, that it could be a new beginning.

The rest of the morning was spent scavenging, a routine you and Andy had perfected. 

You moved house by house, your packs filling with whatever you could carry. One house yielded a stash of batteries and a portable radio, its static-filled silence a disappointment but a potential lifeline. Another had a toolbox filled with nails, screws, and a hammer—perfect for fortifying the walls. You found clothes, too, heavy coats and boots that would keep you warm as the days grew colder.

As you approached the last house on the eastern edge of the cul-de-sac, you noticed something different. 

The backyard was larger than the others, its fence collapsed but its ground marked by rows of raised garden beds, now choked with ash and wilted plants. 

A shed stood at the far end, its door ajar, its roof sagging but intact. Curiosity pulled you toward it, Andy following close behind.

“Careful.” he said, his crowbar raised as he stepped in front of you. “Could be anything in there.”

You nodded, your heart pounding as he pushed the door open. The shed was small, its air thick with the musty scent of earth and wood. 

Your flashlight beam cut through the dark, revealing shelves lined with tools, pots, and bags. And then you saw it—a pile of gardening supplies, untouched by the chaos outside. Bags of soil, fertilizers, and, most importantly, endless containers of seed packets, their colorful labels a stark contrast to the gray world beyond.

You froze, your breath catching, your eyes stinging with sudden tears. “Andy…” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Look at this.”

He stepped beside you, his flashlight joining yours, illuminating the treasure. Seeds—carrots, tomatoes, beans, lettuce, corn, and more, each packet sealed and pristine. There were dozens, maybe hundreds, enough to plant a garden that could sustain you for years. The sight was overwhelming, a miracle in a world of ash.

“Oh my God.” you said, your voice breaking as you dropped to your knees, your hands reaching for the packets. You clutched one to your chest, a packet of sunflower seeds, its bright yellow label blurring through your tears. “We can grow food. We can actually grow something.”

Andy knelt beside you, his hand on your shoulder, his own eyes glistening. “This… this changes everything.” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “We’re not just surviving anymore. We can build a life here.”

The tears came then, hot and unstoppable, spilling down your cheeks as you clung to the packet. It wasn’t just the seeds—it was what they represented. Hope. A future. A chance to create something green and alive in a world of death. You thought of the garden beds outside, their soil buried under ash but still there, waiting to be reclaimed. You imagined rows of plants, their leaves reaching for the sun, their roots anchoring you to this place.

Andy pulled you into his arms, his embrace fierce and warm. “Hey, hey. Y/n, it’s okay.” he shushed, his lips brushing your hair. “This is good, babe. This is so good.”

“I know.” you sobbed, your face buried in his chest. “It’s just… I didn’t think we’d find something like this. Not after everything.”

He held you tighter, his hand stroking your back. “We’re gonna make it work.” he said, his voice steady despite the emotion in it. “We’ll clear the beds, plant these seeds, make this place ours. We’re not just hiding anymore. We’re fighting for something.”

You nodded, your sobs easing as his words sank in. He was right. The seeds were more than supplies—they were a promise, a reason to keep going. You pulled back, wiping your face, and looked at him, his eyes fierce with determination, his love for you a tangible force.

“Let’s get these back to the house.” you said, your voice steadier now. “We need to sort them, figure out what we can plant now and what to save.”

He smiled, a real smile, the kind that lit up his face and made your heart skip. “That’s my Coffee Girl.” he said, kissing your forehead.

You spent the next hour hauling the gardening supplies to your home base, your packs and duffels stuffed to bursting. The seed packets filled an entire box, their weight a comforting burden. The bags of soil and fertilizers were heavy, but you and Andy worked together, dragging them across the cul-de-sac, your muscles screaming but your spirits high.

Back at the house, you spread the seeds out on the living room floor, sorting them by type and season. 

Andy sat beside you, his notebook open as he jotted down a plan. “We’ll need to test the soil.” he said, his voice thoughtful. “See how bad the radiation is. If it’s safe, we can start with the hardier crops—carrots, beans, maybe potatoes. The greenhouse effect from the ash might actually help, trap some heat.”

You nodded, marveling at his knowledge. “Where’d you learn all this?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He shrugged, a hint of a grin. “Mom loves gardening. Picked up a few things. Plus, you know, post-apocalyptic video games. They’re surprisingly educational.”

You laughed, the sound startling in the quiet house. It felt good, like a release, a reminder that joy was still possible. “You’re ridiculous.” you said, nudging his shoulder.

“And you love it.” he shot back, his eyes sparkling.

You did. You loved him, loved this moment, loved the fragile hope blooming between you. The seeds were a lifeline, a bridge to a future you could almost see—a garden, a community, a life rebuilt from the ashes.

The rest of the day was spent planning. You and Andy walked the cul-de-sac, mapping out where the garden could go. The house with the garden beds was a natural choice, its backyard large and sheltered. You’d need to clear the ash, test the soil, and build a fence to protect the crops from scavengers—human or animal. Andy sketched ideas for irrigation, using scavenged pipes and barrels to collect rainwater, assuming it wasn’t too contaminated.

“We’ll need to fortify the garden, too.” he said, his voice serious. “Walls, maybe some barbed wire if we can find it. People will want what we have, and we can’t let them take it.”

The thought sent a chill through you, the specter of raiders looming large. 

You’d seen no one since the bombs fell, but Andy’s warnings about a Fallout or Mad Max world lingered. Survivors would come, and not all would be friendly. The cul-de-sac’s walls, its gate, its watchtowers—they were your defense, but the garden would be your heart, and you’d protect it with everything you had.

That night, you sat on the porch, sharing a can of soup, the propane stove casting a warm glow. The cul-de-sac was quiet, the houses dark but full of promise. Andy’s arm was around you, his body a steady warmth against the cold.

“This place,” he said, his voice soft, “it’s more than I dared to hope for. The seeds, the houses, the layout—it’s like it was waiting for us.”

You leaned into him, your heart full. “It’s ours.” you said, the word a vow. “Our home, our future. We’ll make it thrive.”

He kissed you, slow and deep, his lips tasting of soup and hope. “Together.” he murmured, his forehead against yours.

“Always.” you echoed, your hand finding his, your fingers lacing tight.

Chapter Text

One Month Post Bombs

The cul-de-sac had become your world, a fragile island of order in the sea of ruin.

A week had passed since you and Andy discovered the garden supplies, and you’d thrown yourselves into the work of building a future. The garden beds behind the house with the shed were cleared of ash, the soil tested with a scavenged kit that showed low enough radiation levels to plant.

You’d started with the hardiest seeds—carrots, beans, and potatoes—your hands trembling with hope as you pressed them into the earth.

The walls around the cul-de-sac grew stronger each day, reinforced with scavenged metal and wood, the gate of cars now spiked with sharpened stakes. The houses were stocked with supplies, their windows boarded, their upper floors serving as watchtowers.

But the silence was deafening. No survivors, no voices, no signs of life beyond the occasional bird or scuttling animal. The absence weighed on you, a constant reminder of the world’s end.

You and Andy filled the quiet with work, with plans, with each other, but the loneliness was a shadow that clung to your every step.

It was evening, the sky a deep, unnatural red, the air cool but heavy with the scent of smoke.

You knelt in the garden, your hands caked with dirt as you weeded the beds, checking the soil’s moisture with a makeshift gauge Andy had rigged from scavenged parts. The work was grounding, a rhythm that kept the fear at bay.

You hummed softly, a song from a life that felt like a dream, your voice barely audible over the rustle of dead leaves.

Andy was a few houses down, working on a pickup truck he’d found in a garage. He’d been obsessed with getting it running, his mind fixed on a nearby town he’d marked on the map.

“There’s gotta be a store there.” he’d said, his voice bright with purpose. “Hardware, food, maybe even weapons. We need to hit it before someone else does.”

You’d nodded, trusting his instincts, though the thought of leaving the base sent a shiver through you.

The truck’s engine had sputtered to life that morning, a triumphant roar that made Andy grin like a kid. Now, he was tinkering with it, his tools spread out on the driveway, his focus absolute.

You could hear the occasional clank of metal, a faint curse or hum, and it comforted you, knowing he was close.

You were alone in the garden, lost in the task, when it happened.

The attack came from nowhere, a blur of motion and violence. One moment, you were pulling a weed; the next, a weight slammed into you, knocking you to the ground.

The air rushed from your lungs, pain exploding in your chest as you hit the dirt.

A scream tore from your throat, raw and piercing, slicing through the evening’s stillness.

The man pinning you was a nightmare made flesh. His skin was a patchwork of radiation burns, red and raw, peeling in places to reveal glistening, infected wounds. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, devoid of reason, his mouth twisted in a snarl that showed cracked, yellowed teeth.

He clawed at you, his nails raking your arms, his weight crushing you as he growled, a sound more animal than human. The stench of decay and sickness rolled off him, choking you, and you thrashed, kicking, your hands scrabbling for anything to fight him off.

“Andy!” you screamed, your voice breaking with terror. “Andy!” His name is the only thing your brain could process.

The world narrowed to the man’s face, his hands, the pain of his grip. You were trapped, your body pinned, your mind screaming with panic. He wasn’t human, not anymore—just a rabid beast, driven by hunger or madness or both.

You clawed at his face, your nails drawing blood, but he didn’t flinch, his strength unnatural, fueled by whatever had twisted him into this.

~~~~~~

From a few houses down, Andy heard your scream. It hit him like a physical blow, his heart seizing, his blood turning to ice.

He was under the truck, tightening a bolt, when the sound reached him—raw, desperate, a sound he’d never heard from you before. His tools clattered to the ground, his body moving before his mind caught up. He grabbed his knife from his belt, sprinting toward the garden, his boots pounding the pavement, his breath ragged.

“Y/n!” he shouted, his voice hoarse with fear.

He rounded the corner of the house, his eyes locking onto the scene: you, pinned beneath a monstrous figure, thrashing, screaming. The man’s burned, ravaged face was a mask of rage, his hands tearing at you.

Andy’s vision tunneled, rage and terror surging through him. He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate—he launched himself at the man, tackling him off you with a force that sent them both crashing into the garden bed.

You scrambled back, gasping, your arms stinging where the man’s nails had dug in.

Andy was on top of him now, the knife flashing as he drove it into the man’s chest. The blade sank deep, blood spraying, but the man didn’t stop, his hands clawing at Andy’s face, his snarls guttural and feral. Andy stabbed again, then again, his face a mask of fury, his movements relentless.

The man’s struggles weakened, his body twitching, until finally, he went still, his blood pooling in the dirt.

Andy staggered back, his chest heaving, the knife dripping in his hand. His eyes were wild, his face pale, streaked with dirt and blood. He turned to you, dropping the knife as he rushed to your side, his hands shaking as he pulled you into his arms.

“Are you okay?” he demanded, his voice breaking. “Did he hurt you?”

You were trembling, your body wracked with sobs, your mind reeling. “I—I’m okay.” you stammered, though your arms burned, and your chest ached from the impact. “He just… he came out of nowhere, Andy, he was so fast—”

He held you tighter, his hands cupping your face, his eyes searching yours for any sign of injury. “I’m here.” he said, his voice fierce but trembling. His forehead pressed against yours, trying to help ground you. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

But you weren’t safe. The man’s face flashed in your mind, his burned skin, his empty eyes.

You pulled back, your breath hitching, your gaze darting to the body in the dirt. “What was he?” you whispered, your voice shaking. “He wasn’t… he wasn’t human. Not anymore.”

Andy followed your gaze, his jaw tightening. “Radiation.” he said, his voice low, grim. “It’s gotta be. The bombs, the fallout—it’s doing this to people. Turning them into… that.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. “But why not us? Why don’t we look like that? We were out there, we breathed the air, we—” Your voice cracked, panic rising again. “It doesn’t make sense, Andy. We should be sick, we should be… like him!”

He grabbed your shoulders, his grip firm but gentle, slid up your throat, large, rough calloused palms cupping either side of your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Hey, listen to me.” he said, his voice steady despite the fear in his own eyes. “I don’t know why we’re okay. Maybe we got lucky, maybe the cave shielded us, maybe the wind carried the worst of it away. But we’re here, and we’re not like him. We’re not.”

You shook your head, the panic clawing at your chest. “But what if we’re not okay? What if it’s just… slow? What if we turn into that?”

“You’re not.” he said, his voice fierce now, almost angry. “You’re not turning into anything. You’re you, and I’m me, and we’re gonna stay that way. We’ve got food, water, shelter—we’re doing everything right. We’re not sick, babe. We’re not.”

His words were a lifeline, but the fear was relentless, a beast of its own.

You clung to him, your face buried in his chest, your sobs shaking you both. He held you, his arms a steel cage, his breath warm against your hair.

“I’ve got you, Y/n. I've got you.” he whispered, over and over, until the words became a rhythm, a tether to reality.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there, kneeling in the dirt, the dead man’s body a grim reminder a few feet away. The garden was ruined, the beds trampled, the soil stained with blood. But Andy’s arms were steady, his voice a constant, and slowly, the panic began to ebb, leaving you hollow but alive.

“We need to move him.” Andy said finally, his voice gentle but firm. “We can’t leave him here.”

You nodded, wiping your face, your hands trembling. “Okay.”

He helped you up, his arm around your waist as you stood. Together, you dragged the body to the edge of the backyard, behind the shed, where it wouldn’t be seen. Andy covered it with a tarp, his movements quick but careful, his face set in a grim mask. He'd burst the body later.

Back at the house, Andy sat you on the couch, his hands gentle as he cleaned the scratches on your arms with antiseptic from the first-aid kit. The sting was sharp, but you barely flinched, your mind still reeling.

He worked in silence, his jaw tight, his eyes focused on the task. When he finished, he wrapped your arms in bandages, his touch lingering.

“I’m sorry.” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—”

“Stop.” you said, cutting him off, your voice hoarse but firm. “You saved me, Andy. You got there in time. This isn’t your fault.”

He looked at you, his eyes raw with guilt and fear. “I can’t lose you.” he said, his voice breaking. “I can’t. You’re everything.”

“You won’t.” you said, reaching for his hand, your fingers lacing with his. “I’m right here. We’re together.”

He nodded, pulling you into his arms again, his embrace fierce. You clung to him, your heart still pounding, the man’s face haunting you. But Andy’s warmth, his strength, was a shield, and you let it anchor you, let it pull you back from the edge.

That night, you didn’t sleep. You sat together in the living room, the lantern casting flickering shadows on the walls. The radio hissed static, its dial untouched since you’d last tried it.

Andy’s arm was around you, his body a steady presence, but his eyes were distant, his mind clearly racing.

“We need to be more careful.” he said finally, his voice low. “No more splitting up, not even for a second. And the garden… we need to fortify it. Walls, traps, something to keep things like that out.”

You nodded, your throat tight. “What about the town? You still want to go?”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “We have to. We need supplies—more weapons, tools, maybe medicine. That thing… it won’t be the last. We need to be ready.”

The thought of leaving the camp terrified you, but you knew he was right.

The man’s attack had shattered the illusion of safety, a brutal reminder that the world was no longer yours.

Survivors were out there, maybe some human, some not, and you had to be prepared for both.

“We go together.” you said, your voice firm. “No splitting up, like you said.”

He nodded, his hand squeezing yours. “Together.”

The silence settled again, heavy but shared. You leaned into him, your head on his shoulder, your heart still raw but steadier.

The man’s face lingered, his burns, his eyes, but so did the seeds you’d planted, the walls you’d built, the home you were creating.

You didn’t know why you and Andy were spared, why the radiation hadn’t touched you, but you were here, and you were fighting.

Chapter Text

Your new home felt smaller today, its walls and gate a thin shield against the vast, ruined world beyond.

The air was heavy with the scent of smoke and decay, a constant reminder of the horrors you'd faced. The garden, once a beacon of hope, was now a battleground, its soil stained with the blood of the rabid man who'd attacked you.

His face haunted you—those wild, bloodshot eyes, the radiation burns peeling from his flesh, the inhuman snarls that had torn from his throat.

You hadn't slept, your body still trembling from the memory, but Andy's presence beside you was a steady anchor, his strength a lifeline in the dark.

Andy stood at the edge of the garden, his boots sinking into the dirt, a shovel in his hands.

The body of the man lay under the tarp behind the shed, a grim task waiting to be finished. He'd insisted on burying it himself, his jaw tight with determination, but you'd refused to let him face it alone.

"We do this together." you'd said, your voice firm despite the fear clawing at your chest.

He'd nodded, his blue eyes soft with gratitude, and now you stood beside him, your own shovel gripped tightly, your heart pounding.

"We'll dig deep." Andy said, his voice low, steady. "Far enough that nothing digs him up. Then we cover it, make it look like nothing's here."

You nodded, swallowing against the dryness in your throat. "Okay."

He drove the shovel into the ground, the blade biting into the earth with a dull thud. You joined him, your muscles aching as you dug, the work a grim rhythm that kept your mind from spiraling.

The soil was loose, mixed with ash, and it gave way easily, piling up beside the hole. The tarp lay a few feet away, its edges fluttering in the faint wind, and you avoided looking at it, focusing instead on the task, on Andy's steady breaths, on the weight of the shovel in your hands.

The hole grew deeper, the earth cool and dark beneath the surface. Sweat beaded on your brow, your arms burning, but you didn't stop. Andy worked beside you, his movements precise, his face set in a mask of focus.

You could see the strain in his eyes, the weight of what he'd done—killing the man to save you, stabbing until the threat was gone. It was a burden he carried silently, but you knew him too well to miss it.

"You okay?" you asked, pausing to wipe your face, your voice soft.

He glanced at you, his expression softening for a moment. "Yeah." he said, though his voice was rough. "Just... want this done."

You nodded, understanding. The man wasn't just a body—he was a symbol of the world's new reality, a warning of what waited beyond the base. Burying him was a way to reclaim some control, to put the horror behind you, if only for a moment.

When the hole was deep enough—nearly five feet, by Andy's estimate—you both stepped back, your chests heaving.

He dragged the tarp over, careful not to expose the man's face, and together, you rolled the body into the grave. It landed with a dull thud, the sound making you flinch.

You stood there, staring into the hole, the tarp a crumpled shroud over the man's twisted form.

Andy picked up his shovel again, his movements mechanical as he began to cover the body. You joined him, the dirt falling in heavy clumps, each one a step toward closure.

The work was silent, the only sounds were the scrape of metal and the soft patter of earth. When the hole was filled, you smoothed the surface, scattering leaves and ash to hide the grave. It was invisible now, a secret buried in the backyard, but you knew you'd never forget it was there.

Andy leaned on his shovel, his breath ragged, his eyes distant. "It's done." he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reached for his hand, your fingers lacing with his, grounding yourself in his warmth. "It's done." you echoed, your voice trembling but resolute.

He turned to you, his eyes searching yours, and pulled you into his arms. You clung to him, your face buried in his chest, the scent of sweat and dirt mingling with the familiar comfort of him. His heart beat strong against your cheek, a reminder that you were both still here, still fighting.

"We need to get ready." he said finally, his voice gentle but firm. "The town. We can't wait any longer."

You nodded, pulling back, your heart heavy but determined. The attack had shattered the illusion of safety, a brutal reminder that the cul-de-sac, for all its walls and gates, was vulnerable. You needed supplies—more food, tools, weapons, medicine—to make this place a true stronghold.

The town, a twenty-mile drive south, was your best hope, and Andy's work on the pickup truck had given you a way to get there.

You spent the rest of the morning preparing, moving with a purpose that kept the fear at bay.

The pickup was parked in the driveway of your home base, its engine now reliable after Andy's hours of tinkering. It was a rugged, older model, its paint chipped but its frame solid, its bed large enough to carry whatever you could scavenge.

You and Andy scoured the neighborhood for bags—duffels, backpacks, even trash bags—anything that could hold supplies. You found them in closets, garages, and basements, piling them into the living room until the floor was covered.

"Anything we can carry, we take." Andy said, his voice steady as he sorted through the bags. "Food, water, tools, weapons, medicine—priority one. Anything else—clothes, batteries, rope—is a bonus."

You nodded, your hands busy folding a canvas tote. "What about gas? The truck's tank is half-full, but we'll need more for future trips."

He glanced up, his eyes thoughtful. "Good point. We'll look for cans in garages, maybe siphon some from other cars. If the town has a station, we'll check it, but I'm not counting on it."

The planning grounded you, a way to channel the fear into action. You packed the bags with essentials from your own supplies—water bottles, a first-aid kit, the hunting rifle, and Andy's knife and crowbar—to ensure you'd be ready for anything. The rifle went in the truck's cab, its weight a grim reassurance. You added a flashlight, matches, and a map, the town circled in red ink.

The houses yielded more than just bags. One garage had a sledgehammer and a box of nails, perfect for fortifying the walls. Another had a small propane tank, a twin to the one you'd been using for cooking. A basement closet held a stash of canned soup and vegetables, their labels faded but intact. You carried each find back to the truck, the bed filling with bags, the weight a promise of survival.

As you worked, the memory of the attack lingered, a shadow that tightened your chest. You kept glancing at the garden, half-expecting another figure to burst from the shadows.

Andy noticed, his hand brushing yours, his eyes soft but vigilant. "I'm right here." he said, his voice a quiet vow. "No one's getting near you again."

You nodded, forcing a small smile, but the fear was a living thing, coiled tight inside you.

Why hadn't you and Andy been affected by the radiation?

The question gnawed at you, its answer a mystery that felt both miraculous and ominous. The cave had shielded you from the initial blasts, but you'd been exposed since, breathing the ash-filled air, drinking water that could be tainted.

Yet your skin was clear, your bodies strong, your minds intact. It didn't make sense, and the uncertainty was a weight you carried with every step.

By afternoon, the truck was loaded, its bed packed with bags, its cab stocked with weapons and essentials. You stood beside it, your hands on your hips, your breath visible in the cold air.

The cul-de-sac stretched out around you, its houses silent but full of potential, its walls a testament to your determination.

The garden was a scar now, its beds trampled, but the seeds you'd planted were still there, waiting for you to return, to salvage the damage.

Andy joined you, his jacket zipped against the chill, his beanie pulled low. He carried the rifle slung over his shoulder, the crowbar tucked into his belt, his knife a constant at his side. His face was set, his eyes scanning the horizon, but he reached for your hand, his fingers warm and steady.

"You ready?" he asked, his voice low, searching.

You weren't. The thought of leaving the base, of facing the unknown, made your heart race. But you looked at him, at the man who'd saved you, who'd buried a monster to keep you safe, and you knew you could do this. With him, you could face anything.

"Ready." you said, your voice steady despite the fear.

He squeezed your hand, his lips curving into a small, fierce smile.

"There's my Coffee Girl."

You climbed into the truck, the cab cold and cramped, the rifle resting between you. Andy slid into the driver's seat, his hands steady on the wheel as he turned the key.

The engine roared to life, a deep, reassuring rumble that vibrated through the seat. He shifted into gear, and the truck rolled forward, crunching over the ash-covered pavement.

The gate was the first obstacle, its chain and padlock a barrier you'd built yourselves. Andy hopped out, his movements quick as he unlocked it, pushing the cars aside just enough for the truck to pass. You watched him, your heart in your throat, every shadow a potential threat.

He climbed back in, locking the gate behind you, and gave you a nod. "We're good."

The truck lurched forward, leaving the cul-de-sac behind.

The road was a mess, littered with debris—overturned cars, fallen trees, chunks of concrete. Andy navigated carefully, his eyes sharp, his hands steady on the wheel.

You gripped the door handle, your breath shallow, the world outside a blur of gray and black. The silence between you was heavy, filled with the weight of what you were leaving and what you might find.

The landscape was a graveyard, its landmarks unrecognizable. Houses stood in ruins, their roofs collapsed, their walls charred.

A gas station loomed on the horizon, its pumps toppled, its windows shattered. Andy slowed, his eyes scanning it, but shook his head. "Too exposed." he said. "We'll check on the way back if we need to."

You nodded, your throat tight. The road curved, climbing a small hill, and you saw it—the town, its silhouette faint against the red sky. It was closer than you'd expected, its buildings a mix of intact and ruined, their shapes jagged against the horizon.

A water tower stood at its edge, its paint peeling, its structure leaning slightly. The sight was both a promise and a threat, a beacon of supplies but a potential trap.

Andy's hand found yours, his fingers squeezing. "We've got this." he said, his voice low, fierce. "Together."

You squeezed back, your heart pounding, your eyes fixed on the town as it grew larger, its details sharpening with every mile. The whispered "Always." slipped past your lips.

The truck rumbled on, carrying you into the unknown, your home a memory behind you, your future a question ahead.

Chapter Text

The town loomed before you, a jagged silhouette against the hazy orange sky. Its streets were silent, lined with the husks of buildings that had once been alive with commerce and community.

The pickup truck rumbled to a stop at the edge of the main road, its engine idling as you and Andy surveyed the scene.

The air was thick with the stench of ash and decay, the ground carpeted with debris—shattered glass, twisted metal, and the occasional skeleton of a car.

The water tower you'd seen from a distance leaned precariously, its faded letters barely legible: Welcome to Hope Springs.

"Hope Springs." Andy muttered, his voice laced with irony. "Doesn't look like it has much hope left."

You nodded, your throat tight, your hands gripping the rifle that rested between you.

The town was a gamble, a treasure trove or a trap, and the weight of that uncertainty pressed against your chest. But you had no choice.

You needed supplies—more than you could scavenge from the neighborhood alone. Food, tools, weapons, medicine—everything depended on what you could find here.

Andy shifted the truck into gear, his eyes scanning the street. "Hardware store first." he said, his voice firm. "We need materials to fortify the cul-de-sac—wood, metal, anything we can use for walls and traps. Plus, they might have generators, lights, maybe even solar panels. We load up as much as we can, pile it outside for multiple trips."

You nodded, the plan grounding you. "Hardware store, then food and medicine if we have time."

"Exactly." he said, his hand brushing yours, a brief, reassuring touch. "We stick together, stay sharp. Anything moves, we deal with it."

The truck rolled forward, weaving through the debris-strewn street. You passed a diner, its neon sign shattered, its booths visible through broken windows. A pharmacy stood across the road, its sign hanging by a single bolt, its interior dark and foreboding. You marked it in your mind, a potential target for later, but the hardware store was the priority.

You'd seen its sign from the hill—a faded blue banner that read Hope Springs Home & Hardware—and now you spotted it at the end of the block, its large, boxy structure surprisingly intact.

Andy pulled into the parking lot, the truck's tires crunching over glass and gravel. The store's windows were cracked but unbroken, its double doors ajar, revealing a shadowed interior. The lot was empty except for a few abandoned cars, their doors open, their interiors coated in ash.

You exchanged a glance with Andy, his jaw tight, his eyes vigilant.

"Ready?" he asked, his hand on the rifle.

"As I'll ever be." you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

You climbed out of the truck, the rifle heavy in your hands, its weight a grim comfort. Andy grabbed his crowbar and knife, slinging a backpack over his shoulder.

The air was cold, the silence oppressive, broken only by the faint whistle of wind through the broken buildings. You moved together, your steps cautious, your eyes darting to every shadow.

The hardware store's doors creaked as Andy pushed them open, the sound echoing in the cavernous space.

Inside, the air was stale, thick with dust, but the shelves were a treasure trove, their contents largely untouched.

Aisles stretched out before you, filled with plywood, fencing, tools, and more. The fluorescent lights were dead, but sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting long, eerie shadows across the floor.

"Jackpot." Andy whispered, his voice tinged with relief. "Let's get to work."

You started at the front of the store, moving methodically, your packs filling with smaller items—screws, nails, duct tape, electrical wire.

Andy grabbed a cart, its wheels squeaking, and began piling it with plywood sheets and wooden posts, his muscles straining as he hefted the heavy materials.

You worked in silence, the only sounds the clatter of supplies and your own ragged breaths. Every creak or rustle made you jump, your finger hovering near the rifle's trigger, but the store was empty, its silence both a blessing and a curse.

This place so far had seemed like a ghost town, and you weren't sure if that was a good sign or not, so you kept your guard up.

The deeper you went, the more you found. An aisle of power tools yielded drills, saws, and a generator, its box dusty but unopened. Another had solar panels—small, portable units designed for camping. Perfect.

You grabbed spotlights, power cords, and a stack of batteries, your excitement tempered by the constant fear of discovery.

Andy's cart grew heavy, its contents a testament to your ambition, but you knew one trip wouldn't be enough.

"We'll pile everything outside." Andy said, his voice low as he dragged a bundle of fencing to the door. "Make it easier to load for multiple runs."

You nodded, helping him carry a stack of plywood to the parking lot. The pile grew quickly, a chaotic heap of wood, metal, and equipment that promised to transform the cul-de-sac into a fortress. Cart after cart, lined up side by side.

When night arrived, the two of you settled down in a supply closet for the night, zipping two sleeping bags together and sharing a can of baked beans for dinner. You slept there, and in the morning, you picked up where you left off.

You worked for hours, your muscles aching, your hands scraped and sore, but the tasks were a lifeline, a way to channel the fear into action.

By midday, you stumbled across an aisle that stopped you cold: a row of empty gas cans, their red and yellow plastic gleaming in the dim light. There were dozens, stacked neatly, a resource you hadn't dared hope for.

"Andy." you called, your voice trembling with excitement. "Look at this."

He joined you, his eyes widening. "Holy shit." he said, a rare grin breaking through his focus. "This is huge. We can siphon every car in the lot, maybe even hit the gas station if it's safe."

You nodded, your heart lifting. Gas was a currency now, a key to mobility, to power. "You'll have to show me how." you said, a touch of embarrassment in your voice. "I've never siphoned before."

He chuckled, the sound warm in the cold store. "Neither have I but it should be easy, just gross. Come on, let's grab these and hit the cars."

~~~~~~

You spent the next two hours siphoning gas, a task that was as tedious as it was vital.

Andy showed you the process, his hands steady as he inserted a hose into a car's tank, sucking gently to start the flow, then spitting out the bitter taste of fuel.

You grimaced but followed his lead, your throat burning as you filled can after can. The parking lot's cars were a goldmine, their tanks yielding enough to fill twenty cans, each one a promise of future trips, of generators humming, of survival.

While you worked on the gas, Andy returned to the store, hauling out more supplies—barbed wire, a welding kit, a stack of tarps. He moved with a relentless energy, his focus absolute, but you caught the worry in his eyes when he glanced at you, checking to make sure you were safe.

Every so often throughout the day, you'd see him poke his head outside or around the corner of your aisle, just to reassure himself that you were still alright. It was so endearing and it made your heart ache wonderfully.

By late afternoon, the store was nearly empty of anything valuable. You'd stripped it bare, taking everything from hammers to hinges, from paint to plumbing supplies.

The pile outside was massive, a testament to your determination, but it was only the beginning. You'd need days still to transport it all back to the cul-de-sac, to sort and store it, to turn it into the fortress you envisioned.

You stood together in the parking lot, your hands on your hips, your breath visible in the cold air. The pile loomed beside you, a chaotic monument to your efforts.

Andy's arm slipped around your shoulders, his warmth a comfort against the chill.

"Not bad for two day's worth of work. Thought it would take longer." he said, his voice tired but proud.

"Not bad at all." you said, leaning into him. "This... this could change everything."

He nodded, his jaw tight. "It will. We'll make the cul-de-sac untouchable. Walls, lights, traps—the works. No one's getting through unless we let them."

The vision was vivid—a stronghold, a community, a place where hope could grow again. The seeds you'd planted, the walls you'd built, the supplies you'd gathered—it was all coming together, piece by piece. But the fear was still there, a constant companion, whispering of raiders, of monsters like the man in the garden, of a world that wanted to take everything you had.

You pushed the thought aside, focusing on Andy's warmth, on the pile of supplies, on the plan for tomorrow.

"What's next?" you asked, your voice steady despite the ache in your body.

He glanced at the truck, its bed already half-full with the day's haul.

"We head back, unload this at the house to the right of ours—make it our storage hub. Tomorrow, we clear out its furniture, turn the rooms into warehouses. Then we take stock, write it all down in one of those notebooks we found. Every can, every nail, every wire."

You nodded, the plan grounding you. "And then we come back for the rest?"

"Exactly." he said, his eyes meeting yours, fierce with determination. "As many trips as it takes. We're not stopping until we've got everything we need. This is just the hardware store. Large stuff will stay outside, smaller stuff inside. And then, when That's all done, we head back for more. The grocery stores, the pharmacys, gas stations, anywhere that could have food. Bit by bit we clear out the town and fill up the houses around ours."

You squeezed his hand, your heart swelling with a mix of fear and hope. "Together." you said, the word a vow.

"Always." he echoed, his lips brushing your forehead.

~~~~~~

You spent the rest of the evening loading the truck, packing the bed with as much as it could carry—plywood, gas cans, solar panels, and a bundle of fencing. The rest stayed in the pile, a promise for tomorrow.

The store was a hollow shell now, its shelves bare, its aisles silent. You took one last look, your flashlight beam cutting through the dark, and felt a strange mix of triumph and loss. This was survival, but it was also a theft, a scavenging of a world that no longer belonged to anyone.

Back at the cul-de-sac, the gate creaked as Andy unlocked it, pushing the cars aside to let the truck through.

The familiar sight of your home base was a relief, its walls and houses a reminder of what you were fighting for.

You drove to the house to the right of yours, a sturdy two-story that you'd chosen for storage. Its windows were boarded, its interior empty of bodies but filled with the remnants of a life—furniture, photos, a child's toy left on the stairs.

You unloaded the truck in silence, carrying the supplies into the house's living room.

The plywood stacked neatly against one wall, the gas cans lined up by the door, the solar panels propped in a corner.

It was a start, a foundation for the fortress you'd build. You worked until the truck was empty, your muscles screaming, your body heavy with exhaustion.

Inside, you collapsed onto the couch, the only piece of furniture you hadn't yet moved. Andy sat beside you, his arm around your shoulders, his breath warm against your hair. The lantern cast a soft glow, illuminating the piles of supplies, the promise of tomorrow.

"We did good." he said, his voice low, tired. "Really good."

You nodded, leaning into him. "Yeah. It feels... real. Like we're actually doing this."

He kissed your temple, his lips lingering. "We are. Step by step. We're gonna make this place everything we need it to be."

The silence settled, heavy but shared. You thought of the garden, of the seeds waiting to grow, of the walls that would rise higher, of the community you dreamed of building. The attack, the man's twisted face, still haunted you, but so did the hope, the vision of a future you could fight for.

Tomorrow, you'd clear the house, turn it into a true storage hub. You'd take stock, write down every item, plan the next trip.

The town was out there, waiting with more supplies, more dangers, but you were ready. With Andy beside you, you could face anything.

You closed your eyes, his warmth a shield against the dark, and let yourself believe in the possibility of tomorrow.

Chapter Text

One Month, 4 Days Post Bombs

The morning sun was a faint smear behind the thinning veil of ash and cloud, casting the cul-de-sac in a muted, grayish light. The air was chilly but no longer biting, winter giving way to spring.

Yet the scent of smoke lingered, a constant reminder of the world's end.

Your fledgling fortress stood resolute, its walls of scavenged wood and metal a testament to your determination. The gate of cars, spiked and chained, guarded the entrance, while the houses around you held the promise of a future you were fighting to build.

You stood in the garden behind the house with the shed, your hands buried in the ash-covered soil, your breath visible in the chill.

The attack from days ago had left its mark—trampled beds, bloodstained dirt—but the seeds you'd planted were still there, buried beneath the surface, waiting for a chance to grow.

You'd come out here to salvage what you could, to clear the debris and protect the fragile hope of a harvest.

The task was daunting, the soil heavy with ash, but it was a way to keep your hands busy, to quiet the fear that still gnawed at you.

Andy was at the house to the right of yours, the one you'd designated as the storage hub. He'd been up since dawn, his energy relentless as he began the process of clearing it out.

The house was filled with furniture—couches, tables, beds, dressers—that needed to be removed to make room for the supplies you'd hauled from the hardware store. Some would be kept for scrap, others broken down for firewood, a necessity as the nights grew colder.

You glanced toward the storage house, hearing the faint thud of wood and the occasional curse as Andy wrestled with a heavy piece. The sound grounded you, a reminder that he was close, that you were in this together.

The memory of the rabid man's attack still haunted you—his burned, twisted face, his nails tearing at your skin—but Andy's presence was a shield, his strength a lifeline. You pushed the fear down, focusing on the soil, on the garden, on the future you were building.

The garden was a mess, the beds churned from the struggle, the soil mixed with ash and blood.

You knelt, your hands sifting through the dirt, searching for the seeds you'd planted. Some were gone, crushed or scattered, but others remained, small and resilient. You gathered them carefully, placing them in a scavenged tin, your heart aching with a mix of loss and hope.

The ash was the bigger problem, a heavy blanket that choked the soil, blocking air and water.

You grabbed a rake from the shed, its handle worn but sturdy, and began scraping the ash away, piling it in a corner of the yard.

The work was slow, your muscles aching from yesterday's haul, your hands scraped and sore. But it was meditative, a rhythm that calmed your racing thoughts. You imagined the garden reborn—rows of green, beans climbing stakes, carrots pushing through the earth. It was a dream, fragile but vivid, and you clung to it, letting it fuel you.

~~~~~~

Inside the storage house, Andy was a force of nature. He dragged a heavy oak dresser through the living room, its legs scraping the floor, his breath coming in sharp bursts.

The house was a maze of furniture, each piece a relic of a life that no longer existed—a floral couch, a dining table with mismatched chairs, a child's bed with a faded superhero comforter.

The sight tugged at him, a reminder of the world you'd lost, but he pushed the emotion aside, focusing on the task. Survival didn't leave room for sentiment.

He sorted as he worked, deciding what to keep and what to break down.

The couch was too bulky, its fabric worn; he hauled it to the backyard, marking it for firewood. The dining table was sturdy, its wood salvageable for scrap—maybe for reinforcing the walls or building shelves. He carried it to the garage, where he'd set up a pile for usable materials. The child's bed was harder, its small size a pang in his chest, but he dismantled it, stacking the frame with the scrap, the mattress tossed aside for burning.

The work was grueling, his muscles screaming, but it was necessary. The house needed to be a warehouse, not a home, its rooms cleared for the supplies that would keep you alive. He thought of you in the garden, your hands in the soil, your determination a mirror to his own.

~~~~~~

By midday, you'd cleared half the garden, the beds visible again, the soil dark and promising beneath the ash.

You paused, wiping sweat from your brow, and glanced at the storage house.

Andy emerged, carrying a broken chair to the firewood pile, his face streaked with dust, his eyes bright with purpose. He caught your gaze and gave you a small, tired smile, the kind that made your heart skip.

"How's it going?" he asked, setting the chair down.

"Slow." you said, leaning on the rake. "But I'm saving what I can. You?"

He wiped his hands on his jeans, his breath visible in the cold. "Getting there. House is half-empty. Most of it's junk, but there's some good wood for scrap."

You nodded, the shared progress a small victory. "Need a hand?"

He shook his head. "Stay on the garden. We'll need it. I've got this."

You trusted him, but the thought of being apart, even by a few yards, sent a shiver through you. The attack had left its mark, a fear that lingered in every shadow.

"Just... yell if you need me." you said, your voice softer.

He crossed the distance between you, his hand cupping your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. "Always." he said, his voice low, fierce. "You do the same."

You nodded, leaning into his touch, and he kissed your forehead, his lips warm against your skin. Then he was gone, back to the house, his steps purposeful. You turned back to the garden, your heart steadier, and kept working, the rake a steady rhythm in your hands.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of labor. You finished clearing the garden, saving what seeds you could, piling the ash in a corner for disposal.

Andy emptied the storage house, its rooms now bare except for the stacks of supplies you'd brought from the hardware store.

The firewood pile grew, a promise of warmth for the cold nights ahead, while the scrap pile—wood, metal, even a few springs from a mattress—held potential for walls, traps, or shelves.

That evening, you sat together on the porch of your home base, sharing a can of beans warmed on the propane stove. The cul-de-sac was quiet, its houses dark but full of purpose. The garden was a shadow in the backyard, its beds waiting for new seeds, new hope. The storage house stood ready, its empty rooms a canvas for your survival.

"Tomorrow," Andy said, his voice low, thoughtful, "we start the trips. Back and forth to the town until that pile's gone. We'll need to be fast, careful. No telling who's out there."

You nodded, the weight of the task settling over you. "We can do it." you said, your voice steady. "We've got the truck, the gas, the plan."

He smiled, a rare, genuine smile that lit up his face. "That's my Coffee Girl."

You really love that he called you that.

~~~~~~

The next few days were a marathon, a relentless cycle of driving, loading, and unloading.

You and Andy rose at dawn, the truck's engine roaring to life as you left the cul-de-sac behind.

The road to Hope Springs was familiar now, its debris-strewn path a challenge you navigated with growing confidence. The town remained silent, its streets empty, but you never let your guard down, the rifle always close, Andy's knife and crowbar at the ready.

The pile outside the hardware store was a mountain, a chaotic heap of plywood, fencing, solar panels, and more. You worked as a team, loading the truck's bed with as much as it could carry, tying down the heavier items with rope.

The plywood was the bulkiest, its sheets awkward to maneuver, but you managed, your muscles straining, your breaths sharp in the cold air. The fencing came next, its metal coils heavy but vital for the bases defenses.

The solar panels were delicate, handled with care, their promise of power a beacon of hope.

Each trip took hours, the drive slow to avoid debris, the loading and unloading a test of endurance. Back at the cul-de-sac, you carried the supplies to the storage house, stacking them neatly in the empty rooms.

The plywood filled the living room, the fencing lined the dining area, the solar panels and generators stood in the upstairs bedrooms. The gas cans, now numbering over thirty, were stored in the garage, their weight a reassurance against the uncertainty of the future.

You and Andy barely spoke during the work, your energy focused on the task, but your connection was a silent strength. A glance, a touch, a shared breath—these were your language now, a bond forged in the fire of survival.

The fear was still there, the memory of the attack a constant shadow, but so was the hope, the vision of a cul-de-sac transformed into a fortress, a community, a home.

By the third day, the pile outside the hardware store was gone, every last board, wire, and can hauled back to the cul-de-sac. The storage house was a warehouse now, its rooms packed with supplies, its walls a promise of security. You stood in the living room, surrounded by stacks of plywood and coils of wire, your hands on your hips, your body exhausted but triumphant.

"We did it." you said, your voice hoarse but proud.

Andy joined you, his arm slipping around your waist, his eyes scanning the room. "Yeah, we did." he said, his voice warm. "This... this is everything we need to make the cul-de-sac ours."

You leaned into him, your heart full despite the ache in your body. The supplies were more than materials—they were a future, a chance to build something lasting.

The garden, the walls, the solar panels—it was all coming together, piece by piece.

"We should take stock." you said, glancing at the notebook you'd left on a scavenged table. "Write it all down, make sure we know what we've got."

He nodded, his hand squeezing your side. "Tomorrow. Tonight, we rest. You've earned it."

You smiled, the exhaustion making the idea of rest almost euphoric. "Deal."

~~~~~~

That night, you sat together in your home base, the lantern casting a soft glow over the living room. The storage house stood next door, its rooms filled with the fruits of your labor, its presence a silent victory.

You shared a can of peaches, the sweet juice a rare treat, and talked about the future—not just survival, but what could come after.

Walls that would stand for years, a garden that could feed a community, a cul-de-sac that could be a beacon for others.

The fear was still there, the uncertainty of the world beyond, but so was the hope, the love that bound you to Andy, the determination that drove you both. 

Chapter Text

One Month, 8 Days Post Bombs

The night felt heavy, the air in the cul-de-sac thick with the chill of a world slowly gaining warmth.

The house you and Andy had claimed as your home base was quiet, its boarded windows shutting out the red-tinged sky, its walls a fragile barrier against the horrors beyond.

You lay on the Mattress that had become your bed, Andy's body a steady warmth beside you. His arm was draped over your waist, his breath slow and even, a rhythm that usually lulled you to sleep. But tonight, sleep was a trap, and your mind was a battlefield.

The nightmare came without warning, vivid and merciless.

You were back on the mountain, the trail beneath your feet, the pines towering above.

Andy's hand was in yours, his laughter echoing as he teased you about your pace.

The sky was blue, impossibly clear, a memory of a world that no longer existed. Then the rumble began, low and mechanical, and you saw them—planes streaking across the horizon, their engines a roar that shook the earth.

"Andy." you whispered, your voice tight with fear, but he was already pulling you forward, his eyes wide with panic. "Run!"

The flash came next, blinding, searing your vision white. The boom followed, louder than anything you'd ever heard, a force that rattled your bones and stole your breath.

You stumbled, your hand slipping from Andy's, and when you turned, he was too far behind, his silhouette swallowed by the light. The mushroom cloud rose, monstrous and glowing, its edges burning with an unnatural fire. You screamed his name, your voice lost in the chaos, but he didn't answer.

The blast wave roared toward you, a wall of fire and ash, and you ran, your legs burning, your heart breaking. The cave was ahead, its dark mouth a promise of safety, but Andy wasn't with you.

You looked back, desperate, and saw him, his figure small against the inferno, his arms reaching for you as the wave consumed him. His eyes met yours, blue and fierce, and then he was gone, erased in a heartbeat, leaving you alone in a world of ash.

You reached the cave, collapsing inside, your sobs echoing in the dark. The heat was unbearable, the ground shaking, but the pain in your chest was worse—a gaping wound where Andy had been.

You screamed, your hands clawing at the dirt, your mind refusing to accept it. He was gone. The man you loved, your anchor, your everything, was gone, and you were alone.

The nightmare shifted, the cave dissolving into a wasteland, the cul-de-sac a ruin. You wandered its streets, your body weak, your heart hollow, calling Andy's name to a sky that didn't answer. The garden was dead, its beds choked with ash, its seeds lost.

The walls you'd built crumbled, the houses empty, the silence absolute. You were alone, a ghost in a world that had taken everything.

~~~~~~

You woke with a gasp, your body jerking upright, your chest heaving as sobs tore from your throat. The room was dark, the lantern's glow faint, but Andy was there, his arms around you in an instant, pulling you against him. His warmth was real, his heartbeat strong, but the nightmare clung to you, its images vivid, its pain raw.

"Hey, hey, it's okay." he murmured, his voice thick with sleep but urgent, his hands stroking your hair. "It was a dream, Y/n. Just a dream. I'm right here."

You clung to him, your fingers digging into his shirt, your sobs shaking you both. "You were gone." you choked out, your voice broken. "The bombs... you didn't make it to the cave. I saw you... I saw you die."

His arms tightened, his breath hitching. "I'm here." he said, his voice fierce, almost desperate. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere. It wasn't real."

But it felt real, the terror and loss so vivid you could still see his silhouette against the fire, still hear the silence where his voice should have been.

You buried your face in his chest, your tears soaking his shirt, your body trembling with the aftershocks of the dream. "I can't lose you." you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I can't... you're all I have."

"You won't." he said, his hand cupping your face, tilting it so you met his eyes. In the dim light, his blue gaze was fierce, filled with a love that cut through the fear. "I'm not leaving you, ever. We made it through the bombs, through the attack, through everything. We're stronger than that."

You nodded, wanting to believe him, but the nightmare's grip was relentless, its images flashing in your mind. He pulled you closer, his body a shield, his lips pressing against your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, each kiss a vow.

"Breathe with me." he said, his voice soft but steady. "In and out. I've got you."

You followed his rhythm, your breaths shaky but slowing, his heartbeat a tether to reality. He held you, rocking you gently, his hands stroking your back, his voice a low murmur of comfort.

"You're safe." he whispered. "We're safe. We're home. Behind the walls—it's all here, and we're building it together."

The words were a lifeline, pulling you back from the edge. You clung to them, to him, your sobs easing into quiet tears, your body heavy with exhaustion. He didn't let go, his arms a steel cage, his warmth a balm against the cold fear.

You stayed like that for what felt like hours, wrapped in each other, the nightmare's shadow fading but never fully gone.

When your tears finally stopped, you pulled back, wiping your face, your eyes red and swollen. Andy's expression was raw, his own fear and pain visible in the lines of his face.

"I hate seeing you like this." he said, his voice low, almost a growl. "I'd do anything to take it away."

"You are." you said, your voice hoarse but sincere. "You're here, and that's enough."

He shook his head, his jaw tight. "It's not. We've been running ourselves into the ground, pushing too hard. The trips to the town, the walls, the garden—it's too much. We need a break, just a day or two, to breathe, to be us."

You frowned, the idea of stopping foreign, almost reckless. "But the supplies, the defenses—"

"Can wait." he said, his voice firm. "The town's been empty, no signs of life. It's remote enough that we're not likely to be found, not yet. We've got enough for now—food, gas, materials. One day, babe. One day to rest, to be together. We need it."

You hesitated, the weight of survival pressing against you, but his eyes were pleading, his love a tangible force.

He was right.

The past weeks had been a relentless grind, your bodies and minds stretched to the breaking point. The nightmare was proof of that, a crack in your armor that needed mending. You thought of the town, its silent streets, its untouched stores. It could wait. You and Andy couldn't.

"Okay." you said, your voice soft. "Okay."

He smiled, a small, relieved smile that warmed you. "Good. Tomorrow, we stay here. No work, no scavenging. Just us."

You nodded, leaning into him, your head resting against his chest. His heartbeat was steady, a reminder that he was real, that you were both still here.

The nightmare lingered, its images a ghost in your mind, but Andy's arms were a shield, his love a light in the dark.

You fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other, the lantern's glow fading as the night deepened.

Tomorrow, you'd rest, reclaiming a piece of yourselves, a moment of peace in a world of ash.

~~~~~~

The morning dawned cold, the sky a muted gray, but the cul-de-sac felt softer, its edges blurred by the promise of rest.

You woke slowly, Andy's arm still around you, his breath warm against your neck. He stirred as you did, his eyes blinking open, his face softened by sleep.

"Morning." he murmured, his voice rough but warm.

"Morning." you said, a small smile tugging at your lips.

The nightmare's shadow was still there, but it was fainter now, dulled by his presence.

He kissed your forehead, lingering, then pulled back to look at you. "No work today," he said, his tone firm but gentle. "We eat, we talk, we rest. That's it."

You nodded, the idea of a day without labor both strange and welcome.

"What do we do instead?"

He grinned, a spark of the old Andy, the one who'd teased you on tour buses and stolen kisses backstage. "We be us. Maybe we explore the house, find something fun. Or we just stay in bed, talk about stupid stuff like we used to. Whatever feels right."

The thought was a balm, a reminder of the life you'd had before the bombs, before the world became a wasteland. You wanted that, even if just for a day—a chance to be Andy and Y/N, not survivors, not scavengers, just two people in love.

You started the day slowly, sharing a can of fruit cocktail warmed on the propane stove. The sweet syrup was a luxury, a taste of normalcy that made you both smile. You sat on the couch, your legs tangled, the lantern casting a soft glow. The house was quiet, its boarded windows shutting out the world, its walls a cocoon for the two of you.

"Remember that time we got stuck in that diner in Nebraska?" Andy said, his voice light, his eyes crinkling with the memory. "The tour bus broke down, and we spent three hours eating pie and playing cards with the band?".

You laughed, the sound startling in the quiet. "Yeah, and you kept cheating at poker, and Jake threw a fork at you."

He chuckled, his arm slipping around you. "I wasn't cheating. I was just... creatively strategic."

"Uh-huh." you said, nudging his side. "You're lucky Jake didn't have a knife."

The memory was a spark, a piece of the past that warmed you. You talked for hours, trading stories of tours, of late-night drives, of the life you'd built together. Each story was a thread, weaving you closer, reminding you that you were more than survivors—you were partners, lovers, a team.

You explored the house later, poking through the closets and drawers, finding small treasures—a deck of cards, a worn novel, a photo album from the family who'd lived here.

You flipped through the album, your heart aching at the smiling faces, the birthday parties, the vacations. Andy's hand rested on your shoulder, his presence a quiet comfort.

"They had a good life." he said, his voice soft. "We'll make sure this place does, too."

You nodded, closing the album, your resolve strengthened. The cul-de-sac was your home now, its future yours to shape. The garden, the walls, the supplies—they were steps toward that future, but so was this day, this moment of connection.

The afternoon passed in a blur of quiet moments—reading passages from the novel to each other, playing a half-hearted game of cards, lying on the mattress and talking about dreams you hadn't dared voice since the bombs.

You imagined the cul-de-sac thriving, its houses filled with survivors, its garden green and abundant. Andy spoke of solar power, of traps and defenses, but also of music, of finding a guitar and playing for you again.

"I'd write you a song." he said, his voice low, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "Something about this place, about us."

You smiled, your heart full. "I'd love that."

As evening fell, you lit the lantern, its glow warm against the growing dark.

You shared another can of food—soup this time, its warmth a comfort in the cold house. The silence was softer now, filled with the ease of being together, of remembering who you were.

Andy pulled you close, his lips brushing yours, a slow, lingering kiss that spoke of love, of promises kept.

"Today was good," he said, his voice a whisper. "We needed this."

You nodded, your head resting against his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm. "Yeah. Thank you."

He kissed your hair, his arms tightening. "Always."

Chapter Text

One Month, 10 Days Post Bombs

You stood at the edge of the cul-de-sac, your boots crunching in the ash, your eyes scanning the horizon.

Andy was near the gate, his crowbar in hand, methodically dismantling one of the old walls. The wood was splintered, the nails rusted, but he worked with a steady focus, his breath visible in the chill. His black hair was tucked under a beanie, his jacket streaked with dirt, but his movements were precise, each swing of the crowbar a step toward something stronger.

You'd been helping him earlier, hauling the broken pieces to a pile for firewood, but the task was repetitive, and your mind was restless.

The nightmare from the night before lingered, its images of Andy's loss a shadow that clung to you. You needed air, space, a moment to clear your head.

"I'm gonna take a walk," you called to him, your voice carrying over the clatter of wood.

He paused, looking up, his blue eyes sharp with concern. "Not too far." he said, his tone firm but soft. "And take the rifle."

You nodded, slinging the hunting rifle over your shoulder, its weight a familiar reassurance. "Just around the perimeter. I'll stay close."

He gave you a small smile, the kind that warmed you despite the cold. "Be careful."

You set out, your steps cautious, your eyes scanning the ash-covered forest that bordered the camp. The trees were skeletal, their branches charred, but they stood in eerie silence, a testament to the world's resilience.

The ground was soft, a mix of ash and dirt, and your boots left faint prints as you moved. The walls faded behind you, their makeshift forms giving way to the open expanse of the forest.

You stayed within sight of them, your promise to Andy a tether, but the freedom of movement was a relief, a chance to breathe.

The forest was quiet, the only sounds were the crunch of your steps and the faint whistle of wind through the dead branches.

You moved slowly, your hand resting on the rifle's strap, your senses alert for any sign of danger. The memory of the rabid man's attack was a constant weight, his twisted face a ghost in your mind. But the forest was empty, its silence both comforting and unsettling.

You'd walked maybe a quarter-mile when you heard it—a soft, musical sound, out of place in the desolation. You froze, your heart pounding, your ears straining. It was faint but unmistakable: the trickle of water. You followed the sound, your steps quickening, your curiosity overriding your caution.

The trees parted, revealing a small stream, its waters cutting through the ash-covered ground like a ribbon of life.

You stopped, your breath catching, your eyes wide.

The stream was narrow, no more than a few feet across, but its waters were clear, sparkling in the dim light. It flowed steadily, its surface unmarred by the ash that coated everything else.

You knelt beside it, your hand hovering over the water, hesitant. It looked clean, almost impossibly so, but you knew better than to trust appearances in this world.

Radiation was invisible, a silent killer, and yet the stream's clarity was a siren's call, a promise of something you hadn't dared hope for.

You dipped your fingers in, the cold biting your skin, and brought them to your nose. No metallic scent, no chemical tang—just the clean, earthy smell of water.

You hesitated, then cupped your hands, scooping a small amount and letting it trickle over your fingers. It was cold, pure, a miracle in a world of ash.

Your heart raced, a mix of excitement and disbelief.

Water.

Clean water.

You and Andy had been rationing your bottled supply, cleaning yourselves with wet wipes used so sparingly. You knew you both were filthy.

The thought of bathing, of washing away the grime of weeks, was overwhelming.

You stood, your mind already racing back to Andy, your feet carrying you toward the cul-de-sac before you fully realized you were moving.

"Andy!" you called as you neared the gate, your voice sharp with urgency.

He was still at the wall, a 2x4 in hand, his head snapping up at the sound of your voice. His eyes widened, his body tensing, the crowbar ready.

"What's wrong?" he asked, crossing the distance in long strides, his gaze scanning you for injury.

"Nothing's wrong." you said, breathless, a smile breaking through your excitement. "I found a stream. Andy, it's clean—or it looks clean. It's not far, just through the trees."

His expression shifted, surprise replacing worry. "A stream? You sure it's clean?"

You shrug. "I don't know for sure. But didnt you find that testing kit?" you admitted, your hands gesturing animatedly. "The water looks clear. No ash, no smell. We need to test it, but... it could be huge."

He nodded, his mind already working, his eyes bright with possibility. "Okay. Show me."

You led him back to the stream, your steps quick, your heart pounding with anticipation.

He followed, the rifle slung over his shoulder, his crowbar tucked into his belt.

The forest was unchanged, its silence a stark contrast to the hope bubbling inside you.

When you reached the stream, Andy knelt beside it, his hands mirroring your earlier caution. He scooped water, sniffed it, let it run through his fingers, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"It looks good." he said finally, his voice cautious but hopeful. "We'll need to test it properly—boil it and test it. But if it's clean..." He trailed off, his eyes meeting yours, a shared understanding passing between you.

"It could change everything." you finished, your voice soft.

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. Let's get back. I want to finish this section of the wall, and then we'll check it out properly."

You returned home, your steps lighter, the stream a beacon in your mind.

Andy resumed his work on the wall, his focus renewed.

The old barriers were nearly gone now, their pieces sorted into piles for firewood or scrap. He'd started framing the new wall, using the 2x4s from the hardware store to build a sturdy skeleton.

The plan was ambitious—a wooden frame, like those used in house construction, with plywood panels for strength and fencing for defense. It would encircle the cul-de-sac, a true fortress to protect your home.

"There's enough wood for the whole perimeter." he said as you joined him, handing him a nail from the bucket at your feet. "Maybe even extra for a watchtower or traps. But we need stability first—deep posts, cemented in place. That's the next step."

You nodded, picturing the wall already. Strong and sturdy. "How deep for the posts?"

"Three feet, at least." he said, hammering a nail into place. "We'll dig holes, mix the cement we got from the store, set the posts. It'll take time, but it'll hold."

"Where did you learn all of this?" You ask incredulously. No way you would be able to think of these things without him.

Andy scratched at the back of his head. "I might have read a book or eight about apocalyptic survival."

Your jaw dropped. "When did you have time to do that without me knowing?"

Andy chuckled. "In the bus, while you slept. I'd read after you fell asleep."

You shake your head fondly before you both get back to work.

You helped him for a while, holding boards steady, passing tools, but your mind kept drifting to the water, to the possibility of cleanliness, of renewal.

Andy noticed, his eyes catching yours, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

"Go get the testing kit." he said, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow. "Let's figure out if that stream's as good as it looks."

You grin and run to get the kit from the storage house, a small box with chemical strips and a manual, and returned to the stream with Andy.

The testing was quick, the strips changing color to indicate low levels of contaminants—safe enough to boil and use. It wasn't perfect, but it was a miracle in a world where clean water was a myth.

"We can use it." Andy said, his voice warm with relief. "Boil it for drinking, but for washing... I think we're good. This must be a natural spring. One that's constantly filtering itself through the earth."

The thought of washing—of submerging yourself in water, of scrubbing away the grime of weeks—was intoxicating.

You looked at him, a shy smile breaking through. "Can we... now?"

He chuckled, the sound a spark of light in the gloom. "Yeah. Let's do it."

You gathered supplies from the house—a bar of soap, a towel, a change of clothes—and returned to the stream, your steps quick with anticipation.

The forest was still silent, the stream's trickle a soothing melody.

You and Andy stood at its edge, the cold air biting your skin, the water a shimmering promise before you.

He stripped first, his movements unhurried, his jacket and shirt falling to the ground.

His tattoos stood out against his pale skin, a map of stories from a life before the bombs.

You followed, your clothes joining his, the chill raising goosebumps on your arms.

The vulnerability was stark, but with Andy, it felt safe, a moment of trust in a world that offered none.

He stepped into the stream, the water lapping at his ankles, and extended a hand.

"My love." he said, his voice soft, his eyes warm.

You took his hand, the cold water a shock as you stepped in, but his grip was steady, grounding you.

The stream was shallow, barely reaching your knees, but it was enough.

You knelt together, the water swirling around you, its clarity a stark contrast to the ash that coated everything else. Andy scooped water in his hands, pouring it over your shoulders, the cold making you gasp but the sensation exhilarating.

You laughed, the sound startling in the quiet, and he grinned, his hands gentle as he worked the soap into a lather.

He washed your arms, your back, his touch intimate but tender, a silent vow of care. His rougher palms scraping your soft flesh and sending shivers down your spine.

You did the same for him, your fingers tracing the lines of his tattoos, the soap washing away the dirt and sweat of weeks.

The water was cold, but his warmth was a counterpoint, his presence a shield against the world's harshness.

For a moment, time stopped.

It was just you and Andy, kneeling in the stream, the water a baptism of sorts, cleansing not just your bodies but your spirits.

You looked at him, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes soft with love, and felt a surge of gratitude so fierce it brought tears to your eyes.

"I love you." you said, your voice barely a whisper, the words carrying the weight of everything you'd been through.

"And I love you." he said, his hand cupping your face, his thumb brushing away a tear. "Always."

He kissed you, slow and deep, the water swirling around you, the cold forgotten in the warmth of his lips. It wasn't about passion, not entirely—it was about connection, about reaffirming the bond that had carried you through the bombs, the attack, the endless work.

You clung to him, your arms around his neck, his around your waist, and for that moment, the world was just the two of you, a pocket of peace in a sea of ash.

~~~~~~

You stayed in the stream until the cold became too much, then climbed out, shivering but laughing, your bodies clean for the first time in weeks. You dried off with the towel, pulling on fresh clothes, the sensation of clean fabric against your skin a small luxury.

Andy's arm slipped around you, his warmth a comfort as you walked back to the cul-de-sac, the stream's promise lingering in your mind.

Back at the house, you sat together on the porch, sharing a can of soup, the lantern casting a warm glow. The cul-de-sac stretched out before you, its walls half-dismantled, its future bright with possibility.

The stream was a game-changer, a source of water that could sustain the garden, the community you dreamed of building. The walls would rise, the 2x4s and cement forming a fortress, but today, you'd found something just as vital: a moment of renewal, a chance to be whole again.

"Tomorrow," Andy said, his voice low, thoughtful, "we'll start digging for the posts. Get the cement mixed, set the frame. But tonight... tonight's for us."

You nodded, leaning into him, your heart full. "For us." you echoed, the words a vow.

The world around you was eerily silent. And if it wasn't for Andy, you have given up long ago.

Chapter Text

The cul-de-sac was a canvas of progress, its landscape transformed by the labor you and Andy poured into it.

The old, makeshift walls were gone, their splintered remains sorted into piles for firewood or scrap. In their place, a new foundation was taking shape—a series of sturdy posts, each cemented deep into the ground, their wooden surfaces raw but promising.

The 2x4s from the hardware store had been measured and cut, ready to form the frame of a true fortress, but the cement needed time to harden, a process that could take days.

You and Andy weren't willing to risk the stability of the walls by rushing it, so the cul-de-sac stood in a state of anticipation, its future solidifying with every passing hour.

You stood near the gate, your breath visible, your hands stuffed into the pockets of a scavenged jacket. The rifle was slung over your shoulder, its weight a constant reminder of the world's dangers.

Andy was beside you, his crowbar tucked into his belt, his knife at his side, his eyes scanning the horizon with a vigilance that never wavered.

The stream had been a godsend, its clear waters a lifeline for washing and, after boiling, drinking. But food was another matter.

Your supplies, bolstered by the initial scavenging from the lodge and neighborhood, were dwindling again.

The cans of soup, beans, and fruit you'd relied on were nearly gone, the protein bars a distant memory. The garden held promise, but its seeds were still buried, their growth weeks away at best. You needed food, and you needed it now.

"We hit the grocery store today." Andy said, his voice low but firm as he adjusted the backpack on his shoulders. "The hardware store gave us what we needed for the walls, but we're running low on food. The town's got a supermarket—saw it on the way in last time. We take every bag we've got, fill them with anything edible."

You nodded.

The town had been eerily empty during your last trips, its streets silent, its buildings untouched. But the memory of the rabid man's attack lingered, his burned, twisted face a warning that danger could strike without warning.

The grocery store was a gamble, but hunger was a relentless enemy, and you had no choice.

"Everything we can carry." you said, your voice steady despite the fear. "Canned goods, dry food, anything with a long shelf life."

"Exactly." he said, his hand brushing yours, a brief, grounding touch. "We stick together, move fast. In and out, no risks."

You grabbed the empty bags from the storage house—duffels, backpacks, even a few reusable totes you'd found in a neighbor's kitchen. They were light, their emptiness a stark contrast to the heavy loads you'd hauled from the hardware store.

The pickup truck waited in the driveway, its bed cleared, its tank full from the gas cans you'd filled.

You loaded the bags into the cab, the rifle resting between you, and climbed in, the engine roaring to life as Andy turned the key.

The gate creaked as he unlocked it, pushing the cars aside to let the truck through. The cul-de-sac faded behind you, its posts and piles a promise you'd return to.

Andy's hands were steady on the wheel, his eyes sharp, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the weight of responsibility he carried for both of you.

The town came into view, its silhouette jagged against the gray sky. The water tower leaned at its edge, a silent sentinel, while the buildings—diner, pharmacy, hardware store—stood in ruins or eerie preservation.

The supermarket was on the far side of town, its sign a faded green that read Springs Market. You'd passed it before, noting its size, its potential, but the hardware store had taken priority. Now, it was your lifeline.

Andy pulled into the parking lot, the truck's tires crunching over glass and ash.

The supermarket's windows were cracked, some shattered, but the structure was intact, its double doors ajar. A few cars dotted the lot, their doors open, their interiors coated in dust.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint whistle of wind through the broken glass.

"Ready?" Andy asked, his hand on the rifle, his eyes meeting yours.

"Ready." you said, your voice firm, though your heart raced.

You climbed out, the bags slung over your shoulders, the rifle heavy in your hands.

Andy grabbed his crowbar, his backpack empty but ready.

You moved together, your steps cautious, your senses alert. The doors creaked as you pushed them open, the sound echoing in the cavernous space.

Inside, the air was stale, thick with the musty scent of neglect, but the shelves were a treasure trove, their contents a chaotic mix of salvageable and spoiled.

The store was large, its aisles stretching out like a maze. The produce section was a loss, its fruits and vegetables rotted to sludge, the smell sharp and sour. But the canned goods were a goldmine—rows of soups, beans, vegetables, and fruits, their labels dusty but intact.

You started there, moving quickly, your bags filling with the clink of metal. Andy worked beside you, his cart squeaking as he piled it with cases of canned goods, his movements efficient but vigilant.

"Prioritize high-calorie stuff." he said, tossing a can of chili into the cart. "Beans, soups, anything with protein. We'll grab dry goods next—rice, pasta, cereal."

You nodded, grabbing a stack of canned tuna, its weight a reassurance.

The bags grew heavy, but you kept going, driven by the knowledge that this haul could sustain you for weeks, maybe months. The aisles yielded more—boxes of macaroni, bags of rice, jars of peanut butter, even a few cans of condensed milk.

You found a shelf of spices, their small containers a luxury you hadn't expected, and tucked them into a tote, imagining the flavor they'd bring to your meals.

The store wasn't untouched. Some shelves were empty, their contents likely taken by survivors in the early days, but enough remained to make the trip worthwhile.

You moved to the dry goods, grabbing bags of flour and sugar, boxes of oatmeal, and a few packets of instant potatoes.

The beverage aisle had bottled water, soda, and even a few cans of energy drinks, their caffeine a potential boost for long days of work.

Andy found a small pharmacy section, its shelves sparse but holding treasures—bandages, antiseptic, painkillers, and a bottle of antibiotics.

"This is huge." he said, his voice low with excitement as he packed them into his backpack. "We'll need this if anyone gets hurt."

You nodded, the thought of injury a shadow that lingered, but the supplies were a shield, a way to fight back against the world's cruelty. You kept moving, your bags bulging, the cart overflowing.

The store was a labyrinth, its shadows deep, and every creak or rustle made you jump, your hand tightening on the rifle. But the aisles remained empty, the silence a double-edged sword.

At one point, the store was dubbed safe, and you and Andy wandered off in different directions.

You snuck over to the front, behind a register where they kept the Tobacco product.

You filled an entire duffel bag with every pack of cigarettes, every carton, every vape pen, everything that contained nicotine. This would probably make Andy cry.

By mid-afternoon, you'd stripped the store of everything valuable. The bags were packed, the cart piled high, and you'd started a pile near the doors, just as you'd done at the hardware store.

It was too much for one trip, but you'd come back, as many times as it took. You carried the first load to the truck, the bed filling quickly, the weight a promise of survival.

Andy wiped sweat from his brow, his eyes scanning the parking lot. "We'll take this back, unload, and come for the rest tomorrow." he said, his voice tired but satisfied. "This is more than I hoped for."

You nodded, your muscles aching, your heart lighter despite the fear. "It's enough to keep us going." you said, a small smile breaking through.

He looked at you, his expression softening. He stepped forward, pressing his forehead to yours and closing his eyes.

Yours slid shut as well and you both take a moment to just enjoy this feeling together.

~~~~~~

The drive back home was slow, the truck heavy with its load, the road a challenge of debris and ash.

You sat close to Andy, the rifle between you, your hand resting on his thigh, a silent connection.

The walls. came into view, its cemented posts a sign of progress, its houses a beacon of home.

You unloaded the supplies into the storage house, stacking them neatly beside the hardware haul, the rooms now a warehouse of hope.

That evening, you sat on the porch, sharing a can of chili, its spices a small victory. The cul-de-sac was quiet, its walls waiting for the cement to harden, its garden waiting for your care.

The grocery store haul was a lifeline, a buffer against hunger, but it was also a reminder of the work ahead—the walls, the garden, the home you dreamed of.

"We'll go back tomorrow." Andy said, his arm around you, his voice low. "Get the rest, then focus on the walls. The cement should be ready soon."

You nodded, leaning into him, the warmth of his body a comfort against the cold. "I can't believe we are actually doing this." you said, your voice soft but resolute. "Step by step. It's becoming a home."

He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering. "Together." he said, the word a vow.

Your eyes closed and a soft sigh passed your lips. "Always."

Chapter Text

One Month, 18 Days Post Bombs

A week had passed since the cement posts had hardened, and the cul-de-sac was no longer a fragile refuge but a sturdy fortress.

The wooden walls, framed with the 2x4s from the hardware store and clad in sturdy plywood, now encircled the neighborhood, their height and solidity a stark contrast to the makeshift barriers you and Andy had first erected.

The walls stood eight feet tall, their surfaces raw but unyielding, a testament to days of relentless labor.

Each post was anchored deep in the ground, the cement ensuring stability, while the frame was nailed and bolted with precision, Andy's hands steady despite the exhaustion that weighed on you both.

The mornings were getting warmer and warmer with each passing day, temps fluctuating, the air thick with the ever-present scent of ash, the sky a heavy gray that seemed to press down on the world.

You step out onto the porch.

Andy was near the gate, his crowbar in hand, a welding torch scavenged from a neighbor's garage resting at his feet.

He'd been up since dawn, his focus on the next phase of fortification: reinforcing the walls with metal.

Sheets of corrugated steel from the hardware store were stacked nearby, their edges sharp and gleaming, ready to be bolted to the wood for added strength.

Andy had also found a metal workstation in a garage days ago—a sturdy table with a vice and cutting tools—that he'd set up in the backyard of your home base. His plan was to craft pointed metal spikes to top the walls, a deterrent against climbers, human or otherwise.

You'd added your own idea the night before, as you sat together sharing a can of soup.

"What if we twist barbed wire around the spikes?" you'd said, your voice thoughtful. "It'd make it harder to grab, even if someone gets past the height."

Andy's eyes had lit up, a grin spreading across his face. "That's brilliant," he'd said, leaning over to kiss you, his lips warm against yours. "Spikes and barbed wire—it'll be like something out of a fortress in those games we used to play. No one's getting through that."

Now, as you watched him measure a sheet of metal, his beanie pulled low, his jacket streaked with dirt, you felt a surge of pride. The cul-de-sac was starting to look good—really good.

The walls were solid, the gate defensible, the garden beds cleared with new seeds planted.

The stream beyond the trees provided water, the storage house was packed with supplies, and the food you'd hauled from the grocery store ensured you wouldn't go hungry anytime soon.

It was a foundation, a chance to build not just a refuge but a home, a community, a future.

Andy glanced up, catching your gaze, and gave you a small, tired smile. "You just gonna stand there admiring the view, or you gonna help?" he teased, his voice warm despite the strain of the work.

You laughed, the sound a spark in the gloom. "I'm admiring your handiwork." you shot back, crossing the distance to join him. "But I've got my own job today. Inventory in the kids' room, rearranging the food storage. We need to know exactly what we've got."

He nodded, his expression softening. "Good call. That room's a mess—cans and boxes everywhere. Get it organized, and we'll start rationing properly. Maybe even plan for the garden, figure out what we need to trade for if we find others."

The thought of others—survivors, potential allies or threats—was a constant undercurrent, but today, it felt distant.

"Do you really think it could get to that point?" You asked tentatively.

He gazes at the ground for a moment before turning his gaze back up to yours, the vivid shade of his icy blue eyes drawing you in.

"We have to."

That was all you needed to hear.

You squeezed Andy's hand, a silent vow of partnership, and headed to the house, the rifle slung over your shoulder, its weight a familiar comfort.

The kids' room in your home base was a small space on the second floor, its walls painted a faded blue, its windows boarded but letting in slivers of gray light.

You'd chosen it for food storage because it was out of the way, its door lockable, its size manageable. But the room was chaotic, a jumble of cans, boxes, and bags from the grocery store and earlier scavenging. You'd been too busy to organize it properly, but now, with the walls up and the cement hardening, it was time to take stock.

You set the rifle against the wall, its barrel pointed down, and dragged a scavenged table to the center of the room.

A notebook and pen from the storage house sat on the table, ready to record every item.

You started with the cans, sorting them by type—soups, beans, vegetables, fruits, meats—and stacking them neatly along one wall. The labels were dusty, some faded, but each can was a promise of sustenance, a buffer against the hunger that had haunted you weeks ago.

The work was methodical, almost meditative, your hands moving with purpose as you counted and categorized. You tallied the cans in the notebook, your handwriting neat despite the ache in your fingers: 42 cans of soup, 28 cans of beans, 15 cans of tuna, 12 cans of fruit, and so on. The numbers were reassuring, a concrete measure of your survival.

You estimated the canned supplies alone could last three months, maybe four with careful rationing.

The dry goods came next—bags of rice, boxes of pasta, packets of oatmeal, and a few jars of peanut butter. You arranged them on the opposite wall, their weight a comfort, their potential meals a vision of stability.

The spices you'd found—salt, pepper, garlic powder, even a small jar of cinnamon—went on a scavenged shelf, their presence a reminder that survival could include flavor, could include joy.

As you worked, your mind drifted to Andy, to the walls, to the future you were building.

The cul-de-sac was transforming, its defenses growing stronger, its resources more secure. The barbed wire idea had been a small contribution, but it felt significant, a sign that you were part of this, not just following Andy's lead.

You imagined the walls topped with spikes and wire, a fortress that could withstand raiders, mutants, anything the wasteland threw at you. It was a dream, but it was taking shape, piece by piece.

~~~~~~

Outside, Andy was a whirlwind of activity. He'd moved the metal workstation to the front yard, its surface cluttered with tools and scraps. The corrugated steel sheets were heavy, but he wrestled them into place, bolting them to the wooden frame with a drill from the hardware store.

The sound of metal on wood echoed through the cul-de-sac, a rhythmic clank that spoke of progress.

He worked with a fierce focus, his muscles straining, his breath visible in the cold air, but his mind was on you, on the cul-de-sac, on the life you were carving out.

The spikes were his next task, a project that required precision. He used the workstation's cutting tools to shape scraps of metal into pointed stakes, each one sharp enough to deter climbers.

The process was slow, the metal resistant, but Andy was patient, his hands steady as he worked the torch, the sparks flying in the dim light.

He envisioned the spikes lining the top of the walls, their points wrapped in barbed wire, a barrier that screamed stay away. It was a vision born of necessity, of the rabid man's attack, of the fear that you could lose everything if you weren't prepared.

He would never let that happen.

~~~~~~

By midday, you'd finished the inventory, the kids' room now a model of organization.

The cans and boxes were neatly stacked, the shelves filled, the notebook filled with numbers and notes.

You estimated you had enough food for at least 6 months at current consumption, longer if you stretched it.

The thought was a weight lifted, a reassurance that you could focus on building, on dreaming, without the immediate threat of hunger.

You stepped outside, the cold air a shock after the stuffy room, and found Andy welding a metal sheet to the wall near the gate. The torch's flame cast a warm glow on his face, his eyes shielded by scavenged goggles, his movements precise.

You watched him for a moment, your heart swelling with love and pride. He was tireless, driven by a vision that matched your own, and together, you were making it real.

"Hey." you called, crossing the yard, the notebook in hand. "Food's sorted. 6 months, give or take. How's it going out here?"

He shut off the torch, lifting the goggles, his face streaked with sweat and soot. "Good." he said, his voice warm but tired. "Metal's going up faster than I thought. Spikes are next—got a dozen cut already. Your barbed wire idea's gonna make them deadly."

You smiled, the praise warming you. "This place is starting to look like a castle."

He chuckled, setting the torch down and pulling you into his arms. "A castle for my queen." he teased, his lips brushing your forehead. "Seriously, though, it's coming together. Walls, spikes, wire—we're gonna be untouchable."

You leaned into him, his warmth a shield against the cold. "And the food's secure." you said, holding up the notebook. "We've got time to keep building, to plan for the garden, maybe even for others."

His eyes softened, his hand cupping your face. "That's the dream." he said, his voice low, fierce. "A possibility for the start of a community, a home. We're getting there, babe."

God, you hoped so.

~~~~~~

The rest of the day passed in a blur of work.

You helped Andy with the metal sheets, holding them steady as he bolted them to the frame, the drill's whine a counterpoint to the clank of metal.

The walls grew stronger, their surfaces a mix of wood and steel, their height daunting.

Andy worked on the spikes, cutting and shaping, while you twisted barbed wire around the finished ones, your hands careful to avoid the sharp points.

The process was slow, but each spike was a victory, a step toward a cul-de-sac that could withstand anything.

That evening, you sat together on the porch, sharing a can of vegetable soup, the lantern casting a soft glow.

The cul-de-sac was quiet, its walls a dark silhouette against the gray sky, its houses filled with the promise of tomorrow.

"We're doing this." you said, your voice soft but resolute, your head resting on Andy's shoulder. "This place... it's becoming ours."

He kissed your hair, his arm tightening around you. "Yeah." he said, his voice warm with pride. "And it's only getting better. Spikes, wire, maybe even a watchtower next. We're not just surviving—we're building."

You nodded, your heart full. The cul-de-sac was a fortress, a home, a dream taking shape.

The fear was still there, the memory of the attack, the uncertainty of the world beyond, but so was the hope, the love that bound you to Andy, the determination that drove you both.

You had walls and a sense of security, you had food, you had each other, and in this world, that was enough.

Chapter Text

One Month, 25 Days Post Bombs

The cul-de-sac was a fortress in the making, its wooden walls now reinforced with sheets of corrugated metal, their surfaces gleaming dully in the dim, ash-streaked light.

The spikes Andy had crafted topped the walls, their pointed tips wrapped in barbed wire, a menacing deterrent against any who dared approach.

The gate, fortified with additional steel and a heavy chain, stood as a sentinel, its presence a promise of safety.

A week had passed since you'd organized the food storage in the kids' room, and the rhythm of survival had settled into a steady beat.

The walls were complete, their fortifications a testament to Andy's relentless drive and your shared vision.

The morning was warmer than it had been, the air had less of a chill, the sky a lighter shade of gray with hints of blue peeking through the clouds.

Andy had been keeping track of the days in a notebook, a habit he'd started to anchor himself in time. "I think it's April." he'd said the night before, his voice thoughtful as he ticked off another day. "Maybe mid-late April. Hard to tell, but the weather's shifting. Getting warmer."

The change was subtle but undeniable. The ground was less frozen, the air less heavy with frost.

You'd noticed it in the way the ash seemed to settle, in the faint green tinge on the few surviving trees beyond the cul-de-sac.

It was a sign, however small, that the world was still alive, still fighting to reclaim itself.

Which brought you to the now.

You were in the garden behind the house with the shed, your hands buried in the soil, your knees sinking into the earth.

The beds were neatly arranged, their surfaces cleared of ash and debris, the seeds you'd replanted carefully spaced.

You'd been checking them daily, a ritual of hope, searching for any sign of life.

The attack that had trampled the garden weeks ago was a distant scar, its memory softened by the work you'd put into rebuilding.

The stream's water, boiled and filtered, had kept the soil moist, and you'd been meticulous, tending the beds like a lifeline.

You were inspecting a row of bean seeds, your fingers brushing the dirt, when you saw it—a tiny green shoot, no bigger than a fingernail, pushing through the soil.

Your breath caught, your eyes widening as you leaned closer. It was real, vibrant, a speck of life in a world of ash.

You moved to the next bed, your heart racing, and found more—carrot shoots, their delicate fronds barely visible, and potato sprouts, their sturdy tips breaking the surface.

A squeal of joy burst from your lips, the sound high and unrestrained, echoing through the cul-de-sac.

"Andy!" you cried, your voice a mix of disbelief and elation. "Andy, come here!"

Across the cul-de-sac, Andy was at the metal workstation, shaping another spike with the welding torch, his goggles shielding his eyes.

The squeal hit him like a jolt, his heart lurching, his mind flashing to the rabid man's attack. All he heard was your cry, raw and urgent, and panic seized him. He dropped the torch, the spike clattering to the ground, and bolted toward the garden, his boots pounding the pavement, his crowbar snatched from his belt.

"Babe!" he shouted, his voice hoarse with fear as he rounded the corner of the house. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

You looked up, your face lit with a grin, your hands hovering over the shoots. "I'm fine!" you said, your voice trembling with excitement. "Look, Andy—the garden! It's growing!"

He skidded to a stop, his chest heaving, his eyes wide as he took in the sight of you kneeling in the dirt, unharmed, your joy radiant.

Relief flooded him, his fear giving way to a shaky laugh. "Jesus, you scared the hell out of me." he said, dropping to his knees beside you, the crowbar falling to the ground. "I thought... I thought something happened to you."

"I'm sorry." you said, your smile softening, your hand reaching for his. "I just... look at this. They're sprouting. The beans, the carrots, the potatoes—they're actually growing."

He followed your gaze, his eyes locking on the tiny green shoots, their delicate forms a miracle in the ash-covered earth. His breath caught, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Holy shit." he whispered, his voice thick with awe. "Holy fucking shit. You did it!"

"We did it." you corrected, squeezing his hand. "The stream, the soil, all of it. It's working."

He leaned closer, his fingers brushing the soil, careful not to disturb the shoots. "I can't grow anything to save my life, y/n, couldn't even keep a cactus alive. This was all you."

The sight was overwhelming, a spark of life in a world that had seemed dead. "It has to be April." he said, his voice thoughtful. "The weather's been warming up, just enough. It's like the earth's waking up."

You nodded, your heart swelling with hope. "It's a start." you said, your voice soft but resolute. "A real start."

He looked at you, his blue eyes bright with pride and love. "You're amazing." he said, his hand cupping your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. "This garden, this place—it's because of you."

You shook your head, your smile widening. "It's us, Andy. Together."

"Always." he whispered against your lips.

He kissed you, slow and deep, the taste of dirt and hope on his lips.

The garden stretched out around you, its shoots a promise, its soil a foundation.

For a moment, the cul-de-sac, the wasteland, the fear—it all faded, leaving just you and Andy, bound by love and a shared dream.

The rest of the morning was spent in the garden, your excitement fueling you both.

You checked every bed, counting the sprouts, noting which seeds had taken root.

The beans were the most prolific, their green tips dotting the soil, while the carrots and potatoes were slower, their growth tentative but steady.

You marked the beds with scavenged sticks, a system to track progress, and planned for the next planting—lettuce, tomatoes, maybe even sunflowers for morale.

Andy returned to the walls, his energy renewed by the garden's success.

The metal reinforcements were nearly complete, the steel sheets bolted securely to the wood, their surfaces unyielding.

The spikes were his focus now, their pointed forms stacking up beside the workstation. He'd cut dozens, each one shaped with care, and had started welding them to the top of the walls, their barbed wire wrapping a work in progress.

Home was starting to look like a true fortress, its defenses a match for the dangers you'd faced.

Andy's vision was clear—a wall that was both barrier and warning, its spikes and wire a message to raiders, mutants, or anyone who thought they could take what was yours.

"It's looking good." you said, stepping closer to admire a finished section, the spikes gleaming in the dim light, the barbed wire twisted tightly around them.

"It's getting there." Andy said, wiping sweat from his brow, his goggles pushed up. "A few more days, and the whole perimeter will be spiked. Then we can start on the watchtower—something high, with a clear view of the forest."

You nodded, the idea of a watchtower sparking new possibilities. "Maybe we could rig those spotlights from the hardware store." you said. "Make it so that the flash on if they sense movement outside the perimeter at night, make it harder for anyone to sneak up. We'd see the light and know to be on alert."

His eyes lit up, a grin spreading across his face. "That's my girl." he said, pulling you into a quick hug. "Brains and beauty."

You laughed, nudging his side. "Flattery will get you everywhere except out of welding duty."

He chuckled, the sound a rare spark of light, and you both returned to the work, your hands moving in sync, your connection a silent strength.

The afternoon was spent on separate tasks, a division of labor that maximized your progress.

Andy stayed with the walls, his torch sparking as he welded spikes, his focus absolute.

You returned to the house, your mind on the food storage in the kids' room. The inventory you'd taken was a start, but the room needed maintenance, its shelves checked for stability, its supplies rotated to ensure nothing went bad.

You worked methodically, pulling cans from the shelves, checking their dates, rearranging them to keep the oldest in front.

The notebook from your last inventory sat on the table, its pages filled with numbers and notes. You updated it, adding observations about the food's condition, estimating how long it would last with the garden now producing.

The sprouts were a game-changer, a sign that you could stretch your supplies further, maybe even trade with others if survivors appeared.

The room was organized, its shelves neat, its floor clear of clutter. You'd found a few more boxes of dry goods in the storage house—pasta, rice, instant potatoes—and added them to the shelves, their weight a reassurance.

The spices were a small joy, their jars lined up like treasures, and you imagined cooking with them, turning canned soup into something warm and comforting.

As you worked, your mind drifted to the garden, to the tiny green shoots that had sparked such joy. The warming weather was a blessing, a sign that spring was fighting through the ash.

You thought of Andy's notebook, his careful tally of days, and felt a surge of gratitude for his foresight. April meant growth, meant possibility, meant a chance to rebuild.

That evening, you and Andy sat on the porch, sharing a can of chili, its spices a nice reward to the end of a hard day at work.

"Look at this place." Andy said, his voice low, thoughtful, his arm around you. "Walls, spikes, wire, a garden growing. We're doing more than surviving, babe. We're building something real."

You leaned into him, your heart full. "It's ours." you said, the word a vow. "And it's only getting better. The garden, the walls, maybe even a community someday."

He kissed your hair, his lips lingering. "Someday." he said, his voice warm with hope. "For now, we've got this. And we've got each other."

Chapter Text

Two Months Post Bombs

You and Andy had settled into a rhythm, your days filled with work—tending the garden, fortifying the walls, planning for a watchtower that would give you eyes on the forest.

The cul-de-sac was your haven, a place where fear was tempered by purpose, where love was a light that burned brighter than the nightmares.

But the wasteland was never truly silent, and the illusion of safety was a fragile thing, shattered in a single, violent moment.

It was the dead of night, the cul-de-sac cloaked in darkness, the only sound the faint trickle of the stream beyond the trees.

You stirred on the mattress in your home base, Andy's arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against your neck.

The need to pee tugged you from sleep, an annoyance you couldn't ignore.

You slipped from his embrace, careful not to wake him, and pulled on a scavenged jacket, the cold air biting your skin.

You'd be quick, just a step outside to the makeshift latrine you'd dug near the garden.

The night was still, the sky a deep gray, the stars hidden by clouds. You moved quietly, your boots crunching softly in the ash, your eyes adjusting to the dark.

The latrine was a shallow pit behind the shed, screened by a tarp for privacy.

You reached it, your mind half-asleep, when a hand clamped over your mouth, rough and calloused, stifling your breath. An arm snaked around your waist, pinning your arms, and panic surged through you, sharp and electric.

You thrashed, a muffled cry escaping before the hand tightened, cutting off your air.

"Andy!" you screamed, the sound choked but piercing, slicing through the night.

The man holding you growled, his breath hot and sour against your ear, his grip like iron. You kicked, your heel connecting with his shin, but he didn't flinch, his strength unnatural, fueled by desperation or madness.

"Andy!" you tried again, your voice a desperate gasp, and then you heard it—the crash of the door in the house, Andy's shout, raw and feral, echoing across the cul-de-sac.

"Get the fuck off her!" he roared, his boots pounding the ground, his silhouette a dark blur in the moonlight.

But the man holding you wasn't alone.

Two more figures emerged from the shadows, their forms hulking, their faces marred by radiation burns—red, peeling skin, eyes wild but sharp, minds still clinging to cruel intent.

They were raiders, scavengers of the wasteland, their clothes tattered, their bodies scarred but strong. One held a rusty machete, its blade glinting, while the other gripped a length of pipe, its end stained with dried blood.

"Got ourselves a prize." the man with the machete sneered, his voice gravelly, his burns twisting his grin into a grotesque mask. "Her and the camp. All ours, once we deal with the pretty boy."

The man holding you laughed, his hand tightening over your mouth, his other arm crushing your ribs. "This place is a goldmine." he said, his voice low, menacing. "Food, water, walls. We're taking it, sweetheart."

You thrashed again, your heart pounding, your mind screaming with terror and rage.

Andy was coming, his shouts growing louder, but the raiders were ready, their eyes locked on the gate where he'd appear.

You bit the hand over your mouth, your teeth sinking into flesh, and the man cursed, his grip loosening just enough for you to twist free. You stumbled, falling to your knees, and screamed, "Andy, watch out!"

He burst around the corner, a force of nature, his knife in one hand, the crowbar in the other, his face a mask of feral rage. His blue eyes burned, his teeth bared, his body coiled like a predator.

The raiders turned, their weapons raised, but Andy was faster, his movements a blur of violence born of love and desperation.

The man with the pipe swung first, the metal whistling through the air, but Andy ducked, the crowbar arcing up to slam into the man's wrist. Bone cracked, the pipe clattering to the ground, and the raider howled, clutching his shattered arm.

Andy didn't stop, his knife flashing as he drove it into the man's side, blood spraying, the blade twisting with a sickening crunch.

The raider staggered, his eyes wide with shock, and Andy yanked the knife free, blood dripping from his hand as the man collapsed, his body twitching in the ash.

The machete-wielder charged, his blade aimed at Andy's neck, but Andy pivoted, the crowbar blocking the strike with a clang of metal on metal.

Sparks flew, and Andy roared, his knife slashing across the raider's chest, tearing through fabric and flesh. Blood poured, the raider's scream cut short as Andy's crowbar came down on his skull, the impact a wet, hollow thud. The man crumpled, his machete falling, his body a lifeless heap in the dirt.

The man who'd grabbed you was on his feet now, a pistol in his hand, its barrel shaking as he aimed at Andy.

"Back off!" he shouted, his voice cracking, his burns glistening with sweat. "I'll kill her, I swear!"

You scrambled back, your hands scraping the ground, your heart in your throat.

Andy froze, his eyes locked on the raider, his chest heaving, blood dripping from his knife and crowbar.

"Do it, and there's nothing stopping me from gutting you. You are currently holding the only thing that's keeping me from gutting you like a pig and bathing in your blood at gun point. " he said, his voice low, deadly, a growl that sent a shiver through you. "You shoot her, and I'll tear you apart."

The raider laughed, a nervous, jagged sound, his pistol wavering. "This camp's mine now." he said, his eyes darting to the walls, the houses. "You can't stop us, the rest will come for us. Drop the weapons, or she's dead."

Andy's gaze flicked to you, his eyes fierce with love, with a promise that said he'd die before he let them take you. He dropped the crowbar, the metal clanging against the ground, but his knife stayed in his hand, his grip tightening.

"Last chance." Andy said, his voice a blade. "Point that gun away or Ill make it terrible for you. You'll suffer."

The raider sneered, his finger tightening on the trigger, but you moved first, desperation fueling you.

You grabbed a rock from the ground, hurling it at his head. It struck his temple, a dull crack, and he staggered, the pistol firing wild, the bullet burying itself in the dirt.

Andy was on him in an instant, his knife plunging into the raider's chest, blood gushing as he drove it deeper, twisting with a feral snarl.

The raider gasped, his eyes wide, and Andy yanked the knife free only for the bladstto sink back in. Andy yanked upwards.

For a long moment, nothing happened, then Andy yanked the blade free and let the man collapse, his blood pooling in the ash.

Then, it was silent again, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and Andy's low, animalistic growls.

He stood over the bodies, his hands dripping blood, his chest heaving, his eyes wild but focused. He turned to you, dropping the knife, and rushed to your side, his hands shaking as he pulled you into his arms.

"Are you okay?" he demanded, his voice breaking, his hands cupping your face, searching for injuries. "Did they hurt you?"

You clung to him, your body trembling, your sobs choking you. "I'm okay." you gasped, your hands fisting in his jacket, the blood on his hands smearing your skin. "Holy shiy, Andy. Ive never seen you like that before. You just gutted a man to save me."

He held you tighter, his breath hitching, his face buried in your hair. "I thought I lost you." he whispered, his voice raw, his body shaking with the aftershocks of rage and fear. "I heard you scream, and I... I couldn't think. I just had to get to you. And then i saw his hands on you... I just snapped."

You nodded, your tears soaking his shirt, the terror still pulsing through you.

The raiders' faces flashed in your mind—their burns, their cruel eyes, their greed for what you'd built. They weren't like the rabid man, mindless and feral; these were men, their minds intact, their intent deliberate. They'd wanted you, the camp, everything, and they'd been willing to kill to take it.

"They're gone." Andy said, his voice steadying, his hands stroking your back. "But that man said more would come. We have to prepare. Watch from the towers more."

You pulled back, your eyes wide, your breath shaky. "Do you think the rest know where we are?" you whispered, your voice trembling.

He cupped your face, his eyes fierce, blood still streaking his skin. "If they do, then we fight." he said, his voice a vow. "We've got walls, spikes, wire. We've got food, water, and a garden. This is ours, and no one's taking it. We'll make it stronger, build the watchtower, set traps. Whatever comes, we face it together."

You nodded, his strength seeping into you, his love a shield against the fear.

The bodies lay around you, their blood soaking the ground, a grim reminder of the cost of survival.

You clung to him, your heart pounding, the silence heavy with the weight of what had happened.

"We need to move them." Andy said, his voice low, practical, pulling you back to the moment. "Bury them, like the last one. We can't leave them here."

You nodded, the task a necessity, though the thought made your stomach churn. "Okay." you said, your voice hoarse but resolute.

He helped you stand, his arm around your waist, his presence a steady anchor.

Together, you dragged the bodies through the gate of the cul-de-sac, beyond the walls, to a spot in the forest where the ground was soft.

Andy grabbed the shovel from the shed, his movements mechanical, his face set in a grim mask. You worked beside him, digging a shallow grave, the dirt piling up as the night deepened.

The burial was silent, the only sounds were the scrape of the shovel and your ragged breaths.

The raiders' faces were hidden in the dark, their burns and scars a shadow, but you couldn't shake the image of their eyes, their greed, their intent.

You buried them deep, covering the grave with ash and leaves, erasing their presence from your home.

Back at the house, Andy cleaned the blood from his hands, the water in the basin turning red as he scrubbed.

You washed too, your hands trembling, the cold water a shock against the warmth of your fear. He pulled you into his arms again, his embrace fierce, his lips pressing against your forehead.

"We're okay." he whispered, his voice a lifeline. "We're still here."

You nodded, your face buried in his chest, his heartbeat a rhythm that grounded you. The wasteland was never truly safe.

"We'll make it stronger." Andy said, his voice low, resolute. "We find out where they came in at. We set traps, we keep watch. No one gets in without us knowing."

You looked up at him, his face streaked with dirt, his eyes fierce with love and determination. "Together." you said, the word a vow.

"Always." he echoed, his lips brushing yours, a kiss that sealed the promise.

Chapter Text

The attack five nights ago had shattered the illusion of safety, the blood of the raiders still staining your memory, their greedy eyes a warning that the wasteland was alive with threats.

They had come in through the gate. It was the only option, the walls hadn't been breached. So Andy came up with the idea to build a type of walled and roofed gate.

He built walls on either side of the cars, far enough back to push the cars right up to each to get out. They came out to a final wall that now had something he had rigged up to act like big, heavy doors that would be kept locked.

The cul-de-sac was strong, but it wasn't enough—not yet. You and Andy needed more, and the town of Hope Springs was your only option.

The morning was cool, the sky a lighter gray than it had been, with faint streaks of blue breaking through the clouds.

Spring was asserting itself, the air less biting, the ground softer underfoot.

Andy's notebook marked the days as late April or early May, a guess based on the warming weather and his meticulous tally.

You stood by the pickup truck, its bed empty, its tank full from the gas cans you'd scavenged. The rifle was slung over your shoulder, its weight a grim comfort, while Andy checked his knife and crowbar, his movements precise, his eyes vigilant.

"We're going back to town." he said, his voice low but firm as he slammed the truck's tailgate shut. "We need more—food, weapons, anything to make this place untouchable. The raiders won't be the last, and I'm not taking chances."

You nodded, the memory of the attack tightening your chest. The raiders' burned faces and cruel intent haunted you, but so did Andy's ferocity, his knife and crowbar a blur of violence that had saved you.

The cul-de-sac was your home, your dream, and you'd fight to keep it. "We scour the town." you said, your voice steady despite the fear. "Every building, every street. Anything we can use."

"Exactly." he said, his hand brushing yours, a brief, grounding touch. "We stick together, move fast. Gas, food, weapons—priority order. If we find a gun shop, we hit the jackpot."

The idea of a gun shop sparked a flicker of hope, a promise of firepower to match the wasteland's dangers.

You loaded the truck with empty bags—duffels, backpacks, totes—ready to fill with whatever you could find.

The cul-de-sac's gate creaked as Andy unlocked it, pushing the cars aside to let the truck through and opening the heavy doors.

You climbed into the cab, the rifle between you, and the engine roared to life, carrying you away from the safety of home and into the unknown.

You watched the landscape pass, its skeletal trees and ruined buildings a stark reminder of the world's end.

The silence between you was heavy, filled with the unspoken fear of what you might find, but your hand rested on his thigh, a silent connection that steadied you both.

The town came into view, its jagged silhouette softened by the morning light.

The water tower leaned at its edge, the diner and pharmacy stood in ruins, and the hardware store and supermarket were empty shells, their contents already claimed.

You drove slowly, cruising the main street, your eyes scanning for buildings worth scavenging.

The town was eerily quiet, its streets empty, but the raiders' attack had taught you that silence was no guarantee of safety.

"Let's start with a gas stations" Andy said, his voice breaking the quiet. "Siphon what we can, grab snacks, drinks—anything to stretch the food supply."

You nodded, pointing to a small station on the corner, its sign reading Quick Stop. The pumps were intact, the convenience store's windows cracked but unbroken, its door ajar.

Andy pulled into the lot, the truck's tires crunching over glass and ash. A few cars were scattered around, their doors open, their interiors coated in dust.

"Rifle ready." he said, his hand on the crowbar, his eyes meeting yours. "We check the store first, then the cars."

You climbed out, the rifle heavy in your hands, your senses alert. The air was stale, the scent of gasoline faint but present.

You moved together, your steps cautious, the door creaking as Andy pushed it open.

Inside, the store was a mess—shelves tipped, wrappers littering the floor—but the snack aisle was a treasure trove. Bags of chips, candy bars, beef jerky, and even a few packs of gum were scattered but intact. You grabbed a duffel, sweeping everything into it, the crinkle of plastic a small victory.

"Did they have so little time when the bombs fell?" you said, holding up a bag of chocolate bars, a rare smile breaking through. "These places are basically untouched by looters. Where are all the bodies?"

Andy shrugged, his tension easing for a moment. "Save me one of those." he said, grabbing a tote and filling it with cans of soda, bottles of water, and a few jugs of juice.

The drinks were heavy, but they'd stretch your water supply, add variety to the boiled stream water you relied on.

The store's cooler was warm, its contents spoiled, but a back shelf held energy drinks and protein bars, their high calories a boon for the work you faced.

You packed every bag, the weight a reassurance, and carried the haul to the truck, the bed filled with the clink of cans and rustle of wrappers.

"Siphoning next." Andy said, grabbing the hose and empty gas cans from the truck. He showed you the process again, his hands steady as he inserted the hose into a car's tank, sucking gently to start the flow, then spitting out the bitter fuel.

You followed his lead, the taste sharp and chemical, but the cans filled quickly, their weight a promise of mobility.

The station's cars yielded ten gallons, a solid addition to your reserves, and you stacked the cans in the truck, their red and yellow plastic gleaming.

"One down." Andy said, wiping his mouth, his eyes scanning the street. "Let's keep moving, find another station, then look for something bigger."

You drove through the town, the truck weaving around debris, your eyes searching for targets.

The second gas station was smaller, its pumps toppled, but its store was untouched, its shelves stocked with more snacks—pretzels, nuts, candy, and a few bottles of sports drinks.

You raided it quickly, the bags bulging, the truck's bed growing heavy. The cars here were sparse, but you siphoned another five gallons, the task now routine, though the taste never got easier.

The town stretched out, its buildings a mix of ruins and eerie preservation.

You passed a library, its roof collapsed, and a bank, its vault door ajar but empty. A clothing store caught your eye, its mannequins toppled, but you marked it for later—food and weapons were the priority.

Andy drove slowly, his eyes sharp, his mind mapping the town's layout. "There's gotta be something else." he said, his voice low. "A sporting goods store, a pawn shop, something with guns."

You nodded, the idea of firepower a necessity after the raiders' attack. The cul-de-sac's walls were strong, but the rifle and Andy's knife weren't enough. You needed more, something to match the wasteland's violence. You turned a corner, the street narrowing, and then you saw it—a small, squat building with a faded sign: Springs Gun's & Ammo.

The windows were boarded, the door reinforced with a metal grate, but the structure was intact, its potential a beacon in the gray.

"Andy." you said, your voice sharp with excitement, your hand grabbing his arm. "Look."

He slowed the truck, his eyes widening as he took in the sign. "Holy shit." he whispered, a slow grin spreading across his face. "That's it. That's the goldmine."

You pulled into the lot, the truck's engine idling, the gun shop looming before you.

The building was unassuming, its brick walls scarred by ash, but its reinforced door and boarded windows spoke of security, of something worth protecting. The lot was empty, no cars, no signs of life, but the silence was heavy, the air thick with possibility and danger.

"We check it tomorrow." Andy said, his voice cautious but eager. "It's late, and we don't know what's inside. Could be locked, could be trapped, could be... anything."

You nodded, the weight of the unknown pressing against you. The gun shop was a promise, a chance to arm yourselves against raiders, mutants, whatever the wasteland threw at you.

But it was also a risk, a step into the dark after the blood and terror of the raid.

You looked at Andy, his face set, his eyes fierce with determination, and felt a surge of trust. Together, you'd face it, just as you'd faced everything else.

"Let's get this haul back." you said, your voice steady, your hand resting on the rifle. "Tomorrow, we come for the guns."

He squeezed your hand, his lips curving into a small, fierce smile. "Together." he said, the word a vow.

The truck's engine roared as Andy shifted into gear, pulling away from the gun shop, its silhouette fading into the gray.

The town stretched out around you, its streets silent, its buildings waiting.

The bags in the truck's bed clinked and rustled, the gas cans a heavy promise, the snacks and drinks a buffer against hunger.

The cul-de-sac waited, its walls and garden a home you'd fight for, its future a dream you'd build.

The gun shop was a new chapter, a challenge and a hope, and in a day or two, you'd face it together.

Chapter Text

Two Months, 6 Days Post Bombs

The morning after your trip to Hope Springs was cool, the sky a muted gray with faint streaks of blue, the air carrying a hint of spring's warmth.

You and Andy had returned late the previous evening, the pickup truck's bed heavy with bags of snacks, sodas, juices, and gas cans from the gas stations.

The gun shop, Springs Gun & Ammo, loomed in your mind, its boarded windows and reinforced door a promise of firepower you'd claim tomorrow.

But today was for recovery, for organizing the latest haul, for reclaiming a moment of peace in a world that offered none.

You stood in the living room of your home base, the scavenged couch pushed against one wall, the lantern casting a soft glow over the space.

The bags from the gas stations were piled in the center of the room, their contents spilling out—bags of chips, candy bars, beef jerky, cans of soda, bottles of water and juice.

The kids' room upstairs, your food storage hub, was already organized, but this haul needed sorting, its high-calorie snacks and drinks a boost to your dwindling supplies.

Andy was in the kitchen, checking the propane stove, his movements slow but purposeful, his face still carrying the tension of the raid, the scavenging, the endless fight.

"We'll take this up and sort it into the bunch." you said, your voice breaking the quiet as you unzipped a duffel, pulling out a bag of pretzels. "Sort it, add it to the inventory. The drinks can go in the storage house—less risk of them freezing out there."

Andy appeared in the doorway, his beanie pulled low, his jacket streaked with ash. "Good plan." he said, his voice warm but tired. "Let's keep the candy separate—morale boosters. We could use a few of those."

You smiled, the idea of candy as a luxury a small spark of normalcy. Andy sure did love his candy. "Deal. I'm claiming the chocolate bars."

He chuckled, crossing the room to join you, his hand brushing your shoulder. "You can have 'em, but I'm calling dibs on the jerky."

You worked together, sorting the haul with a rhythm born of weeks of partnership.

The snacks were divided by type—chips, jerky, candy, nuts—and packed into totes for the food storage.

You carried them upstairs, stacking them neatly on the shelves, updating the notebook with the new additions: 38 bags of chips, 18 packs of jerky, 34 candy bars, 16 bags of nuts.

The drinks were heavier, their cans and bottles clinking as you hauled them to the storage house, lining them against a wall in the garage. The water was the priority, its bottles a lifeline, while the sodas and juices were a treat, their sugar a burst of energy for long days.

The gas cans were next, their red and yellow plastic heavy with fuel. You carried them to the storage house's garage, stacking them beside the others, their total now over 40 gallons—a fortune in a world where mobility was survival. Andy checked each can, ensuring their seals were tight, his mind already on future trips, on the gun shop waiting in town.

"This is good." he said, stepping back, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the garage. "Fuel, food, drinks—we're set for a while. Gives us breathing room to focus on building the watchtower, the traps."

You nodded, the weight of survival easing slightly. "And the garden." you added, thinking of the green shoots, their delicate fronds a promise of self-sufficiency. "It's growing, Andy. We might not need to scavenge forever."

His eyes softened, a rare smile breaking through. "That's the dream." he said, his voice low, hopeful. "A place that sustains itself. Us, and maybe others."

The idea of others—survivors, a community—was a fragile hope, tempered by the raiders' attack.

Their burned faces, their greedy intent, lingered in your mind, but so did the cul-de-sac's strength, its walls and spikes a shield against the wasteland.

You and Andy were building something real, something lasting, and today, you'd earned a moment to savor it.

The sorting took most of the morning, your muscles aching from the heavy lifting, your hands sticky from handling candy wrappers.

By midday, the living room was clear, the supplies organized, the notebook updated.

You collapsed onto the couch, your breath heavy, your body craving rest. Andy joined you, his arm slipping around your shoulders, his warmth a comfort against the cool air seeping through the boarded windows.

"We did good." he said, his voice soft, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "This place... it's coming together."

You leaned into him, your head resting on his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm. "Yeah." you said, your voice warm with pride. "It's ours."

He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering, and for a moment, the world was just the two of you, the cul-de-sac a cocoon of safety.

You closed your eyes, letting his warmth anchor you, letting the quiet settle.

"Let's take the night off." Andy said, his voice a low murmur, his breath stirring your hair. "No work, no planning. Just us, by the fire, talking. We haven't done that in too long."

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze, his blue eyes soft but fierce with love.

The idea of a night without purpose, without the weight of survival, was almost foreign, but it was exactly what you needed.

The raiders' attack had left you raw, the scavenging had pushed you to your limits, and the gun shop loomed as a challenge for tomorrow.

Tonight, you could be Andy and Y/N, not just survivors, but lovers, partners, a team.

"Deal." you said, a smile tugging at your lips. "But only if you build the fire."

He laughed, the sound a spark of light in the gloom. "You got it."

The rest of the day passed in a gentle blur. You boiled water from the stream, using it to wash dishes and wipe down the kitchen, a small act of normalcy that grounded you.

Andy gathered firewood from the pile outside, the remnants of the old walls and scavenged furniture, and built a fire in the living room's fireplace. The flames crackled, their warmth spreading through the room, their light casting flickering shadows on the walls.

You scavenged a few blankets from the storage house, piling them on the floor in front of the fire, creating a nest of comfort.

The lantern was turned off, its glow unnecessary with the fire's radiance, and you brought out a can of apple pie filling, a treat to share, its sweetness a luxury in the wasteland.

Andy joined you, his beanie discarded, his hair mussed, his face softened by the firelight.

You sat together, your legs tangled, the blankets soft beneath you. The fire's warmth was a balm, easing the ache in your muscles, soothing the fear that lingered from the raid. You shared the apple slices, passing the can back and forth, making you both laugh when Andy's hand slipped on the spoon and his fingers got all sticky.

It was a small moment, but it felt monumental, a reclaiming of joy in a world that tried to steal it.

"Remember that cabin we rented in Colorado?" Andy said, his voice low, his eyes on the fire. "Before all this, when we thought a weekend away was the ultimate escape?"

You smiled, the memory vivid, a snapshot of a life that felt like a dream. "Yeah." you said, leaning into him. "We spent the whole time hiking, eating junk food, and arguing over who got to control the playlist."

He chuckled, his arm tightening around you. "You and your pop-punk obsession." he teased. "I still say my metal playlist was better."

"Keep dreaming." you shot back, nudging his side. "Your music was all noise. Mine had soul."

He laughed, the sound warm, filling the room. "Fair enough. But you loved it when I sang to you, even if it was off-key."

You looked up at him, your heart swelling. "I did." you said, your voice soft. "I still do." you giggle. "Even when you sing badly on purpose."

His eyes met yours, the firelight reflecting in their blue depths, and he leaned down, kissing you slowly, deeply, the taste of cinnamon on his lips.

It was a kiss that spoke of love, of promises kept, of a bond that had survived the end of the world.

You melted into him, your hands resting on his chest, his heartbeat a rhythm that grounded you.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, your breaths mingling. "What do you think we'd be doing now, if the bombs hadn't fallen?" you asked, your voice a whisper, the question a rare indulgence.

He was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. "Touring, probably." he said, his voice thoughtful. "Me with the band, you keeping me sane backstage. We'd be planning our next trip, maybe somewhere warm, like Hawaii. Or just staying home, binge-watching bad movies, arguing over pizza toppings."

You smiled, the images vivid, bittersweet. "Pineapple on pizza." you said, your tone teasing. "The ultimate crime."

He laughed, shaking his head. "You're wrong, and you know it. Pineapple's a gift."

You laughed too, the sound a release, a reminder that joy was still possible. You talked for hours, the fire crackling, the blankets a cocoon.

You shared stories of the past—tour bus mishaps, late-night talks, the day you knew you loved each other—and dreams of the future, not just survival, but a life.

A cul-de-sac filled with voices, a garden bursting with food, a community built on trust.

Andy spoke of music, of finding a guitar and writing songs again, of singing for you under the stars. You spoke of the garden, of sunflowers and tomatoes, of teaching others to grow their own food.

The fire burned low, its embers glowing, and you curled closer, your head on his chest, his arms around you.

The cul-de-sac was silent, its walls standing guard, its garden growing, its stream flowing. The raid was a scar, the gun shop a challenge for tomorrow, but tonight, you had this—a quiet night, a fire, a love that burned brighter than the wasteland's darkness.

"I love you." Andy whispered, his voice a vow, his lips brushing your hair.

"I love you too." you said, your voice soft, certain. "Always."

You fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other, the fire's warmth a shield, the cul-de-sac a home. The wasteland waited, its threats and promises looming, but for now, you had Andy, and that was enough. 

Chapter Text

The morning was crisp, the sky a pale gray with streaks of blue, the air carrying the faint warmth of late April.

You stood by the pickup truck, its bed empty, its tank full from the gas cans you'd scavenged. The rifle was slung over your shoulder, its weight a steady companion, while Andy checked his knife and crowbar, his eyes scanning the horizon with a vigilance honed by weeks of danger.

"We hit the gun shop today." he said, his voice low but resolute as he slammed the tailgate shut. "If it's untouched, we take everything—guns, ammo, anything we can carry. The raiders showed us what's out there. We need to be ready for worse."

You nodded, the memory of the raiders' burned faces tightening your chest. Their attack had been a brutal wake-up call, a reminder that the cul-de-sac's walls, however strong, were only as good as your ability to defend them.

"Every bullet, every blade." you said, your voice firm despite the flicker of fear. "We don't leave anything behind."

"Exactly." he said, his hand brushing yours, a grounding touch that steadied you. "We stick together, move fast. If it's locked or trapped, we figure it out. This is our chance to level the playing field."

You loaded the truck with empty bags—duffels, backpacks, totes—ready to fill with whatever the gun shop offered.

The cul-de-sac's gate creaked as Andy unlocked it, pushing the cars aside to let the truck through.

You climbed into the cab, the rifle between you, and the engine roared to life, carrying you away from the safety of home and into the uncertain streets of Hope Springs.

You watched the landscape pass—skeletal trees, ruined buildings, the leaning water tower a silent sentinel.

The silence between you was heavy, filled with the unspoken fear of what lay ahead, but your hand rested on his thigh, a silent vow of partnership.

Hope Springs came into view, its jagged silhouette softened by the morning light.

The diner, pharmacy, and supermarket were ghosts of your previous raids, their shelves stripped bare.

The gun shop stood at the edge of the main street, its brick facade scarred by ash, its boarded windows and reinforced door a promise of untapped riches.

Andy pulled into the lot, the truck's tires crunching over glass and gravel, and killed the engine, the silence settling like a weight.

"Ready?" he asked, his hand on the crowbar, his eyes meeting yours, fierce with determination.

"Ready." you said, gripping the rifle, your heart pounding but your resolve unbroken.

You climbed out, the bags slung over your shoulders, the air cool and stale.

The gun shop's door was a heavy metal grate, its lock intact, its surface unmarred by forced entry. Andy tested it, his crowbar probing the edges, but it held firm, a sign that the shop was untouched, a rare stroke of luck in the wasteland.

"Locked tight." he said, his voice low, a grin tugging at his lips. "That's a good sign. Means no one's been here."

You nodded, your excitement tempered by caution. "Can you get it open?"

He hefted the crowbar, his eyes narrowing. "Oh, I'll get it open."

He worked the lock, the crowbar's tip wedging into the seam, his muscles straining as he pried. The metal groaned, the lock resisting, but Andy was relentless, his breaths sharp in the quiet.

After a tense minute, the lock snapped with a loud crack, the grate swinging open, revealing a second door—wooden, less fortified, but still locked.

Andy made short work of it, the crowbar splintering the frame, the door giving way with a shudder.

You stepped inside, the rifle raised, your senses alert. The air was thick with dust, the scent of oil and metal sharp in your nose.

The shop was dark, its boarded windows letting in slivers of gray light, but the shelves were a revelation—rows of guns, untouched, their barrels gleaming.

Handguns, shotguns, rifles, even a few tactical models lined the walls, their cases intact, their triggers waiting. Ammo boxes were stacked beneath, their labels promising rounds of every caliber. Knives, holsters, and cleaning kits filled the aisles, a treasure trove of defense.

"Holy shit." Andy whispered, his voice thick with awe as he lowered the crowbar. "It's all here. Not a single thing touched."

You moved forward, your eyes wide, your heart racing. "We hit the jackpot." you said, your voice trembling with excitement. "This... this changes everything."

You started with the handguns, their compact size ideal for close encounters. You packed them into a duffel, wrapping each in cloth to prevent scratches, their weight a reassurance.

Andy grabbed the shotguns, their long barrels heavy but powerful, perfect for defending the cul-de-sac's gate. The rifles came next, their scopes and high-capacity magazines a promise of precision.

You worked in silence, the only sounds were the clink of metal and the rustle of bags, your movements quick but careful.

The ammo was the real prize, boxes upon boxes of bullets, shells, and cartridges, enough to arm a small army.

You sorted them by caliber, packing them into backpacks, their weight straining the straps.

The variety was staggering—9mm, .45, 12-gauge, .223—each box a lifeline against the wasteland's threats.

You found tactical gear too—holsters, vests, even a few pairs of night-vision goggles, their batteries still good.

Andy grabbed a set of throwing knives, their blades sharp, and tucked them into his pack, a grin flashing across his face.

"This is better than I expected." he said, hefting a box of shotgun shells.

"We could hold off a damn army with this."

You nodded, your excitement growing with every bag filled. "The raiders wouldn't stand a chance." you said, your voice fierce. "No one's taking the cul-de-sac now."

The shop's counter held a surprise—a locked safe, its surface scratched but intact. Andy pried it open with the crowbar, revealing a stash of high-end gear: a pair of silenced pistols, a box of armor-piercing rounds, and a tactical crossbow with a quiver of bolts.

You exchanged a glance, the find a spark of triumph, and packed it all, the safe's contents a secret weapon for the battles ahead.

The basement was the final frontier, its door hidden behind a shelf of cleaning supplies.

Andy pushed the shelf aside, the wood scraping, and revealed a narrow staircase descending into darkness.

You grabbed a flashlight from your pack, its beam cutting through the shadows, and followed him down, the rifle ready, your heart pounding with anticipation.

The basement was a storeroom, its walls lined with crates and boxes, its air cool and musty.

You pried open the first crate, your breath catching as you found more ammo—cases of bulk rounds, their weight a fortune. Another crate held grenades, their pins secure, their power a last resort. A third contained spare parts—barrels, triggers, scopes—enough to maintain your arsenal for years.

You packed what you could, the bags bulging, the crates too heavy to move in one trip.

"We'll need multiple runs." Andy said, his voice low, his eyes scanning the room. "This is more than we can carry, but we're not leaving a single bullet behind."

You nodded, the scale of the find overwhelming. "We'll come back tomorrow, and the next day, until it's all ours."

You hauled the bags upstairs, your muscles straining, the weight a promise of security.

The shop was a shell now, its shelves half-empty, but the basement held enough to make the cul-de-sac a stronghold.

You carried the haul to the truck, the bed filling with the clank of guns and ammo, the bags stacked high. Andy secured the load with rope, his hands steady, his mind already on the next trip.

You climbed into the truck's bed, checking the bags, ensuring nothing would shift on the drive back.

You were zipping a duffel filled with shotguns, their barrels wrapped in cloth, when your eyes caught something across the street—a small storefront, its sign faded but legible: Melody's Music.

The windows were cracked, the door ajar, but the sight stopped you cold, a tug of memory pulling at your heart.

"Andy." you called, your voice soft but urgent, your gaze fixed on the store. "Look at that."

He climbed up beside you, following your line of sight, his expression shifting from focus to curiosity. "A music store." he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Haven't seen one of those in a while."

You nodded, your heart racing with a mix of excitement and nostalgia. Music had been your lifeline before the bombs, a thread that wove through your life with Andy—tour buses, late-night jam sessions, his voice singing you to sleep.

The cul-de-sac was your home, its walls and garden your future, but the music store was a piece of the past, a chance to reclaim something lost.

"We should check it out." you said, your voice trembling with anticipation. "Just a quick look."

He hesitated, his eyes scanning the street, his instinct for caution warring with the spark of possibility. "It's getting late." he said, his voice low. "We need to get this haul back, secure the shop for tomorrow."

"I know." you said, your hand resting on his arm. "But... it's music, Andy. It's us."

His eyes softened, the weight of survival easing for a moment. "Alright." he said, his voice warm. "A quick look."

You climbed down from the truck, the rifle in your hands, the bags secure in the bed.

Andy grabbed his crowbar, his knife at his belt, and you crossed the street, the gun shop's shadow fading behind you.

The music store's door creaked as you pushed it open, the air inside thick with dust, the scent of wood and metal faint but familiar.

Your flashlight beam cut through the dark, revealing shelves of sheet music, racks of guitars, a drum kit in the corner, their surfaces coated in ash but untouched.

You stepped inside, your heart pounding, the cul-de-sac a world away, the music store a portal to a life you'd thought was gone.

Chapter Text

The music store was a time capsule, its air thick with dust and the faint, nostalgic scent of polished wood and metal strings.

This store was something else—a whisper of the life you'd lived before the bombs, a chance to reclaim a piece of your soul.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the cracked windows, casting slivers of gray across the store's cluttered interior.

You stepped inside, the rifle heavy in your hands, its barrel lowered but ready.

Andy followed, his crowbar gripped tightly, his knife at his belt, his eyes scanning the shadows with a vigilance honed by weeks of danger.

The door creaked shut behind you, the sound echoing in the stillness, and you paused, your breath shallow, your senses alert.

The store was a shrine to music, its shelves and racks frozen in time.

Guitars hung on the walls, their bodies coated in ash but gleaming beneath, their strings dull but intact. A drum kit sat in the corner, its cymbals tarnished, its skins taut. Sheet music littered the floor, its pages yellowed, while a counter held a dusty register and a rack of picks and cables.

The air was heavy, the silence profound, but there was a warmth here, a memory of late-night jam sessions, of Andy's voice singing you to sleep, of a life woven with chords and lyrics.

"Looks like no one's been here." Andy said, his voice low, a mix of awe and caution as he stepped forward, his crowbar resting at his side. "It's... untouched."

You nodded, your heart racing with a blend of excitement and reverence. "It's like stepping back in time." you said, your voice soft, your eyes tracing the outlines of the guitars. "Before everything went to hell."

He glanced at you, his blue eyes softening, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah." he said, his voice warm. "Feels like one of our old tour stops, doesn't it?"

You smiled, the memory of tour buses and backstage chaos a bittersweet spark. "Minus the groupies and bad coffee," you teased, nudging his arm.

He chuckled, the sound a rare light in the gloom. "Thank God for that."

You moved deeper into the store, your flashlight beam cutting through the dark, illuminating corners and shelves.

Music had been your and Andy's language, a thread that bound you through the chaos of his band days, through the quiet moments of your life together. Finding it here, in the wasteland, was a gift you hadn't dared hope for.

You started with the shelves, checking for anything useful. The sheet music was mostly pop and classical, its pages fragile but salvageable, a potential source of entertainment for long nights in the cul-de-sac.

You grabbed a few books, tucking them into a tote, imagining Andy flipping through them, humming melodies you'd forgotten.

The picks and cables were next, their small size perfect for packing, their utility a promise of future songs.

Andy explored the guitar racks, his fingers brushing the strings of an electric model, the faint twang echoing in the quiet. "These are nice," he said, his voice thoughtful, "but we'd need a generator to make 'em sing. Acoustic's the way to go out here."

You nodded, your eyes scanning the walls, the floor, searching for something special. "Lets keep looking." you said, your voice tinged with excitement. "There's gotta be an acoustic somewhere."

The store was small but densely packed, its corners hiding secrets.

You moved to the back, where a cluttered storage area held boxes of accessories and a shelf of cleaning supplies.

Your flashlight beam caught a glint beneath the shelf, a sleek, black case tucked out of sight, its surface unmarred by ash. Your heart skipped, your breath catching as you knelt, your hands trembling with anticipation.

"Andy." you called, your voice sharp with discovery. "Come here."

He was at your side in an instant, his crowbar lowered, his eyes following your beam. "What'd you find?" he asked, his voice laced with curiosity.

You pulled the case out, its weight solid, its latches locked but intact. "It's a guitar case." you said, your voice trembling with excitement. "And it's locked, which means it's probably something good."

He grinned, a spark of the old Andy, the one who'd thrived on stage, shining through. "Let's crack it open." he said, kneeling beside you, his crowbar ready.

You held the case steady as he worked the latches, the metal resisting but giving way under his strength.

The case popped open, revealing an acoustic guitar, its body a rich, polished mahogany, its strings gleaming in the flashlight's beam. It was mint condition, untouched by the wasteland's decay, its curves and frets a work of art.

A small tag inside the case read Martin D-28, a name that sent a jolt of recognition through you—top-of-the-line, a musician's dream.

"Oh, fuck." Andy whispered, his voice thick with awe as he lifted the guitar, his fingers brushing the strings, coaxing a soft, resonant chord. "This is... this is perfect."

Your heart swelled, the sight of him with the guitar a vision of the man you'd fallen in love with. "You should keep it." you said, your voice firm, a smile breaking through. "A gift."

He looked at you, his eyes wide, his expression a mix of disbelief and gratitude. "Babe, this is too much." he said, his voice soft. "We should—"

"Nope" you interrupted, your hand on his arm, your gaze steady. "We should spoil ourselves a little. You've been carrying us, fighting for us, building this place. You deserve this. Besides," you added, a teasing lilt in your voice, "I want to hear you sing again. Your voice is orgasmic."

He laughed, the sound warm, filling the store. "Alright." he said, his voice thick with emotion. "But only if you sing with me."

"Deal." you said, your smile widening.

You searched the storage area for more, your excitement fueling you.

Beneath another shelf, you found a box of replacement strings, their packets sealed, enough to keep the guitar in tune for years.

A nearby crate held cleaning kits—polish, cloths, fretboard oil—everything needed to maintain the Martin in pristine condition.

You packed them into a duffel, the guitar case slung over Andy's shoulder, its weight a promise of music, of hope.

The store yielded other treasures—more picks, a few sets of drumsticks, a harmonica that made Andy grin. You grabbed a small ukulele, its size perfect for portability, imagining teaching future survivors to play.

The haul was modest compared to the gun shop's arsenal, but it was priceless, a bridge to the past, a spark for the future.

You stepped back into the main room, the guitar case in Andy's hands, the duffel heavy with strings and supplies.

The store was quiet, its shadows soft, its air filled with the ghosts of songs unplayed.

You paused, your flashlight beam lingering on a guitar on the wall, its strings dull but waiting. "We'll come back." you said, your voice soft. "For the rest, when we have time."

Andy nodded, his hand finding yours, his fingers warm. "Yeah." he said, his voice warm. "This place... it's special."

You left the store, the door creaking shut behind you, the truck waiting across the street, its bed packed with guns and ammo.

You crossed the street, the rifle in your hands. Andy set the guitar case in the truck's cab, its presence a treasure you'd protect.

You climbed into the bed, checking the bags, ensuring the shotguns and ammo were secure. Your hands worked automatically, zipping a duffel filled with shotguns.

You hop down from the truck, Andy's hands instantly guiding you to the passenger side and opening the door for you to climb in.

You press one, deep kiss to his lips before sliding in. This was a good end to a good day.

Chapter Text

The morning after your return from Hope Springs was cool, the sky a pale gray with hints of blue, the air carrying the gentle warmth of late April.

You and Andy had unloaded the truck late the previous night, the gun shop's haul—handguns, shotguns, rifles, ammo, and tactical gear—piled in the living room of your home base, alongside the guitar case and music supplies.

You stood in the living room, the scavenged couch pushed aside, the floor cluttered with bags of guns and ammo.

The rifle rested against the wall, its barrel pointed down, while Andy sorted through a duffel, his hands steady as he checked each handgun's condition. His beanie was pulled low, his jacket streaked with ash, but his eyes were bright with focus, the guitar case in the corner a quiet promise of the night to come.

"We need a proper armory." you said, your voice breaking the quiet as you unzipped a backpack filled with ammo boxes. "The kids' room is food storage, the storage house is for tools and materials. These guns... they need their own space, somewhere secure."

Andy nodded, setting a pistol down, his gaze thoughtful. "The basement." he said, his voice firm. "It's dry, lockable, and out of the way. We can reinforce the door, make it a vault. No one gets in without us knowing."

You agreed, the basement's cool, concrete walls a perfect fit for the arsenal.

The house's basement was small but sturdy, its narrow staircase a natural choke point, its single door easy to fortify. You'd used it sparingly, storing a few odds and ends, but clearing it out would be quick, its space ideal for the guns and ammo.

You started by emptying the basement, hauling up boxes of old clothes and broken furniture, sorting them into piles for firewood or scrap.

The work was light compared to the wall-building or scavenging, but it was purposeful, a step toward organizing the cul-de-sac's defenses.

Andy reinforced the basement door with a scavenged steel plate, bolting it in place with a drill from the hardware store, his movements precise. You added a padlock, its key tucked into your pocket, a small but vital layer of security.

The guns came next, carried down the staircase in careful loads.

You sorted them by type—handguns on one shelf, shotguns on another, rifles racked against the wall. The ammo was organized by caliber, its boxes stacked neatly in crates, their labels clear in the flashlight's beam. The tactical gear—vests, holsters, night-vision goggles—went on a scavenged table, while the grenades and crossbow were stored in a locked crate, their power a last resort. The basement transformed into an armory, its concrete walls a vault, its contents a shield against the wasteland's threats.

"This is it." Andy said, stepping back, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the room. "Our own personal armory. Raiders, mutants, whatever comes—we're ready."

You nodded, your heart swelling with pride. "It's more than ready." you said, your voice warm. "It's a fortress within a fortress."

The sorting took most of the day, your muscles aching from the heavy lifting, your hands dusted with gun oil and ash.

By late afternoon the fourth day, the living room was clear, the armory complete, the music supplies waiting in the corner.

The guitar case was a beacon, its polished surface a contrast to the utilitarian haul, its promise of music a spark in the gloom.

You and Andy collapsed onto the couch, your breaths heavy, your bodies craving rest.

"Let's call it a day." he said, his arm slipping around your shoulders, his warmth a comfort. "We've earned it. Tonight... I want to play that guitar."

Your smile widened, the thought of music a balm after weeks of labor and fear. "I've been waiting to hear you play." you said, leaning into him. "It's been too long."

He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering. "Then let's make it a good night." he said, his voice soft, fierce with love.

The evening settled over the cul-de-sac, the sky deepening to a rich gray, the air cool but gentle.

You boiled water from the stream, using it to wash dishes and wipe down the kitchen, a small act of normalcy that grounded you.

Andy built a fire in the living room's fireplace, the flames crackling, their warmth spreading through the room.

You piled blankets on the floor, creating a cozy nest, and brought out a can of hash to share.

Andy opened the guitar case, lifting the Martin D-28 with reverence, its mahogany body gleaming in the firelight.

He sat cross-legged on the blankets, the guitar in his lap, his fingers brushing the strings, coaxing a soft, resonant chord.

The sound was pure, a melody that cut through the silence, a reminder of the world before the bombs.

He tuned it carefully, his ear attuned to the subtle shifts in pitch, his hands steady despite the day's work.

You sat beside him, your knees drawn up, your eyes fixed on his hands, the fire casting shadows across his face.

The first notes were tentative, a simple progression, but they grew bolder, a melody you recognized from his old band days, a song he'd written for you. Your heart ached, the music a portal to a life you'd thought lost, a life of tour buses, late-night talks, and love that had carried you through.

"That's beautiful." you said, your voice soft, your smile tinged with nostalgia.

He glanced at you, his eyes warm, his fingers still moving. "It's for you." he said, his voice low. "Always was."

He played on, the chords weaving a tapestry of memory, each note a thread that bound you to him, to the past, to the hope of a future.

The fire crackled, its warmth a cocoon, the cul-de-sac's walls a shield against the wasteland.

You leaned against him, your head on his shoulder, his music wrapping around you like a blanket.

The songs shifted, from his own to covers you both loved—Springsteen, Nirvana, even a few pop-punk anthems that made you laugh, their energy a spark of the old you. He sang softly, his voice rough but true, the lyrics a mix of defiance and tenderness.

You joined in on a chorus, your voice hesitant but growing stronger, the harmony a reminder of nights spent singing together, of a love that had survived the end of the world.

As the fire burned low, the music slowed, the chords softer, more introspective.

Andy's fingers paused, his eyes distant, and he set the guitar down, his hand finding yours. "I never knew how much I needed this until now." he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Music... it's like breathing again."

You squeezed his hand, your heart full but heavy. "It's us." you said, your voice soft. "It's who we were, who we still are."

He nodded, pulling you closer, his arm around you, his lips brushing your hair.

The silence settled, the fire's embers glowing, and in that quiet, the weight of the wasteland crashed over you.

The music had opened a door, not just to joy, but to loss, and the realization hit you like a physical blow: you'd never see your friends again.

The band, the crew, the people who'd filled your life with laughter and love—they were gone, most likely dead, their voices silenced by the bombs. Your family, your neighbors, everyone you'd known... the world you'd built with Andy was all that remained.

A sob caught in your throat, your body trembling as the grief surged.

Andy felt it, his arms tightening, his voice urgent. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, his hand cupping your face, his eyes searching yours.

"I just... it hit me." you choked out, tears streaming down your face. "They're gone, Andy. Everyone. The band, our friends, my family... we'll never see them again. It's just us now."

His face softened, his own eyes glistening, the weight of your words echoing his own unspoken grief. "I know," he said, his voice breaking, his hands stroking your hair. "I know, babe. I think about them too—Jake, CC, Jinxx, all of them. Every day."

You clung to him, your sobs shaking you, the fire's warmth a stark contrast to the cold ache in your chest. "I didn't let myself feel it." you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest. "Not really. We've been so busy, fighting, building... but they're gone, and it hurts."

He held you tighter, his breath hitching, his own tears falling. "It's okay to feel." he said, his voice raw but steady. "They were our world, and losing them... it's a hole that doesn't close. But we're still here, and we're carrying them with us. Every wall we build, every seed we plant—it's for them, too."

You nodded, his words a lifeline, his love a shield against the grief.

The music had cracked you open, its beauty a mirror to the loss, but it had also reminded you of what you still had—Andy, the cul-de-sac, the green shoots in the garden.

You cried together, your tears mingling, the fire's embers a quiet witness to your shared pain.

When the sobs eased, you pulled back, wiping your face, your eyes red but clearer.

Andy's face was streaked with tears, his expression raw but fierce with love. "We're gonna make it." he said, his voice a vow. "For us, for them. This place, this life—it's ours, and we'll make it everything they'd want."

You nodded, your heart aching but resolute. "Together." you said, the word a promise.

"Always." he echoed, his lips brushing yours, a kiss that sealed the bond.

You curled up in the blankets, the fire's glow fading, Andy's arm around you, his warmth a comfort.

The guitar rested beside you, its strings silent but waiting, a symbol of the music you'd carry forward.

The cul-de-sac was quiet, its walls and garden a home, its armory a shield. The grief was there, a shadow that would never fully lift, but so was the hope, the love that burned brighter, the determination to build a future from the ashes.

You fell asleep in his arms, the embers glowing, the wasteland held at bay, the music a quiet echo in your heart.

Chapter Text

Two Months, 12 Days Post Bombs

You stood in the basement, now an armory, its concrete walls lined with guns—handguns, shotguns, rifles—its shelves stacked with ammo and tactical gear.

The haul from the gun shop was a game-changer, but it was chaotic, its crates and bags needing order to make it truly yours.

Andy was beside you, his beanie discarded, his jacket streaked with gun oil, his hands sorting through a box of 9mm rounds.

His blue eyes were focused, but the lines around them spoke of exhaustion, of the toll the raid, the scavenging, and the grief had taken.

You felt it too, your body heavy, your heart raw from the night you'd sobbed in his arms, mourning the friends and family you'd never see again.

"We need to finish sorting this." you said, your voice breaking the quiet as you lifted a shotgun, checking its barrel. "Organize it properly—guns by type, ammo by caliber, gear in easy reach. We can't afford to fumble if trouble comes."

Andy nodded, setting the ammo box down, his gaze meeting yours. "Agreed." he said, his voice low but firm. "We'll make this armory a machine—everything where we need it, no guesswork. Then... we take a break."

You raised an eyebrow, the idea of a break foreign after weeks of relentless work. "A break?" you asked, your tone teasing but curious.

"Yeah." he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "We've been running ourselves ragged—walls, garden, scavenging, the raid. We need a few days, just us, to rest, to... be us. The gun shop is empty, the food's stocked, the garden's growing. We can afford it."

The thought was tempting, a chance to step back from the fight, to reclaim the softness the wasteland tried to steal.

The grief had left you raw, the music a reminder of what you'd lost, but also of what you still had—Andy, the cul-de-sac, a love that burned brighter than the ash.

"Okay." you said, your voice soft, a smile breaking through. "Let's do it. Sort the armory, then rest."

He squeezed your hand, his touch warm, grounding. "That's my girl."

You dove into the work, sorting the gun shop's haul with a rhythm born of partnership.

The handguns were arranged on a scavenged rack, their grips aligned for quick access—Glocks, Berettas, a few revolvers, each cleaned and checked.

The shotguns went on a separate shelf, their barrels pointed down, their shells stacked beside them.

The rifles, including a few tactical models with scopes, were racked against the wall, their magazines loaded and ready.

The ammo was the biggest task, its boxes sorted by caliber—9mm, .45, 12-gauge, .223—and stored in labeled crates, their contents tallied in the notebook you kept for inventory.

The tactical gear was organized on a table—vests, holsters, night-vision goggles, and a set of throwing knives Andy had claimed with a grin.

The grenades and crossbow remained in their locked crate, their power a silent promise for desperate times.

You added the silenced pistols from the safe, their sleek forms a secret weapon, and checked the spare parts—barrels, triggers, scopes—ensuring they were accessible for repairs.

The basement's transformation was complete by late afternoon, its concrete walls a fortress within a fortress, its contents a shield against the wasteland's threats.

You stepped back, your hands on your hips, your muscles aching but your heart lighter.

"This is it." you said, your voice warm with pride. "Our armory."

Andy joined you, his arm slipping around your waist, his eyes scanning the room. "It's perfect." he said, his voice low, satisfied. "No one's getting through this."

You leaned into him, the weight of survival easing for a moment.

The armory was a victory, a tangible step toward the cul-de-sac's future, but the promise of rest was a beacon, a chance to heal the wounds the wasteland had left.

The next few days were a deliberate pause, a reclaiming of time in a world that demanded constant vigilance.

You and Andy let the cul-de-sac's rhythm slow, its walls and garden standing guard while you turned inward, focusing on each other, on the love that had carried you through the bombs, the raid, the grief.

The weather was kind, the air warming, the sky clearing to reveal glimpses of stars at night, a reminder that beauty still existed.

You started the first morning with a lazy breakfast, sharing a can of fruit cocktail, its sweet syrup a luxury that made you both smile.

The fire in the living room was lit, its warmth a comfort, and you sat together on the scavenged couch, your legs tangled, the guitar resting nearby, its chords a promise for later.

You talked, not of survival or threats, but of small things—memories of road trips, favorite movies, the way Andy's bandmates used to prank each other.

The laughter was soft, healing, a balm for the grief that lingered.

The days blended into a gentle rhythm, each moment a gift.

You bathed in the stream, its cold water a shock that turned to joy as you laughed and splashed, Andy's hands gentle as he washed your hair, his lips brushing your shoulder.

The intimacy was unspoken, a language of touches and glances, a reminder that you were more than survivors—you were lovers, partners, a team.

The nights were for closeness, for rediscovering each other in the quiet of the cul-de-sac.

You made love by the fire, the blankets a nest, the flames casting shadows across your skin. It was slow, deliberate, each touch a vow, each kiss a reclamation of joy.

Andy's hands were reverent, his eyes fierce with love, his voice a whisper of your name as you moved together, the wasteland held at bay.

You held him after, your bodies entwined, your breaths mingling, the fire's warmth a cocoon that shut out the world.

One night, as you lay in his arms, the fire burning low, you traced the tattoos on his chest, their ink a map of his past. "I forgot how much I needed this." you said, your voice soft, your fingers lingering on his skin. "Just... us."

He kissed your forehead, his arm tightening around you. "Me too." he said, his voice thick with emotion. "The walls, the guns, the garden—they're for us, for this. So we can have moments like this, always."

You nodded, your heart full, the grief still there but softer, tempered by his love. "I keep thinking about them." you said, your voice barely a whisper. "Our friends, our family. But being with you... it makes it bearable."

His eyes glistened, his hand cupping your face. "They're with us," he said, his voice steady. "Every chord I play, every seed we plant—it's for them, Y/n. We're keeping them alive."

You kissed him, slow and deep, the taste of tears and love on your lips.

The cul-de-sac was your home, its walls and garden a future, but these moments were its heart, the reason you fought, the reason you survived.

The days of rest were a gift, but they weren't idle.

You tended the garden in short bursts, checking the green shoots, watering them with boiled stream water, their growth a quiet joy.

Andy played the guitar, its chords filling the house, his voice rough but true as he sang songs you loved, songs you'd forgotten.

You joined him, your harmony tentative but growing stronger, the music a healing thread that wove through your grief.

You walked the cul-de-sac's perimeter, hand in hand, checking the walls, the spikes, the gate, not out of fear but pride.

The armory was a silent strength, its guns and ammo a shield you'd need when the wasteland came knocking again.

You talked of the watchtower, of traps, of the community you'd build, but the urgency was gone, replaced by a steady confidence that you'd face it together.

The final night of your rest was quiet, the fire crackling, the blankets soft beneath you.

Andy held you, his body a steady warmth, his breath stirring your hair. "We needed this." he said, his voice low, a vow. "But tomorrow, we get back to it. Watchtower, traps, maybe another trip to the gun shop for the rest of the basement."

You nodded, your head on his chest, his heartbeat a rhythm that grounded you. "Together." you said, the word a promise.

"Always." he echoed, his lips brushing yours, a kiss that sealed the bond.

The cul-de-sac stretched out beyond the house, its walls a fortress, its garden a hope, its stream a lifeline.

The grief was there, a shadow that would never fully lift, but so was the love, the music, the moments of closeness that made you whole. 

Chapter Text

Two Months, 16 Days Post Bombs

The morning was quiet, the sky a soft gray with faint streaks of blue, the air carrying a warmth that felt like a gift.

Andy's notebook marked the days, a steady tally that grounded you in time, and the cul-de-sac hummed with the quiet confidence of a place well-loved. It was mid-May now.

You woke early, the mattress in your home base soft beneath you, Andy's arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against your neck.

His face was peaceful in sleep, the lines of worry smoothed away, his black hair mussed against the pillow.

You lingered, your heart swelling with love, the sight of him a reminder of why you fought, why you built. But hunger tugged at you, a quiet call for breakfast, and you slipped from his embrace, careful not to wake him, pulling on a scavenged sweater against the morning chill.

The kids' room upstairs was your destination, its shelves packed with cans and dry goods, a vault of sustenance you'd organized with care.

You goal was to find the brown sugar oatmeal, the flavor a comfort that paired well with the morning's calm.

The room was orderly, its cans neatly stacked, its notebook open on the table, your handwriting tallying every item.

You knelt by a shelf, your fingers brushing the labels of boxes, searching for the correct box.

As you reached deeper, your hand grazed a duffel bag tucked behind a stack of soups, its fabric soft and unfamiliar.

You frowned, pulling it out, its weight lighter than the food bags, its zipper stiff with disuse.

Curiosity sparked, and you unzipped it, revealing a treasure you'd forgotten—a stash of cigarette cartons and vape pens, their colorful packaging untouched, a secret you'd grabbed during the gas station raids weeks ago.

Your heart skipped, a smile spreading across your face as the memory returned.

In the recent chaos, youd forgotten about these. Their allure had become a fleeting thought in the chaos of scavenging.

Andy had been a smoker in his band days, a habit he'd been trying to kicj before the bombs, but you'd seen the tension in him lately—the raid, the grief, the endless work—and known that a cigarette, even just one, could be a small release, a moment of calm in the storm.

You'd stuffed the duffel in secret, intending to surprise him, but the gun shop, the music store, and the days of rest had pushed it from your mind.

Now, holding the bag, you felt a surge of excitement, a chance to give Andy something unexpected, something that said I see you, I know you, I love you.

You grabbed a carton of cigarettes—Marlboros, his old brand—and tucked the duffel back, careful to hide it for future surprises.

The oatmeal forgotten, your mission now was to bring a smile to his face, to ease the weight he carried for both of you.

You crept downstairs, the carton in hand, the house quiet but warm with the promise of the day.

Andy was awake now, sitting on the couch in the living room, the fire he'd started crackling softly, its glow casting shadows across his face. He was tuning the Martin D-28, his fingers gentle on the strings, a soft chord humming in the air. His eyes lifted as you entered, his smile immediate, warm, the kind that made your heart flutter.

"Morning, beautiful." he said, his voice rough with sleep but filled with love. "You're up early."

"Morning." you said, your smile mirroring his, the carton hidden behind your back. "Thought I'd make breakfast, but... I found something better."

His eyebrow arched, curiosity sparking in his blue eyes. "Better than food?" he teased, setting the guitar down, leaning forward. "This I gotta see."

You stepped closer, your heart racing with anticipation, and pulled the carton from behind your back, holding it out like a prize. "For you." you said, your voice soft, your smile wide. "I grabbed these at the gas station, back when we hit the Quick Stop. Forgot about them until now. Thought they might... help you unwind."

His eyes widened, a laugh bursting from him, pure and unguarded, as he took the carton, turning it in his hands. "Marlboros." he said, his voice thick with disbelief, his grin boyish. "Babe, you're unreal. How'd you even...?"

You sat beside him, your knee brushing his, your smile growing. "I saw them behind the counter, thought of you." you said, your voice warm. "You've been carrying so much—us, this place, everything. I know you were trying to quit, but... maybe one, now and then, could take the edge off."

He looked at you, his eyes softening, the carton resting in his lap. "You're too good to me." he said, his voice low, fierce with love. "I don't deserve you."

"You deserve everything." you said, your hand finding his, your fingers lacing together. "You're my rock, Andy. This is just... a little thank you."

He set the carton on the couch, pulling you into his arms, his embrace warm and tight, his lips brushing your forehead. "I love you." he whispered, his voice a vow, his breath stirring your hair. "More than anything."

"I love you too." you said, your face buried in his chest, his heartbeat a rhythm that grounded you. "Always."

You stayed like that, wrapped in each other, the fire's warmth a cocoon, the cul-de-sac's silence a canvas for your love. The cigarettes were a small gift, but they were more—a symbol of your care, of the way you saw him, knew him, loved him through the chaos of the wasteland.

He pulled back, his eyes bright, and opened the carton, pulling out a single cigarette, rolling it between his fingers.

"Not yet." he said, his voice playful, his smile crooked. "Maybe tonight, with a song or two. Gotta save it for the right moment."

You laughed, the sound a spark of joy. "You're gonna make a whole ceremony out of it, aren't you?"

"Damn straight." he said, winking, his arm slipping around your shoulders. "Gotta make it special, like you."

The morning unfolded slowly, a gift of time in a world that rarely allowed it.

You made breakfast together, settling for oatmeal and a can of cocktail fruit mix, their sweet juice a shared delight.

You sat on the couch, your legs tangled, the fire crackling, and talked of small things—memories of summer festivals, of Andy's bandmates stealing his cigarettes, of the way you'd danced together at a dive bar, laughing until you couldn't breathe.

The grief was there, a quiet shadow, but the love was brighter, its warmth a shield that held the pain at bay.

The day was for closeness, for indulging in each other, for savoring the connection that had carried you through the bombs, the raid, the endless work.

You walked the garden, hand in hand, checking the green shoots, their growth a quiet miracle that made you both smile. Andy pointed to a tiny bean sprout, like it was a trophy, his grin infectious.

"Look at this." he said, his voice warm with pride. "Our little farm, coming to life."

You leaned into him, your arm around his waist. "Our home." you said, your voice soft, the word a vow.

The afternoon was spent in the stream, its cold water a playful shock as you bathed together, laughing and splashing, Andy's hands gentle as he washed your hair, his lips brushing your shoulder.

The intimacy was effortless, a dance of touches and glances, a reminder that you were more than survivors—you were lovers, bound by a love that burned brighter than the ash.

The evening was for music, for the guitar's chords and Andy's voice, a ritual that had become your anchor.

You sat by the fire, the blankets a nest, the Martin D-28 in his lap, its strings humming with life.

He played softly, a melody he'd written years ago, its notes a love letter to you. You sang with him, your harmony stronger now, the music a healing thread that wove through your grief, your joy, your love.

He paused, the cigarette carton on the couch catching his eye, and he grinned, pulling one out. "Alright." he said, his voice playful. "Moment of truth."

You laughed, watching as he lit it with a scavenged lighter, the flame casting a warm glow across his face.

He took a slow drag, his eyes closing, a sigh escaping him as the tension melted from his shoulders. "God, I forgot how good that feels." he said, his voice low, his smile lazy.

You leaned into him, your head on his shoulder, the faint scent of smoke mingling with the fire's warmth. "Worth the wait?" you asked, your voice teasing.

"Worth everything." he said, his arm around you, his lips brushing your hair. "Especially because it's from you."

You stayed like that, the fire crackling, the music soft, the cigarette a small indulgence in a world that offered few.

You talked of the future, not just survival, but life—a cul-de-sac filled with voices, a garden bursting with food, a community built on love.

Andy spoke of songs he'd write, of teaching others to play, of filling the nights with music. You spoke of the garden, of sunflowers and tomatoes, of sharing the harvest with those who'd come.

The night deepened, the fire burning low, and you curled together in the blankets, your bodies entwined, your breaths mingling.

You made love slowly, deliberately, each touch a vow, each kiss a promise. Andy's hands were reverent, his eyes fierce with love, his voice a whisper of your name as you moved together, the wasteland held at bay.

You held him after, your hearts beating as one, the fire's embers a quiet witness to your bond.

"I don't know what I'd do without you." he said, his voice soft, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. "You're my everything, Y/n."

"You'll never have to find out." you said, your voice steady, your hand resting on his chest. "We're in this together, always."

He kissed you, slow and deep, the taste of smoke and love on his lips.

The cul-de-sac was your home, its walls and garden a future, its armory a shield, its music a heart.

The grief was there, a shadow that would never fully lift, but so was the love, the joy, the gift of a cigarette carton that said 'I see you, I love you.'

You had Andy. You had this moment. That was all you truly needed.

Chapter Text

You woke early, Andy's arm around you, his breath warm against your neck, his face peaceful in sleep.

The cigarette carton you'd gifted him sat on the couch, a small indulgence that had brought a smile to his lips, a moment of calm in the storm of survival.

You slipped from his embrace, pulling on a scavenged sweater, and he stirred, his blue eyes blinking open, a sleepy smile spreading across his face. "Morning, Coffee Girl." he said, his voice rough but warm, his hand reaching for yours.

"Morning." you said, leaning down to kiss him, the touch soft but lingering. "Garden check today. Those beans are probably ready to take over the world."

He laughed, the sound a spark of joy. "Gotta keep 'em in line." he said, swinging his legs off the mattress, his boots hitting the floor. "Let's go see our little empire."

You grabbed the rifle, its weight a familiar comfort, while Andy tucked his knife and crowbar into his belt, his eyes scanning the room with a vigilance that never fully faded. The cul-de-sac was your haven, its walls and armory a shield, but the raid had taught you that safety was fragile, a lesson etched in the blood of the raiders you'd buried. You stepped outside, the air cool against your skin, the garden waiting behind the house with the shed, its beds a patchwork of green.

The garden was a triumph, its beans, carrots, and potatoes pushing through the soil, their leaves vibrant in the morning light.

You knelt beside a row of beans, your fingers brushing the fronds, their growth a quiet pride that warmed you. Andy joined you, his hand on your shoulder, his grin boyish as he plucked a tiny sprout, holding it up like a trophy.

"Look at this." he said, his voice warm. "We're farmers now, babe."

You laughed, leaning into him, your heart full. "Farmers, fortress builders, guitar heroes." you teased. "We're a regular power couple. After we check this, we should get started on the watchtower."

He kissed your forehead, his lips soft, his arm slipping around your waist. "Damn straight. " he said, his voice low, fierce with love.

You were about to stand, to check the carrots, when a sharp thwack cut the air, followed by a grunt from Andy.

He staggered, his hand clutching his shoulder, a wooden arrow protruding from his flesh, blood blooming through his jacket.

Your heart stopped, panic surging as his knees buckled, his eyes wide with shock.

"Andy!" you screamed, dropping to his side, your hands grabbing his arms, the rifle falling to the dirt.

His face was pale, his breath ragged, the arrow's fletching stark against the red spreading across his shoulder.

"Get... inside," he gasped, his voice strained, his hand pushing at you, urging you to move. "Now."

Another arrow whistled past, embedding in the shed's wall, the sound a jolt that snapped you into action.

You hooked your arms under Andy's, dragging him toward the house, his weight heavy, his boots scraping the ground.

His head lolled, his consciousness fading, blood dripping in the ash as you stumbled backward, your heart pounding, your mind screaming with fear and fury.

"Y/n..." He moaned.

The back door was close, its frame a beacon, but the garden was exposed, the walls too far to shield you.

You glanced over your shoulder, spotting movement beyond the gate—shadows, three or four, their forms crouched, their bows drawn.

Archers, not raiders like before, their silence deliberate, their intent clear.

They wanted the cul-de-sac, your home, and they'd struck without warning.

You reached the door, kicking it open, and pulled Andy inside, his body limp, his blood smearing the floor.

The living room was a blur, the guitar case in the corner a cruel reminder of the peace you'd shared.

You dragged him toward the basement, the armory your only hope, its guns and ammo a lifeline against the attackers.

The staircase was narrow, each step a battle as you hauled Andy down, his weight pulling at your muscles, your breath ragged with effort.

You reached the basement, the armory's concrete walls a vault of strength, its shelves lined with guns, its crates packed with ammo.

You laid Andy on the floor, his back against a crate, his face pale, his shoulder soaked with blood.

The arrow was lodged deep, its shaft unbroken, its point a threat you couldn't remove without risking more damage.

You tore a strip from your sweater, pressing it against the wound, your hands shaking, your voice a desperate whisper.

"Stay with me, Andy. Fuck, babe." you hissed, your tears falling, your hands slick with his blood. "Please, stay with me."

His eyes fluttered, a weak groan escaping him, but he was out, his body slack, his pulse faint but present.

You checked it, your fingers trembling, praying for the faint throb of a lifeline that kept you from breaking.

You had to protect him, protect the cul-de-sac, protect the life you'd built.

The archers were coming, their arrows a silent promise of death, and you were alone, the rifle upstairs, the armory your only defense.

You found it. His pulse slow but beating.

You grabbed a Glock from the shelf, its grip cold but familiar, and checked its magazine, the rounds a comfort.

You slung a tactical vest over your sweater, its pockets heavy with extra clips, and grabbed a shotgun, its weight a promise of power.

The basement door was reinforced, its steel plate and padlock a barrier, but you locked it anyway, the key in your pocket, the sound a small defiance.

You knelt beside Andy, your hand on his face, his skin clammy but warm. "I'm gonna keep us safe." you whispered, your voice fierce, your tears falling. "I love you. So don't fucking die on me."

You stood, the Glock in one hand, the shotgun in the other, your heart a storm of fear and resolve.

The house was quiet, but you heard it—a faint creak upstairs, the shuffle of boots, the archers breaching the cul-de-sac, their silence a predator's grace.

You moved to the staircase, your back against the wall, your breath shallow, your senses sharp.

The armory was your stronghold, Andy your reason, the cul-de-sac your home, and you'd fight to keep them all.

You cracked the basement door, the Glock raised, your eyes scanning the living room.

The back door was open, a shadow moving past, its bow drawn, its form low and cautious.

You counted three, maybe four, their movements coordinated, their arrows a silent threat. They hadn't seen you yet, their focus on the house, the garden, the walls they thought they could claim.

You fired the Glock, the shot deafening in the quiet, the bullet catching the nearest archer in the chest.

He staggered, his bow clattering, his body crumpling to the floor.

The others reacted, arrows flying, one embedding in the doorframe inches from your head.

You ducked, your heart racing, and fired again, the Glock's recoil sharp, the second archer falling, blood pooling beneath him.

The remaining two retreated, their shadows slipping toward the garden, their arrows a hail that forced you back.

You slammed the basement door, locking it, your breath ragged, your mind racing.

They were outside, regrouping, their bows a long-range threat you couldn't match from the armory.

Andy was bleeding, his life slipping, and you needed to end this, to protect him, to save your home.

You grabbed a rifle from the rack, its scope a precision tool, and checked its rounds, the .223 caliber a promise of reach.

The basement had no windows, no line of sight, but the house's second floor did, its boarded windows a vantage point if you could get there.

You looked at Andy, his face pale, his chest rising faintly, and made a choice—you'd fight, you'd kill, you'd keep him alive.

You unlocked the door, the rifle raised, and moved upstairs, your steps silent, your senses alert.

The living room was empty, the back door swinging, the garden a battlefield.

You reached the staircase to the second floor, your heart pounding, the rifle heavy in your hands.

The windows up there were your chance, a way to pick off the archers, to end the threat before they breached the walls.

You reached the kids' room, its food shelves a stark contrast to the fight, and pried a board from the window, the gray light spilling in.

The garden was below, the archers crouched behind the shed, their bows drawn, their eyes scanning the house.

You aimed the rifle, the scope aligning, your finger on the trigger, but a noise behind you—a creak, a shadow—froze you.

Chapter Text

The creak behind you—a shadow, a threat—had frozen your blood, and now, as you spun, the Glock raised, you faced the third archer, his face scarred and gaunt, his knife gleaming in the dim light.

Fear and fury surged through you, a storm of emotions that sharpened your senses.

"Drop it!" you screamed, your voice raw, the Glock steady despite the tremble in your heart.

His eyes, cold and calculating, met yours, and he lunged, the knife arcing toward your chest.

You fired, the shot deafening in the small room, the bullet tearing through his throat.

Blood sprayed, a crimson arc that splattered the shelves, the cans of beans and soup gleaming with gore.

He staggered, choking, his knife clattering to the floor, and collapsed, his body twitching, his blood pooling beneath him.

Your breath came in gasps, your heart a hammer, sorrow and rage twisting inside you—sorrow for the life you'd taken, rage for the threat to Andy, to your home.

The window was your lifeline, the rifle your only chance.

You swung back, the scope aligning, but an arrow whistled through the gap, grazing your arm, the pain a searing jolt that made you cry out.

Blood trickled, warm and sticky, but you ignored it, your focus on the garden, on the two archers now moving, their forms low, their bows trained on the house.

They were coming, their intent clear—they wanted the cul-de-sac, your supplies, your life, and they'd kill to take it.

Tension gripped you, a vice that squeezed your chest, your mind racing with fear for Andy, agony for the blood on your hands, sorrow for the world that forced you to kill.

You aimed the rifle, your breath steadying, and fired, the shot cracking through the morning air.

The first archer fell, the bullet piercing his chest, his bow dropping, his body crumpling in the garden, blood soaking the soil where your beans grew.

The second archer reacted, an arrow flying, embedding in the window frame inches from your head.

You ducked, your heart pounding, the fear was a living thing that clawed at you.

"You fuckers!" you screamed, your voice a raw defiance, the rifle steady as you fired again.

The shot missed, the archer diving behind the shed, his shadow a taunt.

You grabbed the shotgun from the floor, its weight a promise of devastation, and moved to the staircase, your boots pounding, your blood dripping, your mind a singular focus—protect Andy, protect your home.

The living room was a warzone, the back door swinging, the guitar case in the corner a heartbreaking reminder of the peace you'd lost.

You reached the door, the shotgun raised, and saw him—the last archer, his bow drawn, his eyes wild with desperation.

He loosed an arrow, the shaft whistling, and you dove, the point grazing your shoulder, tearing fabric and flesh.

Pain exploded, a white-hot agony that made you gasp, but you rolled, the shotgun roaring as you fired.

The blast caught him in the leg, shredding muscle and bone, blood spraying across the porch.

He screamed, a guttural sound that echoed your own pain, and fell, his bow clattering, his hands clawing at the wound.

You staggered to your feet, the shotgun heavy, your vision swimming with pain and fear.

He reached for a knife at his belt, his face twisted with hate, and you fired again, the shot tearing through his chest, blood and bone erupting, his body slamming back, lifeless, his eyes staring at the gray sky.

The cul-de-sac was silent, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the drip of blood—yours, theirs, Andy's.

You dropped the shotgun, your hands shaking, your body trembling with the aftershocks of violence.

Sorrow crashed over you, a tidal wave that choked you, the weight of three lives taken, their blood on your hands, your home.

Fear for Andy surged, a knife in your heart, his face pale in your mind, his blood pooling in the armory.

You stumbled back inside, your arm and shoulder throbbing, blood soaking your sweater, but you ignored it, your focus on Andy, on the man you loved, the man you'd kill for, die for.

The basement door was locked, its steel plate a barrier you'd secured, and you fumbled with the key, your hands slick with blood, your sobs breaking free.

"Andy." you whispered, your voice a plea, a prayer, as you pushed the door open, the staircase a descent into dread.

He was where you'd left him, slumped against a crate, his face ashen, his shoulder a mess of blood and fabric, the arrow still lodged deep. His chest rose faintly, a shallow rhythm that was both hope and torment, his pulse a fragile thread you clung to.

You dropped to your knees beside him, the Glock clattering to the floor, your hands hovering over the arrow, fear and agony twisting inside you.

"Andy, please." you sobbed, your voice breaking, your tears falling on his face. "Don't leave me."

His eyes were closed, his breath a faint rasp, his body cold but alive, barely.

The arrow was a cruel intruder, its shaft thick, its point buried in muscle, maybe bone.

You knew pulling it could kill him, could sever an artery, but leaving it was a death sentence too, the wound festering, the blood loss draining him.

You had to act, had to save him, but the fear was paralyzing, the sorrow a weight that crushed you—sorrow for him, for the life you'd built, for the future you might lose.

You grabbed the first-aid kit from the armory's table, its contents a lifeline you'd scavenged from the gun shop. Bandages, antiseptic, a needle and thread—meager tools against a wound so grave, but all you had.

You tore his jacket open, the fabric sticky with blood, and pressed a bandage around the arrow, stabilizing it, your hands shaking, your sobs choking you. "I'm here, Andy. I'm right here, baby. I'm going to fix you right up." you whispered, your voice a desperate vow. "I'm not giving up on you."

The cul-de-sac was yours, the archers dead, their blood soaking the garden, the porch, the kids' room.

You'd fought, you'd killed, you'd protected your home, but the victory was hollow, the cost too high if Andy didn't survive.

You looked at him, his face pale, his lips parted, and made a choice, driven by love, by the agony of losing him, by the defiance that had carried you through the fight.

You gripped the arrow's shaft, your hands steady despite the fear, the sorrow, the pain in your own wounds. "I'm sorry." you whispered, your voice trembling, your tears falling. "I love you."

You pulled, the arrow sliding free with a sickening squelch, blood gushing, a crimson tide that soaked your hands, the bandage, the floor.

Andy's body jerked, a faint groan escaping him, his face contorting in pain, but his eyes stayed closed, his breath faltering, a fragile gasp that tore at your heart.

I'm sorry! Fuck! I'm so sorry!" You pressed a fresh bandage to the wound, your hands slick, your sobs raw, the blood unstoppable, a flood that threatened to take him.

He cried out.

You whimpered and a sob escapes. Your hands pressed harder, the bandage soaking through. Fear clawed at you.

His pulse was there, faint, erratic, a thread you clung to, but it was slipping, his life draining with the blood, his body cold, his face a mask of pain.

You stitched the wound, your needle trembling, the thread slick with blood, each stitch a desperate act, a prayer that it wasn't too late.

The antiseptic burned, its sting a faint hope against infection, but the blood kept coming, the bandage a futile dam.

You held him, your body curled around his, your tears falling, your voice a litany of love and fear.

"Stay with me, baby. I'm here." you sobbed, your face buried in his hair, his blood on your skin.

"Please, don't leave me alone."

" I can't do this without you."

End of Part One

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

2014

The sun beat down mercilessly on the dusty fairgrounds of Warped Tour, a chaotic symphony of screaming guitars, thumping bass, and the chatter of thousands of fans weaving through the maze of stages and merch tents.

The air was thick with the scent of sunscreen, sweat, and cheap beer.

The energy was electric, a living pulse that thrummed through the crowd.

You adjusted the straps of your backpack, the weight of your water bottle and camera digging into your shoulders, and scanned the schedule taped to the side of a tent.

You'd come to Warped Tour on a whim, dragged along by your friend, who'd bailed at the last minute, leaving you to navigate the festival solo. You bought the ticket, you weren't about to let that money go to waste.

Not that you minded too much—there was something freeing about being alone in a sea of strangers, each person caught up in their own story.

You clutched your iced coffee, the condensation slick against your palm, and sidestepped a group of teenagers with neon hair and studded belts.

The band on the nearest stage was wrapping up their set, the crowd roaring as the lead singer dove into the pit.

You smiled to yourself, soaking in the chaos.

There were many bands playing, too many to keep track of. Their names were plastered on half the T-shirts in the crowd.

One stands out to you , most. One Mia had mentioned. Black Veil Brides. Her favorite. You had checked the schedule a few times.

You figured you'd catch their set if you stumbled across it.

Lost in thought, you didn't notice the guy in front of you until it was too late.

Your shoulder collided with his, and your coffee slipped from your hand, splashing across his black tank top and ripped jeans. The cold liquid soaked into the fabric, leaving a dark stain that spread like a bruise.

"Oh my God!" you gasped, clapping a hand over your mouth. "I am so sorry!"

The guy turned, and you froze. He was tall, lanky, with jet-black hair that fell into his face and piercing blue eyes that locked onto yours. He was gorgeous.

His lips twitched into a half-smile, and despite the coffee dripping down his chest, he didn't look annoyed. If anything, he seemed amused.

"It's all good." he said, his voice low and smooth, with a hint of a laugh. "I was getting too hot anyway."

You fumbled for the napkins in your bag, thrusting them toward him. "Here, let me—God, I'm such a klutz. I wasn't looking where I was going."

He took the napkins but didn't immediately start wiping himself off. Instead, he tilted his head, studying you with a curiosity that made your cheeks burn. "You're fine, really. I've had worse things thrown at me."

You laughed nervously, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "Still, I feel awful. Can I buy you a new shirt or something? I mean, I don't know if they sell 'coffee-stained chic' at the merch tents."

His smile widened, revealing a dimple that made your stomach do a little flip. "I kinda like the vibe. Adds character." He dabbed at his shirt with the napkins, smearing the stain more than cleaning it. "What's your name?"

"Y/n," you said, still flustered. "And you are...?"

"Andy." he replied simply, his eyes glinting with something you couldn't quite place. He didn't offer a last name, and you didn't press.

You were too busy trying to shake the feeling that you'd just made a complete fool of yourself in front of someone unfairly attractive.

"Well, Andy, I owe you one." you said, gesturing to his soaked shirt. "Seriously, let me make it up to you. Coffee's on me—real coffee, not the kind that ends up on your clothes."

He chuckled, a sound that was warm and genuine. "Tempting offer. But I'm not gonna make you spend your Warped budget on me. How about you just stick around and tell me what brought you here?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "Stick around?"

"Yeah." He leaned against a nearby barricade, crossing his arms. The motion made the muscles in his shoulders flex, and you had to force yourself not to stare. "You don't seem like the type who spills coffee and runs. So, what's your deal? You a die-hard fan of someone here, or just... exploring?"

You hesitated, unsure why this random guy was so interested in keeping you there. But there was something about him—his easy confidence, the way he seemed genuinely curious—that made you want to stay.

"A bit of both, I guess." you said, relaxing slightly. "My friend was supposed to come with me, but she bailed, so I'm just wandering. I've heard of some of the bands, like Black Veil Brides, but I'm not, like, a superfan or anything."

His eyebrows shot up, and for a split second, you thought you saw a flicker of surprise in his expression. "Black Veil Brides, huh? You heard of them but don't know what they look like?"

You shrugged, a little sheepish. "Yeah, I mean, their name's everywhere, but I haven't seen their faces. I figured I'd check them out today if I found their stage."

Andy's smile turned almost mischievous. "Interesting. So you're just here for the vibes, no preconceived notions?"

"Pretty much." You tilted your head, mirroring his posture. "What about you? You seem like you know your way around this place."

He shrugged, but there was a playful glint in his eyes. "I've been to a few. It's... chaotic, but it's home. You meet all kinds of people. Like girls who attack you with coffee."

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. "I'm never living this down, am I?"

"Not a chance," he teased. "But I'm not complaining. It's a hell of a way to start a conversation."

You laughed, the tension easing from your shoulders.

There was something effortless about talking to him, like you'd known him longer than five minutes.

The crowd surged around you, but it felt like you were in your own little bubble, the noise fading into the background.

"So," Andy said, pushing off the barricade and taking a step closer. "Since you're flying solo, how about I show you around? I know the best spots—the stages with the good sound, the tents with the shortest lines for water. You know, insider stuff."

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical but intrigued. "You're offering to be my tour guide? What's the catch?"

"No catch " he said, holding up his hands. "Just figured you might want some company. Plus, I'm curious to see what kind of music Y/n, the coffee assassin, is into."

You couldn't help but smile at that. "Okay, fine. But if you lead me to a bad band, I'm holding you personally responsible."

"Deal." He grinned, motioning for you to follow him. "Come on, let's see what trouble we can get into."

Andy was true to his word.

Over the next couple of hours, he led you through the labyrinth of Warped Tour with the confidence of someone who'd done it a hundred times.

He pointed out the best vantage points for watching sets, steered you away from overcrowded food stalls, and even convinced a vendor to give you a free water bottle after a charming exchange that left the guy laughing.

He was funny, quick-witted, and disarmingly kind, always making sure you were comfortable in the chaos.

You caught glimpses of his personality in the little things—how he nodded along to the music blasting from nearby stages, how he seemed to know half the crew members by name, how he listened intently when you talked about your life outside the festival.

You told him about your job, your love for photography, and how you'd been hesitant to come to Warped alone. He shared stories of past festivals, though he was vague about his own role in them, always steering the conversation back to you.

At one point, you found yourselves sitting on a patch of grass near a smaller stage, sharing a basket of fries Andy had somehow scored from a food truck.

The sun was dipping lower, casting a golden glow over the fairgrounds, and the air had cooled slightly.

A band was setting up nearby, their soundcheck sending low vibrations through the ground.

"Okay, be honest." Andy said, popping a fry into his mouth. "What's the one band you're secretly hoping to see today?".

You thought for a moment, wiping salt from your fingers. "Probably Black Veil brides. Everyone's hyping them up, and I'm curious. Their music sounds intense, but I don't know much about them."

Andy's expression flickered again, that same mix of surprise and amusement. "Intense, huh? That's one way to put it." He leaned back on his elbows, his damp shirt long since dried in the heat. "What if they're not what you expect?"

"Then I'll just enjoy the show and move on," you said with a shrug. "Life's too short to get hung up on expectations."

He looked at you for a long moment, his blue eyes searching yours. "I like that." he said finally, his voice softer. "You're... refreshing."

You felt your cheeks heat up again and busied yourself with the fries. "Refreshing? That's a new one. I'm usually just 'that girl who spills things."

"Nah." he said, nudging your shoulder with his. "You're more than that. You're real. Most people here are trying so hard to be something they're not. You just... are."

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn't know what to say.

Before you could respond, a voice crackled over a nearby speaker, announcing that Black Veil Brides were about to take the main stage.

The crowd around you stirred, a wave of excitement rippling through the air.

Andy sat up, brushing grass off his jeans. "Well, that's your cue. You ready to see what the hype's about?"

You nodded, a mix of nerves and anticipation bubbling in your chest. "Yeah. You coming with?"

He hesitated, just for a split second, then smiled. "I'll catch up with you after. Got a couple things to take care of first."

You frowned, a little disappointed. "Okay. If you say so."

He stood, offering you a hand to pull you up.

"Here. I wasn't going to use this anyways." He slipped a black and red band onto your wrist. "Use this to get backstage after for a personal meet and greet."

His grip was warm and steady, and he held on a moment longer than necessary. "Find me after the set, okay? I'll be around."

"Yeah, sure." you mumble, still staring wide eyed down at your wrist before flicking your eyes up with a small smile. "Thanks for the tour, Andy. You're not half bad at this guide thing."

He laughed, that dimple flashing again. "You're not half bad at crashing into people. Go enjoy the show, Y/n."

With a final wave, he disappeared into the crowd, his tall frame blending into the sea of bodies.

You turned toward the main stage, your heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the music.

The main stage was packed, the crowd a sweaty, screaming mass of energy.

You managed to squeeze your way toward the front, close enough to feel the heat radiating from the stage lights.

The air buzzed with anticipation as the band's intro music started, a haunting melody that built into a thunderous riff.

The crowd erupted as five figures took the stage, their silhouettes dramatic against the backdrop of smoke and flashing lights.

Your eyes were drawn immediately to the lead singer.

He was tall, clad in black leather and ripped jeans, his face painted with stark white makeup and dark streaks that accentuated his sharp features.

His voice was powerful, a raw, emotive growl that cut through the music like a blade.

The crowd screamed every word back at him, and you found yourself caught up in the energy, your pulse racing.

It wasn't until the second song that you got a clear look at his face.

The makeup made him look otherworldly, but there was something familiar about the way he moved, the tilt of his head, the flash of his smile.

Your stomach dropped as realization hit you like a freight train.

The lead singer of Black Veil Brides was Andy.

Your Andy.

The guy you'd spilled coffee on, who'd spent hours charming you with his easy laugh and quiet intensity.

The guy who'd never once hinted that he was anything more than a festival-goer with a knack for navigation.

You stood frozen, the music pounding in your ears as you watched him command the stage.

He was magnetic, every movement deliberate, every note dripping with passion.

You couldn't tear your eyes away, even as your mind raced to process it.

He'd known you didn't recognize him.

He'd let you ramble about Black Veil Brides without saying a word.

And he'd gone out of his way to keep you around, to talk to you, to make you laugh.

The set seemed to pass in a blur, each song more intense than the last.

By the time the final chords rang out and Andy threw his fist in the air, the crowd was a roaring sea of devotion.

He lingered on stage, waving to the fans, his eyes scanning the crowd.

For a moment, you swore he saw you, his gaze lingering before he turned and disappeared backstage.

You stood there, dazed, as the crowd began to disperse.

Your heart was still pounding, a mix of adrenaline and something deeper, something that felt dangerously like a crush.

You didn't know whether to laugh or scream.

All you knew was that you had to find him.

It took some maneuvering, but you managed to slip toward the backstage area, flashing the wristband.

The area was a hive of activity—roadies hauling equipment, band members cooling off with towels and water bottles.

You spotted Andy almost immediately, leaning against a trailer, his makeup smudged and his hair damp with sweat.

He was talking to a guy with a mohawk, but when he saw you, he froze, a slow grin spreading across his face.

"Hey." he called, breaking away from the conversation. "You found me."

You crossed your arms, trying to look stern but failing miserably. "You're kind of a big deal, huh?"

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was gonna tell you. Eventually."

"Eventually?" you said, raising an eyebrow. "You let me go on about Black Veil Brides like an idiot!"

"You weren't an idiot." he said, stepping closer.

His voice softened, and the playful edge was gone, replaced by something earnest. "You were... you. You didn't know who I was, and you still talked to me like I was just some guy. Do you know how rare that is?"

You swallowed, your heart doing that stupid flip again. "So what, you kept me around to stroke your ego?"

"No." He shook his head, his eyes locking onto yours. "I kept you around because I didn't want you to walk away. I liked you, Y/n. Still do."

The air between you felt charged, like the moment before a storm.

You could hear the distant hum of the festival, but it was just background noise now.

All you could focus on was him—his smudged makeup, his damp hair, the way he was looking at you like you were the only person in the world.

"You're trouble," you said finally, a smile tugging at your lips.

"Maybe." he admitted, his grin returning. "But I'm the good kind. So, what do you say? Wanna stick around a little longer? I've got a few more sets to play, but after that... I'm all yours.

You pretended to think it over, but you already knew your answer. "Fine. But you're buying the coffee this time."

He laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. "Deal."

As you followed him back into the chaos of Warped Tour, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was the start of something bigger—something that would outlast the summer, the music, and even the coffee stains.

And as Andy glanced back at you, his blue eyes sparkling with promise, you knew you were ready to find out.

Chapter Text

The glow of your phone screen lit up the darkened room, casting soft shadows across your bed.

It was nearly 2 a.m., and you were curled under a blanket, your thumb hovering over the send button.

The message was simple, just a quick reply to Andy’s latest text: Just got off stage in Chicago. Crowd was insane. Wish you could’ve seen it. What’s keeping you up?

You smiled to yourself, your heart doing that familiar little flip it always did when his name popped up on your screen.

It had been four months since Warped Tour, four months since you’d spilled coffee all over Andy Biersack and stumbled into a day that changed everything.

What started as a chance encounter had grown into something you couldn’t quite define—a connection that spanned cities, time zones, and the chaos of his life on tour with Black Veil Brides.

You typed out a response, keeping it light but honest: Just thinking about how I’m gonna survive this deadline at work. Also, maybe missing the Warped vibes a little. Tell me about Chicago!

You hit send and settled back against your pillows, the faint hum of your apartment’s radiator filling the silence.

It wasn’t the first late-night conversation you’d had with Andy, and you doubted it would be the last.

Since that day at Warped, you’d been texting and calling almost daily, your conversations weaving through the mundane and the profound with an ease that surprised you both.

He’d send you blurry selfies from tour buses, snippets of new lyrics scrawled on napkins, or voice memos of him rambling about the dive bar he’d just left.

You’d send him photos of your morning coffee, stories about your coworkers, or the occasional shot of your camera roll—blurry landscapes and candid shots from your latest photography experiments.

It wasn’t just the frequency of your communication that struck you; it was the depth.

Andy had a way of cutting through the noise, asking questions that made you pause and think.

What’s the one thing you’d photograph if you could only take one picture for the rest of your life? he’d asked once, his voice crackling through a late-night call.

You’d laughed, thrown off by the weight of it, but ended up talking for an hour about your love for capturing fleeting moments—the way light hit a stranger’s face, the blur of a city at dusk.

He’d listened, really listened, and then shared his own answer: the view from the stage, the sea of faces screaming back at him, each one a story he’d never fully know.

Your phone buzzed, pulling you back to the present.

Andy’s reply was quick: Chicago was wild. Some kid crowd-surfed in a unicorn onesie. I’m jealous of his commitment. Work stressing you out? Spill.

Attached was a photo of him backstage, his makeup smudged, his hair a sweaty mess, and that damn dimple flashing as he grinned at the camera.

You couldn’t help but smile back at your screen, even though he was hundreds of miles away.

You typed out a longer response, telling him about the project you were scrambling to finish for work, how your boss was breathing down your neck, and how you’d been sneaking in time to edit photos from Warped Tour—some of which, you admitted, included shots of him you’d taken before you knew who he was.

You looked like you belonged up there, you wrote, hesitating before adding, Still do.

You sent it before you could overthink it, your heart racing a little.

The reply came almost immediately: You’re gonna make me blush, Y/N. Send me those pics sometime. I wanna see how you saw me.

A second text followed: Also, you got this with work. You’re a badass. Don’t let the suits get you down.

You laughed softly, the sound swallowed by the quiet of your apartment.

That was Andy—equal parts charming and encouraging, always finding a way to make you feel seen.

You tapped out a quick: Thanks, rockstar. Night. and set your phone on the nightstand.

But sleep didn’t come easily.

Your mind was too full of him—of the way his voice sounded over the phone, low and warm; of the stories he’d told you about life on the road; of the growing realization that you were falling for someone who was, in so many ways, untouchable.

~~~~~~

The weeks blurred together, each one marked by the rhythm of your conversations with Andy.

He was on a North American tour, crisscrossing the country with Black Veil Brides as their popularity continued to climb.

You followed their journey through his texts and the occasional post on X, where fans shared grainy videos of their shows and gushed about Andy’s stage presence.

You’d scroll through the comments sometimes, a mix of awe and jealousy twisting in your chest.

He’s so perfect, one fan wrote. I’d die if I met him.

You’d smile to yourself, knowing you hadn’t just met him—you’d spilled coffee on him, laughed with him, and now carried pieces of him in your pocket every day.

Your calls became a lifeline, especially on nights when the distance felt heavier.

One evening, you were sprawled on your couch, a glass of wine in hand, when your phone rang.

Andy’s name flashed on the screen, and you answered with a grin. “Hey, stranger. Shouldn’t you be screaming your lungs out somewhere?”

“Already did.” he said, his voice rough from a show but warm with amusement. “Just wrapped in Seattle. I’m hiding in the bus, trying to avoid Jake’s attempt at cooking. What’s your deal? You sound… cozy.”

“Cozy’s one word for it.” you said, swirling your wine. “I’m just chilling with a glass of cheap merlot and some bad reality TV. Living the dream.”

He laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. “That’s my kind of night. What’s the show? Don’t tell me it’s one of those dating ones.”

“Guilty.” you admitted, mock-shame in your voice. “It’s awful, but I can’t look away. What about you? What does Andy Biersack do when he’s not being a rock god?”

“Rock god, huh?” he teased. “Mostly I just crash and read. Or write. Been messing with some new songs lately. Wanna hear a piece?”

Your heart skipped. “Seriously? Yeah, of course.”

There was a pause, the sound of him shifting, and then his voice came through softer, almost hesitant.

He sang a few lines, raw and unpolished, about chasing dreams and burning out, the melody haunting even without instrumentation.

When he stopped, you were quiet for a moment, letting the words settle.

“Andy,” you said finally, “that’s beautiful. Like, really beautiful.”

“You think?” He sounded almost shy, a rare crack in his usual confidence. “It’s rough, but… I don’t know. Felt like sharing it with you.”

“I’m honored.” you said, meaning it. “You should finish it. It’s got something special.”

“Thanks, Y/n.” His voice was warm again, and you could almost picture his smile. “You’re gonna be the first to hear it when it’s done, deal?”

“Deal.” You took a sip of wine, feeling a glow that had nothing to do with the alcohol. “So, tell me about Seattle. Any unicorn onesies in the crowd?”

He launched into a story about a fan who’d thrown a stuffed animal onstage, and you settled deeper into the couch, letting his voice wash over you.

These moments—when it was just the two of you, no stage, no crowd—felt like a secret you were both keeping, something precious and fragile.

By the time winter rolled around, your connection with Andy had deepened in ways you hadn’t expected.

Your texts were a constant thread, weaving through your days.

He’d send you good-morning messages from whatever city he’d woken up in, often with a photo of his coffee or a sunrise over a parking lot.

You’d reply with updates about your life—your promotion at work, the new lens you’d splurged on for your camera, the way your cat had started stealing your socks.

He’d call when he could, sometimes from a hotel room, sometimes from the road, his voice a steady presence in your otherwise quiet evenings.

One night, just before Christmas, you were wrapping presents on your living room floor when your phone buzzed with a video call.

You wiped glitter off your hands and answered, Andy’s face filling the screen.

He was in a dimly lit room, his hair messy, his eyes bright despite the late hour.

“Hey, you.” he said, grinning. “What’s with the sparkles?”

You laughed, holding up your glitter-covered hands. “Gift-wrapping disaster. I’m fighting a losing battle with this tape. Where are you?”

“Some hotel in Denver.” he said, panning the camera to show a generic room with beige walls and a lumpy bed. “We’re off for a couple days, so I’m just… existing. Wanted to see your face.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you hoped the dim lighting hid your blush. “Well, here I am, covered in glitter and regret. What’s the rockstar life like in Denver?”

“Cold.” he said, pulling a hoodie over his head. “And quiet, for once. I was thinking about you earlier. You ever been here?”

“Nope.” you said, setting a poorly wrapped box aside. “Furthest west I’ve been is Chicago. What’s Denver like?”

“Mountains everywhere.” he said, his voice softening. “You’d love it for your photography. The light’s insane. Maybe…” He trailed off, then smiled, a little shy. “Maybe you could come out sometime. I could show you around.”

Your heart stuttered.

It wasn’t the first time he’d hinted at meeting up, but it was the most direct.

“Yeah?” you said, trying to keep your voice casual. “You offering to be my tour guide again?”

“Always.” he said, his eyes locking onto yours through the screen. “I mean it, Y/n. I’d love to see you. Not just… this.” He gestured at his phone.

You swallowed, the weight of his words settling over you. “I’d like that.” you said softly. “When you’re not a million miles away.”

“Soon.” he promised. “Tour’s winding down in a couple months. Maybe you could come to a show. Or I could come to you. Wherever you are, I’m there.”

You smiled, your chest tight with a mix of hope and nerves. “Careful, Biersack. I might hold you to that.”

“I’m counting on it.” he said, his grin wide and unguarded.

The new year brought a shift, subtle but undeniable.

Your conversations grew more intimate, your texts laced with a warmth that hadn’t been there before.

Andy started sharing more of himself—not just the rockstar, but the person beneath.

He told you about his childhood in Ohio, the awkward kid who’d found solace in music; about the doubts that still crept in, even with a growing fanbase; about the way he sometimes felt like he was living two lives, one onstage and one off.

You shared your own fears, your dreams of turning your photography into something more, the quiet loneliness of your days when he wasn’t a text away.

One night in February, you were on the phone with him, your voice muffled by the pillow you were hugging.

He was in a hotel in Atlanta, the tour nearing its end.

The conversation had drifted to music, as it often did, and you’d admitted you’d been listening to Black Veil Brides’ latest album on repeat.

“Be honest.” he said, his tone playful but curious. “What do you think? No filter.”

You laughed, rolling onto your back. “It’s intense. Like, in a good way. Your voice… it’s got this rawness. Like you’re bleeding into every word. It’s hard to explain.”

He was quiet for a moment, and you worried you’d said something wrong.

Then he spoke, his voice low. “That’s the best compliment I’ve ever gotten. You get it, Y/n. You get me.”

Your breath caught, and you pressed the phone closer to your ear. “I’m trying.” you said, half-teasing, half-serious. “You’re not exactly an open book, you know.”

“Maybe not.” he admitted. “But you make me want to be. I don’t know how you do that.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t say anything.

You just listened to the sound of his breathing, steady and real, and let the moment stretch.

By March, the tour was wrapping up, and the prospect of seeing Andy again felt tantalizingly close.

He’d started dropping hints about visiting your city, and you’d catch yourself daydreaming about it—walking through your neighborhood with him, showing him your favorite coffee shop, seeing his smile in person instead of through a screen.

The thought made your stomach flutter, but it also brought a thread of anxiety.

What if the spark wasn’t the same in person?

What if the months of texts and calls had built something that couldn’t hold up in reality?

One evening, as you were editing photos on your laptop, your phone buzzed with a text from Andy: Just booked a flight. Guess where I’m headed next week?

Your heart leapt, and you typed back, No way. Tell me it’s not Vegas or something ridiculous.

His reply was instant: Your city, coffee girl. Clear your schedule. I’m stealing you for a day.

You stared at the screen, a grin spreading across your face.

It was happening.

After months of late-night calls, blurry selfies, and shared secrets, Andy was coming to you.

You typed out a response, your fingers trembling with excitement: You’re on, rockstar. Better bring your A-game.

As you set your phone down, the reality of it sank in.

Andy Biersack, the guy who’d charmed you at Warped Tour, who’d become your constant through months of distance, was about to step out of your phone and into your world.

And as nervous as you were, you were ready for this.

Ready for him.

Chapter Text

2014

The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of blooming cherry blossoms as you stood outside your apartment building, your heart hammering in your chest.

It was early April, and the city was alive with the hum of spring—cars honking in the distance, pedestrians weaving through the streets, the golden light of late afternoon spilling over the pavement.

You adjusted the strap of your crossbody bag, smoothing down the hem of your favorite black dress, the one you'd agonized over for hours before deciding it struck the right balance of casual and intentional.

Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you glanced at the screen: a text from Andy. Just landed. Be there in 20.

You ready to show me your world, coffee girl?

You smiled, your nerves sparking with a mix of excitement and anxiety. After months of texting, calling, and video chats, Andy was here, in your city, no longer a voice on the phone or a face on a screen.

The memory of Warped Tour felt like a lifetime ago—spilling coffee on him, laughing under the summer sun, not knowing he was the lead singer of Black Veil Brides.

Since then, your connection had grown into something deeper, something that kept you up at night wondering what it could become. And now, with him just minutes away, the reality of seeing him again was both thrilling and terrifying.

You typed back, Born ready, rockstar. Don't get lost.

You hit send, then slipped your phone into your bag, trying to steady your breathing.

You'd planned the evening carefully, wanting to show him the parts of your city that meant something to you.

Dinner at a cozy Italian place with fairy lights and the best tiramisu in town, a walk through the botanical gardens where the cherry blossoms were in full bloom, and maybe, if the night felt right, a stop at the rooftop bar you loved for its view of the skyline.

It was simple but intentional, a chance to see if the spark you'd felt through months of distance could ignite in person.

The rumble of an engine pulled you from your thoughts.

A black SUV pulled up to the curb, and the passenger door opened, revealing Andy.

He stepped out, taller than you remembered, his lean frame clad in a black leather jacket, ripped jeans, and boots that looked like they'd seen a hundred stages. His hair was a mess of inky black, falling into his face, and his blue eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

He grinned, that familiar dimple flashing, and suddenly the months apart melted away.

"Y/n." he said, his voice warm and rough, like he'd just stepped offstage. "You look... wow."

You laughed, your cheeks heating. "Wow yourself. You clean up nice for a guy who lives on a tour bus."

He chuckled, closing the distance between you in a few strides.

For a moment, you both hesitated, the air charged with the weight of finally being in the same place.

Then he opened his arms, and you stepped into them, his embrace warm and solid.

He smelled faintly of leather and cedar, and you felt his chin rest briefly on the top of your head before he pulled back, his hands lingering on your shoulders.

"It's so good to see you." he said, his eyes searching yours. "Like, really see you."

"You too." you said, your voice softer than you intended. "I was starting to think you were just a really convincing hologram."

He laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. "No holograms here. Just me, ready to be your tourist for the night. Where are we starting?"

You grinned, motioning down the street. "Food first. I hope you're hungry, because this place doesn't mess around."

"Starving." he said, falling into step beside you. "Lead the way, coffee girl."

The restaurant was tucked into a quiet corner of the city, its exterior draped in ivy and twinkling fairy lights.

Inside, the air was warm, filled with the scent of garlic and fresh basil.

You'd reserved a corner table by the window, where candlelight flickered against the glass, casting soft reflections.

Andy slid into the seat across from you, his long legs stretching under the table, and you couldn't help but notice how he seemed to fill the space—not just physically, but with a quiet charisma that drew glances from other diners.

"Nice choice." he said, scanning the menu. "Feels like a place where secrets get spilled over wine."

You raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. "Oh? You planning to spill any secrets tonight, Biersack?"

He smirked, his eyes glinting. "Maybe. Depends on how much of that tiramisu you're willing to share."

You laughed, the tension in your shoulders easing.

The conversation flowed as easily as it did over the phone, slipping between playful banter and deeper moments.

You told him about the time you'd gotten lost in the city as a kid, wandering for hours until a kind stranger helped you find your way home.

He shared a story about his first gig with Black Veil Brides, how he'd been so nervous he'd forgotten half the lyrics and improvised his way through.

"You're kidding." you said, your fork hovering over your plate of gnocchi. "You, nervous? Mr. Commands-the-Stage?"

"Swear to God." he said, holding up a hand. "I was a mess. Still am sometimes. You just learn to fake it better."

You tilted your head, studying him. "I don't buy it. You always seem so... sure. Like you were born to be up there."

He looked at you for a long moment, his expression softening. "That's because I know who I am when I'm singing. Offstage, though? I'm still figuring it out. But talking to you... it's like I get a little closer to knowing."

Your heart skipped, and you busied yourself with your wine to hide the flush creeping up your neck. "You're gonna have to stop saying stuff like that." you said, half-teasing. "I'm not equipped for this level of charm."

He grinned, leaning forward. "Good. Keeps you on your toes."

The meal passed in a blur of laughter and shared bites of tiramisu, which you reluctantly let him have the last spoonful of after a mock argument.

When the bill came, he insisted on paying, waving off your protests with a playful glare. "You're showing me your city." he said. "Least I can do is cover the pasta."

"Fine." you said, standing. "But I'm picking the next spot. Ready for some flowers?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Flowers? You're taking me to a garden? This I gotta see."

The botanical gardens were a short walk away, the paths lined with cherry trees in full bloom, their petals drifting like soft pink snow in the evening breeze.

The air was cooler now, and you shivered slightly as you stepped onto the main path, the fairy lights strung through the branches casting a dreamy glow.

Andy noticed your shiver and shrugged off his leather jacket, draping it over your shoulders before you could protest.

"You don't have to—" you started, but he cut you off with a look.

"You're cold. I'm not. End of story." He grinned, nudging your shoulder. "Besides, it looks better on you."

You rolled your eyes but pulled the jacket tighter, the warmth and scent of him enveloping you. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're welcome." he said, falling into step beside you.

The gardens were quiet, the crowd thinning as the night deepened.

You walked slowly, pointing out your favorite spots—the koi pond glinting under the moonlight, the archway covered in climbing roses.

Andy listened, his hands in his pockets, but his eyes kept drifting to you, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"You come here a lot?" he asked as you paused by a bench surrounded by blooming magnolias.

"When I need to think." you said, sitting down. "It's peaceful. Makes the world feel... smaller, somehow."

He sat beside you, close enough that your knees brushed. "I get that. I don't get a lot of peace on tour. It's all noise and movement. But this..." He gestured to the gardens, the petals falling around you. "This is nice. Feels like a moment I'll remember."

You looked at him, the candlelight from a nearby lantern catching the blue of his eyes. "You're not what I expected, you know."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What'd you expect? More eyeliner? A cape?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "I don't know. Someone less... real. You're this big rockstar, but you're also just... Andy. The guy who let me ramble at Warped Tour, who calls me at 2 a.m. to talk about nothing. It's disorienting."

He leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "You want the truth? You disorient me too. I'm used to people seeing the stage version of me—the makeup, the screams, the whole deal. But you saw me before all that, and you still stuck around. That's... rare."

Your chest tightened, and you looked down at your hands, suddenly shy. "I didn't have much choice. You're kind of hard to walk away from."

He was quiet for a moment, and when you glanced up, his gaze was intense, unguarded. "Good." he said softly. "Because I don't want you to walk away."

The words hung between you, heavy with possibility.

You felt the world narrow to just the two of you, the gardens fading into the background.

Your heart pounded, and before you could second-guess yourself, you reached for his hand, your fingers brushing his.

He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with yours, his touch warm and steady.

"Y/n." he said, his voice low, "I've been thinking about this—about you—for months. I don't know what this is yet, but I know I don't want it to stop."

You swallowed, your throat tight. "Me neither." you whispered. "But... you're you. Your life is huge, and I'm just... here. What happens when you leave tomorrow?"

He squeezed your hand, his eyes never leaving yours. "I don't have all the answers. But I know I want to figure it out with you. I'm not asking for promises, just... a chance. Can we do that?"

You nodded, a smile breaking through your nerves. "Yeah. We can do that."

He grinned, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Good. Now come on, show me more of this place before I get all sappy and start writing you a song right here."

You laughed, standing and pulling him up with you. "Deal. But if you write me a song, I expect to hear it first."

"Always." he said, and the promise in his voice felt like a vow.

The night ended at the rooftop bar you'd hoped to show him, a sleek space with a view of the city skyline, the lights twinkling like stars against the dark.

You sat at a high-top table, sharing a plate of appetizers and a bottle of wine, the conversation lighter now but no less meaningful.

Andy told you about the new album Black Veil Brides were working on, his eyes lighting up as he described the sound they were chasing.

You showed him some of your recent photos on your phone, blushing when he lingered on a shot you'd taken of the Warped Tour crowd, his silhouette just visible in the corner.

"You've got an eye." he said, zooming in on the image. "This is... it's like you captured the soul of that day."

"You're just saying that because you're in it." you teased, but his expression was serious.

"No. I'm saying it because it's true. You see things, Y/N. Not just the surface— the heart of them. It's why I can't stop talking to you."

You looked away, your cheeks warm, and he reached across the table, his hand covering yours.

"Hey." he said softly. "Don't hide. I mean it."

You met his gaze, and the world seemed to slow. The bar, the city, the noise—it all faded, leaving just the two of you.

"You're gonna ruin me, you know that?" you said, half-laughing.

"Good." he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Because you're already ruining me."

The moment stretched, electric and fragile, and then he leaned across the table, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was soft, tentative, but filled with months of unspoken longing.

You kissed him back, your hand finding his cheek, and when you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

"Worth the wait." he murmured, and you laughed, your heart soaring.

The rest of the night was a blur of small, perfect moments—walking back to your apartment under the streetlights, his arm around your shoulders; stealing another kiss on your doorstep, this one deeper, more certain; the way he lingered, his hands framing your face, like he was memorizing you.

When he finally left, promising to call the next day, you stood in your doorway, his jacket still draped over your shoulders, and felt the world shift beneath you.

This was no longer just a connection, a flirtation, a possibility. It was real, tangible, a spark that had caught and was burning brighter with every moment.

As you climbed into bed, your phone buzzed with a final text from Andy: Tonight was everything. Sleep well, coffee girl. I'm already counting down to next time.

You smiled, your heart full, and typed back, You too, rockstar. Don't keep me waiting too long.

As you drifted to sleep, the memory of his kiss lingered, a promise of something new, something that could weather the distance, the chaos, and the weight of his world.

For the first time, you weren't afraid of what came next.

You were ready—ready for him, ready for this, ready for whatever the stars had in store.

Chapter Text

2015

The past year had been a whirlwind, a kaleidoscope of stolen moments and hard-won memories that stitched you and Andy closer together despite the miles that often separated you.

It was nearly a year since that fateful day at Warped Tour, when you'd spilled coffee on him and unwittingly set the course for something extraordinary.

Since then, your relationship had blossomed through late-night phone calls, flurries of texts, and every possible in-person date you could manage.

Each visit—whether he was flying to your city or you were catching a last-minute flight to meet him at a tour stop—felt like a lifeline, a burst of color in the grayscale of your everyday life.

Your job, however, was the opposite.

Working as a junior graphic designer at a soulless marketing firm had become a daily grind, your creativity stifled by a boss who seemed to thrive on micromanaging and dismissing your ideas.

Mr. Hargrove was a walking stereotype of corporate mediocrity—pinstriped suits, a permanent scowl, and a knack for taking credit for your work while piling on impossible deadlines.

You'd stuck it out for the paycheck, but every day felt like a betrayal of the passion that had driven you to photography and design in the first place.

Andy, on the other hand, was your escape.

His world was chaotic, loud, and unpredictable, but it was also vibrant and alive.

You'd spent the year soaking up every moment with him—coffee shop dates in your city, backstage chaos at Black Veil Brides shows, quiet nights in hotel rooms where you'd sprawl across the bed, sharing stories and dreaming aloud.

Each visit deepened your bond, turning flirtation into love, possibility into certainty.

But the distance was a constant ache, a reminder that your time together was always on a clock.

It was late March, and Andy was back in your city for a rare three-day break between tour legs.

You were curled up on your couch, your legs tangled with his, a half-empty pizza box on the coffee table.

The TV was on, some forgettable action movie playing in the background, but neither of you was watching.

Andy's fingers traced lazy patterns on your arm, his head resting against yours, and the quiet intimacy of the moment felt like a gift.

"I hate leaving you." he murmured, his voice low and rough from a week of shows. "Every time I get on a plane, it feels like I'm leaving half of me behind."

You tilted your head to look at him, your heart squeezing.

His blue eyes were soft, unguarded, and the faint stubble on his jaw caught the dim light.

"I know." you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's not just you. I spend half my days counting down to the next time I'll see you, and the other half trying to pretend my job doesn't suck the life out of me."

He frowned, shifting to face you fully. "It's still that bad? Hargrove still riding you?"

"Worse." you admitted, picking at a loose thread on the couch. "Yesterday he scrapped a project I'd been working on for weeks because it wasn't 'on brand,' whatever that means. Then he had me redo it his way, which looks like something a toddler could've made in PowerPoint. I'm so tired of it, Andy. I want to create something that matters, not churn out corporate garbage."

He was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful.

Then he sat up, a spark in his eyes that you recognized as the prelude to one of his big ideas. "What if you didn't have to?"

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical but intrigued. "What, just quit? I mean, I'd love to, but I kinda need to eat."

"No, not just quit." He leaned forward, his voice gaining intensity. "Come with me. On tour. Be our photographer."

You blinked, caught off guard. "Your... photographer?"

"Yeah." He grinned, the dimple you loved flashing. "Black Veil Brides needs someone to handle our media—photos, videos, socials, the whole deal. We've been cobbling it together with freelancers and crew, but it's a mess. You're a badass with a camera, Y/N. You've got an eye for capturing what matters. You could make us look good, tell our story through your lens. And..." He paused, his grin softening. "You'd be with me. No more counting down days. We'd be together."

Your heart raced, a mix of excitement and disbelief. "Andy, that's... I mean, it sounds incredible, but it's huge. I'd have to quit my job. Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure." he said, taking your hands in his. His touch was warm, grounding. "I've seen your work, Y/n. Those photos you took at Warped, the stuff you've shown me since—it's not just good, it's you. You'd bring something real to the band. And selfishly? I want you with me. I'm tired of missing you."

You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in.

The idea was intoxicating—leaving behind the drudgery of your job, trading it for a life on the road with the man you loved, camera in hand, capturing the chaos and beauty of Black Veil Brides.

But it was also terrifying, a leap into the unknown that would upend everything you'd known.

"What if I screw it up?" you said, your voice small. "What if I'm not good enough?"

He shook his head, his grip on your hands tightening. "You won't. I know you, Y/n. You're tougher than you think, and you've got more talent in your pinky than Hargrove has in his whole body. This isn't just about the band—it's about you getting to do what you love. With me."

You swallowed, your mind racing. "I'd need to talk to the band, right? Make sure they're okay with it?"

"Already did." he said, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "I floated the idea to the guys last week. They're in. Jake said your Warped photos were better than anything we've had, and Jinxx thinks you'd be a great fit. They want to meet you formally, but they're sold."

You laughed, a mix of nerves and disbelief. "You're sneaky, you know that?"

"Only when it's worth it." he said, leaning closer. "So, what do you say? Wanna run away with me and make some art?"

You looked into his eyes, seeing not just the rockstar who commanded stages but the man who'd called you at 2 a.m. to share a new song, who'd kissed you under cherry blossoms, who'd made you believe in something bigger.

And in that moment, the fear gave way to a certainty that felt like coming home.

"Yes." you said, your voice steady. "I'm in."

His grin was blinding, and he pulled you into his arms, kissing you with a fierceness that stole your breath.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice a low murmur. "You're not gonna regret this, coffee girl. This is just the beginning."

The next two days were a blur of planning.

Andy helped you draft a resignation letter, his playful suggestions—

"Tell Hargrove he can shove his 'on brand' nonsense where the sun doesn't shine"

—making you laugh even as your stomach churned with nerves.

You researched the logistics of joining a tour, from packing light to managing a media role on the road.

Andy arranged a video call with the band, and you spent an hour talking with Jake, Jinxx, CC, and Ashley, their easy camaraderie and genuine enthusiasm easing your doubts.

They loved your portfolio, and by the end of the call, you felt like you were already part of the team.

The plan was set: Andy's break ended tomorrow, and he'd fly back to join the tour in Seattle.

If all went well, you'd meet him there in a week, after tying up loose ends in your city.

The biggest hurdle was confronting Hargrove, a task you'd been dreading since you'd made your decision.

But with Andy by your side, the idea of walking away felt less like a risk and more like a liberation.

The morning of Andy's departure, you stood in the office parking lot, your resignation letter burning a hole in your bag.

He'd insisted on coming with you, partly for moral support and partly, you suspected, because he wanted to see Hargrove's reaction.

You'd tried to dissuade him—"It's just a quick meeting, I'll be fine"—but he'd grinned and said, "No way I'm missing this. Besides, I wanna make sure he doesn't try anything stupid."

Now, as you walked toward the glass doors of the office building, Andy's hand brushed yours, a quiet reassurance.

He was dressed down, a hoodie and sunglasses hiding his rockstar persona, but his presence was a steady anchor against the storm of your nerves.

"You sure you're ready for this?" he asked, his voice low as you stepped into the elevator.

"No." you admitted, managing a small smile. "But I'm doing it anyway. For me. For us."

He squeezed your hand, his eyes warm behind the sunglasses. "That's my girl."

The elevator dinged, and you stepped into the sterile fluorescence of the office.

Your coworkers glanced up, their curiosity piqued by the tall stranger at your side, but you kept your focus on Hargrove's office at the end of the hall.

His door was ajar, and you could hear him barking orders into his phone.

You knocked, your heart pounding, and he looked up, his scowl deepening when he saw you.

"Y/n." he said, hanging up without a goodbye. "What's this about? And who's this?" He gestured to Andy, his tone dripping with disdain.

"This is Andy." you said, keeping your voice steady. "And I need to talk to you about my resignation."

Hargrove's eyes narrowed, and he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Resignation? You're joking."

"I'm not." You pulled the letter from your bag and slid it across his desk. "I'm giving my two weeks' notice, effective today. I've accepted another position."

He snatched the letter, scanning it with a sneer. "Another position? Where? Some startup that'll fold in six months? You're throwing away a stable job for what, a whim?"

You felt Andy tense beside you, but you placed a hand on his arm, signaling you had this.

"It's not a whim." you said, your voice firm. "I've been offered a role as the lead photographer and media manager for a band.

It's a chance to do work I'm passionate about, and I'm taking it."

Hargrove's face reddened, his jaw tightening. "A band? You're leaving a professional career to chase some rock-and-roll fantasy? That's the most idiotic thing I've ever heard. You're not even that good, Y/n. You think you can just walk away and make it in some cutthroat industry? You'll be back here begging for your job in a month."

Andy stepped forward, his sunglasses now off, his blue eyes blazing. "Watch your mouth." he said, his voice low but laced with steel. "Y/n's talent is worth ten of you. She's not just good—she's exceptional. And she's not begging for anything, especially not from someone who doesn't know how to appreciate her."

Hargrove blinked, clearly thrown by Andy's intensity. "Who the hell are you to talk to me like that?"

"Andy Biersack." he said, his tone clipped. "Lead singer of Black Veil Brides. The band Y/N's joining. And I'd suggest you show her some respect, because she's about to do things you couldn't dream of."

The room went silent, the weight of Andy's words hanging heavy. Hargrove's mouth opened, then closed, his bravado faltering.

You felt a surge of gratitude for Andy's defense, but you weren't done yet.

"I'm not coming back." you said, meeting Hargrove's eyes. "I've spent years here letting you belittle my work, take credit for my ideas, and make me feel small. But I'm done. I'm choosing myself, my passion, and the people who believe in me. You don't get to decide what I'm capable of."

Hargrove's face twisted, a mix of anger and disbelief. "You're making a mistake." he spat. "You'll regret this. Don't expect a reference, and don't think you can crawl back when this blows up in your face."

"I won't need to." you said, standing taller. "Good luck finding someone else to carry your workload."

You turned, Andy at your side, and walked out without looking back. The office was a blur of stunned faces, your coworkers whispering as you passed, but you didn't care.

The weight you'd carried for years was gone, replaced by a lightness that felt like freedom.

Outside, the spring air hit you like a cleansing wave.

Andy grabbed your hand, pulling you into a hug that lifted you off your feet.

"You were incredible." he said, his grin wide. "Hargrove didn't know what hit him."

You laughed, the adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. "I can't believe I did that. And you—did you see his face when you said who you were?"

"Priceless." Andy said, setting you down but keeping his arms around you. "I'm so proud of you, Y/n. You didn't just quit—you took your life back."

You looked up at him, your heart full. "I couldn't have done it without you. This... all of it... it's because you believed in me."

He shook his head, his eyes soft. "No. It's because you're you. I just gave you a nudge."

You kissed him, quick and fierce, the world fading to just the two of you.

When you pulled back, he was smiling, that dimple you loved making your heart skip.

"So," he said, lacing his fingers with yours. "Seattle in a week. You ready to be our rockstar photographer?"

"More than ready." you said, your grin matching his. "Let's make some art."

The next week was a whirlwind of tying up loose ends.

You gave notice to your landlord, packed your essentials into a duffel bag, and shipped your camera equipment to the tour's next stop.

Your friends threw you a going-away party, toasting to your new adventure with cheap wine and tearful hugs.

Mia, your friend who'd bailed on Warped Tour, was especially emotional, claiming partial credit for your love story.

"If I hadn't ditched you, you wouldn't have spilled coffee on him!" she said, and you couldn't argue.

Andy called every night, his excitement infectious as he talked about the tour, the band, and the ideas he had for your role.

"We're gonna make something epic." he said during one call, his voice crackling with energy. "Your photos, our music—it's gonna be a story people won't forget."

By the time you boarded the plane to Seattle, you were buzzing with anticipation.

The flight was short, and when you stepped into the arrivals area, Andy was there, leaning against a pillar with a sign that read "Coffee Girl, Welcome to the Chaos" in his messy handwriting.

You laughed, dropping your bag to run into his arms, and he kissed you like you'd been apart for years instead of days.

"Ready for your new life?" he asked, his forehead against yours.

"Together?" you asked, lips brushing his.

"Always." he whispered before his lips met yours.

~~~~~~

The tour bus was a revelation—a cramped, chaotic home on wheels that smelled faintly of coffee and leather.

The band welcomed you like family, Jake pulling you into a bear hug, CC offering you a drumstick "for luck," Jinxx showing you the bunk you'd share (conveniently next to Andy's), and Ashley handing you a band T-shirt with your name on the back.

You spent the first day shadowing their current media guy, learning the ropes of shooting live shows, managing their twitter account, and capturing candid moments for fans.

That night, as you stood side-stage during their Seattle show, camera in hand, you felt a rush unlike anything you'd known.

Andy was electric, his voice soaring through the venue, the crowd a sea of raised hands and screaming voices.

You snapped photos—Andy mid-scream, Jake's guitar solo, CC's drumsticks a blur—each frame capturing the raw energy you'd fallen in love with.

When Andy caught your eye during a quiet moment, winking as he sang, you knew this was where you were meant to be.

After the show, you sat with him on the bus, editing photos on your laptop while he leaned against you, his chin on your shoulder.

"These are insane." he said, scrolling through your shots. "You're making us look better than we are."

"Hardly." you said, nudging him. "You guys make my job easy."

He kissed your temple, his voice soft. "This is just the start, Y/n. You and me, we're gonna build something unstoppable."

And as you leaned into him, the hum of the bus carrying you toward the next city, you believed him.

You'd left behind a life that dimmed your light for one that set it ablaze.

With Andy by your side, a camera in your hands, and a road stretching endlessly ahead, you were ready for whatever came next.

Chapter Text

2019

Five years had passed since you spilled coffee on Andy at Warped Tour, a moment that now felt like a distant spark that had ignited an extraordinary life.

In those years, you and Andy had built something unshakable—a love that weathered the grind of touring, the pressures of fame, and the inevitable challenges of living in each other's pockets on a tour bus.

You'd become Black Veil Brides' official photographer and media manager, a role that evolved into something far greater than a job.

You were the band's heartbeat, the one who captured their raw energy in photos, crafted their story for the world, and, most importantly, kept their spirits high through the endless cycle of soundchecks, shows, and sleepless nights.

The band adored you, and you them.

Jake Pitts, with his dry humor and quiet loyalty, had become like a brother, always ready to geek out over your latest camera gear.

Jinxx, the band's soulful anchor, trusted you with candid shots that revealed his introspective side, and you'd spent countless hours discussing music and life.

CC, the chaotic drummer, was your partner in crime for pranks and late-night snack runs, his infectious energy a constant boost.

Lonny Eagleton, the newest addition, had fit seamlessly into the dynamic, his easygoing nature and quick wit making him a fast friend.

And Andy—your Andy—was the center of it all, your partner, your rock, the man whose love made every mile worthwhile.

It was a balmy August night, and the tour bus rumbled down a quiet highway somewhere between Chicago and Minneapolis.

The current tour was a grueling one, a six-month slog across North America to promote Black Veil Brides' latest album.

The shows were electric, the crowds bigger than ever, but the relentless pace had started to wear on everyone.

Tonight, though, was a rare gift—a night with no obligations, no early call time, just the band, the bus, and the promise of a few hours to let loose.

You were sprawled on the bus's lounge couch, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table in front of you, a deck of cards scattered across its surface.

The bus's interior was a familiar chaos: empty Red Bull cans, a guitar propped against a bunk, a pile of your camera gear tucked in a corner.

The air smelled faintly of leather and cigarette smoke, and the low hum of the engine was a comforting backdrop.

Andy sat beside you, his arm slung over your shoulders, his long legs stretched out as he sipped a beer.

Across the table, Jake and CC were locked in a heated round of Uno, while Jinxx and Lonny lounged nearby, nursing drinks and heckling the players.

"CC, you can't just throw a wild card and not call a color!" Jake said, tossing his cards down in mock outrage. "That's cheating, man!"

"It's strategy, Pitts!" CC shot back, grinning as he leaned back in his seat, his mohawk slightly askew. "You're just mad because I'm winning."

"You're winning because you're a dirty cheater." Jake muttered, but his eyes twinkled with amusement.

You laughed, reaching for the whiskey bottle. "You guys are gonna start a riot over Uno. Maybe we should switch to something less controversial, like poker."

"Poker?" Lonny raised an eyebrow, swirling his drink. "You sure you wanna play with Y/n? She's got a poker face that could bankrupt us all."

"Damn right." Andy said, pulling you closer and planting a kiss on your temple. "My girl's a shark. You should've seen her clean me out in Vegas last year."

You grinned, nudging him. "You were distracted by the slot machines. Don't blame me for your poor life choices."

The group erupted in laughter, and you felt a warmth settle in your chest. These moments—loud, messy, and full of love—were what made the road feel like home.

You'd become the glue that held the band together, not just through your work but through your presence.

You were the one who noticed when Jake was too quiet, coaxing him out with a bad joke or a shared beer.

You knew when Jinxx needed space or when CC was itching for a distraction.

And with Andy, you were his anchor, the one who could read his mood with a glance and pull him back from the edge of exhaustion.

"Alright, poker it is." Jinxx said, grabbing the deck and shuffling with practiced ease. "But we're playing for snacks, not cash. I'm not losing my money to Y/n again."

"Snacks?" CC's eyes lit up. "I'm putting in my secret stash of Sour Patch Kids."

"You have a secret stash?" you said, feigning shock. "And you didn't share? I'm hurt, Christian. How could you do something so cruel as to hide sour patch kids from me?"

He clutched his chest dramatically. "You never asked. But fine, I'll throw in a bag for the pot. But only if you go easy on me."

"No promises." you said, winking as Jinxx dealt the cards.

The game began, a mix of strategy, bluffing, and ridiculous side bets.

Andy's hand rested on your knee under the table, a quiet connection amidst the chaos.

You caught his eye as you raised the bet with a handful of pretzels, and he grinned, that dimple you still loved flashing in the dim light.

Five years together, and he could still make your heart skip with a look.

"You're trouble." he murmured, leaning close so only you could hear.

"Says the guy who convinced me to run away with a rock band." you shot back, your voice teasing but soft.

He chuckled, his thumb brushing your knee. "Best decision you ever made."

You couldn't argue with that.

As the night wore on, the poker game devolved into chaos.

CC tried to bet a half-eaten bag of chips, Jake accused Jinxx of stacking the deck, and Lonny attempted to barter his turn with a promise to do everyone's laundry (a promise no one believed).

The whiskey flowed freely, loosening tongues and amplifying laughter.

You snapped a few candid photos with your phone—Jake mid-rant, CC balancing a card on his nose, Andy's arm around you, his smile lazy and content.

These were the moments you cherished, the ones you'd never post on the band's social's but would keep for yourself, a private archive of your life together.

At one point, Jinxx raised his glass, his expression warm but serious. "To Y/n," he said, catching everyone's attention. "For keeping us sane, making us look good, and putting up with our bullshit. You're the real MVP."

"Hear, hear!" CC shouted, raising his beer so fast it sloshed onto the table.

You blushed, waving them off. "You guys, stop. I just take pictures and make sure you don't starve."

"Nah." Jake said, leaning back in his chair. "You're more than that. You're like... the mom, the sister, and the badass all in one. We'd be a mess without you."

"Truth " Lonny added, clinking his glass against Jinxx's. "I've only been here a year, and I can't imagine this band without you. You make it feel like family."

Your throat tightened, and you looked down at your cards to hide the emotion in your eyes.

Andy's hand squeezed your knee, and when you glanced at him, his expression was soft, proud.

"They're right." he said, loud enough for the others to hear. "You're the heart of this thing, babe. Always have been."

"Okay, okay." you said, laughing to cover the lump in your throat. "Enough with the sappy stuff. You're gonna make me cry, and then I'll have to beat you all at poker to feel better."

The group cheered, the moment lightening, and the game resumed with renewed vigor.

But Jinxx's toast lingered, a reminder of the role you'd carved out.

You weren't just Andy's partner or the band's photographer—you were their confidante, their cheerleader, their safe harbor in a storm.

And they were yours.

By midnight, the poker game had been abandoned in favor of a makeshift karaoke session.

CC had commandeered the bus's Bluetooth speaker, blasting a mix of 80s hair metal and pop-punk anthems.

Jake and Lonny were belting out a surprisingly decent rendition of Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer," while Jinxx played air guitar with a broom.

You and Andy were on the couch, your legs across his lap, a fresh round of drinks in hand as you laughed until your sides ached.

"Your turn, Y/n!" CC called, tossing you an imaginary microphone. "Give us some Paramore or something."

"Oh, no." you said, holding up your hands. "I'm strictly a shower singer. You don't want to hear this."

"Oh, come on." Andy said, nudging you. "You've heard me scream my lungs out for a living. You owe me one."

You shot him a mock glare, but the whiskey and the group's encouragement were enough to push you over the edge.

"Fine." you said, standing and grabbing your phone to queue up a song. "But you're all singing backup."

The bus erupted in cheers as the opening riff blared.

You leaned into the performance, hamming it up with dramatic gestures and a voice that was more enthusiasm than skill.

Andy joined you, his deep voice harmonizing surprisingly well, while CC and Jake provided over-the-top backup vocals.

Jinxx and Lonny clapped along, and by the end, the entire bus was a mess of laughter and applause.

"You're hired." Andy said, pulling you back onto the couch and kissing your cheek. "New opening act for the tour."

"Hard pass." you said, breathless from laughing. "I'll stick to my camera."

"Good call." Jake said, flopping onto the floor. "But that was iconic. We need to record that next time."

"Over my dead body." you said, but you were grinning, the joy of the moment washing over you.

As the night deepened, the energy mellowed. CC passed out on a bunk, snoring loudly, while Jake and Lonny started a quieter card game in the corner.

Jinxx was strumming softly on his guitar, a gentle melody that filled the bus with a calming warmth.

You and Andy stayed on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder, his fingers laced with yours.

"Tonight was perfect." you said softly, the whiskey making your words loose and honest. "I love this. All of it. You, them, this life."

He turned his head, his lips brushing your forehead. "Me too. You make it better, Y/n. Every day."

You smiled, your heart full. "You're not so bad yourself, Biersack."

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through you. "Five years, and you still call me Biersack. When are you gonna just call me Andy?"

"When you stop calling me coffee girl," you teased, tilting your head to meet his eyes.

"Never." he said, his grin wicked. "That's my origin story with you. Coffee stains and all."

You laughed, leaning up to kiss him. It was slow, soft, a moment that felt like a promise renewed.

When you pulled back, his eyes were warm, and he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Seriously, though." he said, his voice low. "I don't say it enough, but you're everything. To me, to the band. I don't know how we got so lucky."

You swallowed, the weight of his words settling deep. "I'm the lucky one." you said. "I was stuck in a cubicle, hating my life, and then you showed up. You gave me this."

He shook his head, his thumb brushing your cheek. "You gave yourself this. I just opened the door. You're the one who walked through."

You didn't argue, just leaned into his touch, letting the moment stretch.

The bus rumbled on, carrying you toward the next city, the next show, the next chapter.

But tonight, in the glow of whiskey and laughter, with Andy's arms around you and the band you loved like family nearby, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The night ended with everyone drifting to their bunks, the bus quiet except for the soft strum of Jinxx's guitar and CC's distant snores.

You and Andy stayed up a little longer, cleaning up the mess of cards and empty bottles, moving in sync like you'd done a thousand times.

When you finally climbed into your shared bunk, the space cramped but comforting, he pulled you close, his breath warm against your neck.

"Love you." he murmured, his voice heavy with sleep.

"Love you too." you whispered, your hand finding his in the dark.

As the bus rocked gently, lulling you toward sleep, you thought about the journey that had brought you here—from a clumsy moment at Warped Tour to a life you'd never dared dream of.

You were the band's glue, their heart, but they were yours too.

And with Andy by your side, the road ahead felt like a promise of more nights like this—loud, messy, and perfectly, undeniably yours.

Chapter Text

The hum of the airplane engines vibrated through your chest as you stared out the window, the clouds below stretching like an endless sea of cotton.

Your fingers fidgeted with the strap of your camera bag, a nervous habit you'd developed over years of capturing moments that mattered.

Beside you, Andy was sprawled in his seat, one long leg stretched into the aisle, his head tilted back, eyes closed. His dark hair fell messily over his forehead, and the faint outline of his tattoos peeked out from under his rolled-up sleeves.

Even in repose, he carried that magnetic energy that drew people to him—on stage, in person, and, somehow, into your life.

From late-night studio sessions to chaotic tour buses, you'd documented every raw, beautiful moment of the band's journey.

You'd captured Andy's intensity mid-performance, his sweat-soaked grin under stage lights, and the quieter moments—him scribbling lyrics in a notebook or laughing with his bandmates over cheap diner coffee.

Your lens had become a love letter to him and the world he'd built.

Now, though, the stakes felt higher.

Andy was taking you to Cincinnati to meet his parents, Amy and Chris.

It was a step you hadn't anticipated so soon, despite how long you'd been together.

The thought made your stomach twist.

What if they didn't like you?

What if they thought you weren't good enough for their son, the rockstar who'd defied expectations to carve out a legacy?

You weren't famous, just a creativity with a camera and a knack for Instagram and twitter captions.

Your anxiety had been simmering for weeks, and now, with the plane descending toward Ohio, it was boiling over.

Andy stirred, his blue eyes fluttering open.

He caught your tense expression and reached for your hand, his calloused fingers lacing through yours. "You okay, coffee girl?" His voice was low, that familiar rasp that still sent a shiver down your spine.

You forced a smile. "Just... nervous. What if your parents hate me?".

He chuckled, the sound warm and grounding. "They're not gonna hate you. They're excited to meet the woman who keeps me in line and makes our band look cooler than we actually are."

You rolled your eyes, but his words eased the knot in your chest. "I'm serious, Andy. I'm just... me. And you're you. What if they think I'm not—"

"Stop." He squeezed your hand, his gaze steady. "You're the one I love. You're the one who's been with me through every crazy moment of this life. They're gonna see that, and they're gonna love you for it. Trust me."

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. Andy had a way of making the world feel smaller, safer.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, letting his warmth anchor you as the plane touched down.

Cincinnati was quieter than the cities you were used to—Los Angeles, New York, the endless blur of tour stops.

The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of autumn leaves as you and Andy drove through suburban streets in a rental car.

He'd insisted on driving, claiming he wanted to show you his old haunts.

You'd already passed his high school, where he'd pointed out the spot where he used to sneak cigarettes with his friends, and the record store where he'd spent hours dreaming of a life beyond Ohio.

Now, as you neared his parents' house, your nerves resurfaced.

You adjusted the scarf around your neck, suddenly hyper-aware of your outfit—black jeans, a band tee under a leather jacket, and boots that had seen too many venues.

Was it too casual? Too "rock and roll"?

Andy, sensing your unease, reached over and rested a hand on your knee.

"You look perfect." he said, glancing at you with a grin. "And you're overthinking again."

"Am not." you muttered, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward.

The house came into view—a charming two-story home with a neatly trimmed lawn and a porch adorned with potted plants.

It was the kind of place that radiated warmth, the kind of home you'd seen in movies but never quite believed existed.

Andy parked the car and turned to you, his expression softening.

"Ready?" he asked.

You took a deep breath, clutching your camera bag like a lifeline. "As I'll ever be."

He leaned over and kissed you, a quick, reassuring press of his lips against yours. "That's my girl. You've got this. And I've got you."

The front door swung open before you even reached the porch, and a woman with kind eyes and a bright smile stepped out.

Amy was shorter than you'd expected, her auburn hair pulled back in a loose bun.

She wore a cozy sweater and jeans, and her energy was instantly welcoming.

"Andy!" she exclaimed, pulling her son into a hug.

He towered over her, but he melted into the embrace, his grin boyish and unguarded.

Then her gaze landed on you, and her smile widened. "And you must be Y/n! Oh, honey, it's so good to meet you!"

Before you could respond, she enveloped you in a hug, her warmth catching you off guard.

You hugged her back, your nerves loosening just a fraction. "It's great to meet you too, Mrs. Biersack."

"Oh, please, call me Amy!" She pulled back, holding you at arm's length to study you. "You're even prettier than Andy said. And he said a lot."

Andy groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Mom, come on."

You laughed, your cheeks flushing. "Thank you, Amy."

A man appeared in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, with a friendly grin and a hint of Andy's features in his face.

Chris extended a hand. "Y/n, welcome. I'm Chris. We've heard nothing but good things."

You shook his hand, your smile more genuine now. "Thank you for having me."

"Come on in!" Amy ushered you inside, her arm looped through yours like you were already family. "I hope you're hungry. I made way too much food."

Andy trailed behind, carrying your bags, and shot you a look that said, See? Told you.

The house was cozy and lived-in, with family photos lining the walls and shelves filled with books and knickknacks.

You paused at a photo of a young Andy, maybe thirteen, with spiky hair and a mischievous grin. "Oh my God." you whispered, nudging him. "Look at you."

He groaned again, but there was a spark of amusement in his eyes. "Don't start."

Amy overheard and laughed. "Oh, I've got albums full of those. I'll show you later."

"Mom, no." Andy protested, but you were already grinning, imagining the treasure trove of embarrassing childhood photos.

Dinner was a spread of comfort food—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and homemade rolls that smelled like heaven.

You sat across from Andy at the dining table, with Amy and Chris at either end.

The conversation flowed easily, much to your relief. Amy asked about your work with the band, genuinely curious about your photography and how you managed the chaos of their social media presence.

"It's a lot." you admitted, cutting into your chicken. "But I love it. Getting to capture the energy of their shows, the connection with the fans—it's special."

"She's being modest." Andy chimed in, his fork poised mid-air. "Y/n's the reason our Instagram doesn't look like it was run by a bunch of cavemen. And her photos? They're art."

Your face warmed at the praise, and Amy beamed. "I've seen some of your work on the band's page. You have a real gift, Y/n. The way you capture Andy—it's like you see him in a way most people don't."

Her words hit you deeper than you expected, and you glanced at Andy, who was watching you with a soft, almost reverent expression. "I just... try to show who he really is," you said quietly.

Chris nodded, his eyes kind. "That's something special. Andy's always been a big personality, but it takes someone grounded to keep up with him."

You smiled, feeling a little more at ease. The conversation shifted to Andy's childhood, with Amy and Chris sharing stories that had you laughing and Andy burying his face in his hands.

There was the time he'd tried to dye his hair with Kool-Aid, turning his scalp bright red, and the time he'd convinced his friends to start a "band" in the garage, only to break a neighbor's window with an overzealous drum solo.

"He was always a handful." Amy said fondly, ruffling Andy's hair.

He swatted her hand away playfully, but the love between them was palpable.

As the meal wound down, you offered to help clear the table, and Amy waved you off. "You're a guest! Sit, relax."

"I insist." you said, stacking plates. "You cooked all this. It's the least I can do."

She relented, and you followed her to the kitchen, leaving Andy and Chris to talk about baseball.

In the quiet of the kitchen, Amy handed you a dish towel, and you started drying plates as she washed.

"I'm so glad you're here, Y/n," she said after a moment, her voice soft.

"Andy's been through a lot, you know? The music, the fame—it's not an easy life. But when he talks about you... his whole face lights up. I haven't seen him this happy in a long time."

Your throat tightened, and you focused on the plate in your hands, suddenly overwhelmed. "He makes me happy too." you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I was so nervous about meeting you and Chris. I just... I want you to know I love him. More than anything."

Amy stopped washing dishes and turned to you, her eyes warm and a little misty. "Oh, honey, I can see that. And we're thrilled you're part of his life. You're family now."

The word family hit you like a wave, and you blinked back tears, managing a shaky smile.

Amy pulled you into another hug, and this time, you didn't hesitate to hug her back.

Later that evening, you and Andy sat on the back porch, wrapped in a blanket against the chilly autumn air.

The backyard was dark, save for the soft glow of string lights hanging from the trees.

You leaned against him, your head resting on his chest, his arm draped around you.

The distant hum of crickets filled the silence, and for the first time all day, your nerves were quiet.

"They love you." Andy murmured, his lips brushing your temple. "Told you they would."

You smiled, tilting your head to look up at him. "They're amazing. Your mom's already planning to show me your baby photos tomorrow."

He groaned dramatically, but his eyes were bright with amusement. "I'm never gonna live that down, am I?"

"Nope." you teased, poking his side. "I need to see chubby toddler Andy in all his glory."

He laughed, pulling you closer. "You're lucky I love you."

Your heart skipped at the words, even after hearing them a thousand times.

"I am." you said softly, your fingers tracing the tattoos on his forearm. "And I'm lucky your parents are so welcoming. I was terrified, you know."

"I know." He kissed the top of your head. "But you were perfect. You always are."

You snorted, but the warmth in his voice made your chest ache. "I'm not perfect. I'm just... me."

"And that's why I love you," he said, his tone serious now. "You see me—the real me, not the stage version or the headlines. You're my anchor, Y/n. And now my family sees it too."

You turned to face him fully, your eyes searching his. The vulnerability in his expression was rare, a glimpse of the man behind the rockstar.

You reached up, cupping his face, and kissed him softly, pouring all the love and gratitude you felt into it.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "I'm glad you're here," he whispered.

"Me too." you replied, your voice thick with emotion. "I'm home."

The rest of the weekend was a blur of warmth and laughter.

Amy did, in fact, pull out the photo albums, much to Andy's chagrin. You pored over pictures of him as a gap-toothed kid, a gangly teenager, and a young adult with dreams bigger than his hometown.

Chris took you and Andy to a local diner, where you shared milkshakes and stories about life on the road.

You even convinced Andy to pose for a few photos in his old neighborhood, your camera clicking as he leaned against a lamppost, smirking like the rockstar he was.

By the time you boarded the plane back to LA, your heart was full.

Amy and Chris had hugged you goodbye, insisting you come back soon, and Amy had slipped a container of homemade cookies into your bag.

As the plane took off, you leaned against Andy, your camera resting in your lap, and thought about the moments you'd captured—not just with your lens, but with your heart.

You'd come to Cincinnati nervous, afraid of not measuring up. But you'd left with something more—a sense of belonging, of being part of something bigger than yourself.

Andy's hand found yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and you knew, without a doubt, that this was just the beginning.

Chapter Text

The road had become your home, a winding ribbon of asphalt that carried you, Andy, and the Black Veil Brides family through cities, seasons, and the quiet moments that stitched your lives together.

You were no longer just the band's photographer or media manager—you were their heart, their glue, the one who captured their chaos in vivid frames and kept their spirits high through the grind of touring.

And Andy, your Andy, was the center of your world, a constant amidst the whirlwind, his love a melody that played through every mile.

It was October, the air crisp with the promise of fall as the tour wound through the Pacific Northwest.

The leaves were turning, painting the landscape in fiery reds and golds, and the band was in high spirits after a string of sold-out shows.

You'd spent the day in Portland, shooting candids of the guys during soundcheck—CC drumming with a goofy grin, Jake and Jinxx trading riffs, Lonny posing dramatically for your lens.

Andy had been quieter than usual, his blue eyes lingering on you with a softness that made your heart skip, but you chalked it up to tour fatigue.

He'd been stealing moments with you all week—quick kisses in the green room, his hand brushing yours on the bus, whispered "I love you"s in the dark of your bunk.

Tonight was a rare off-night, no show, no interviews, just a long drive to Seattle for the next gig.

The bus hummed along a quiet highway, the world outside a blur of twilight and evergreen.

You were in the lounge, editing photos on your laptop, a glass of wine at your side.

The band was scattered—CC and Lonny playing a video game up front, Jake napping in his bunk, Jinxx strumming softly in the back.

Andy had been MIA for the last hour, claiming he needed to "take care of something," and you hadn't thought much of it until he appeared in the doorway, his leather jacket slung over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

"Hey, coffee girl." he said, his voice low and warm. "Wanna take a walk?"

You raised an eyebrow, closing your laptop. "A walk? We're on a moving bus, rockstar."

He grinned, that dimple flashing. "Not for long. I asked Mike to pull over at a rest stop up ahead. There's something I wanna show you."

You tilted your head, intrigued but puzzled. "Something? You're being cryptic."

"Maybe a little." He held out his hand, his eyes sparkling with a secret. "Come on. Trust me."

You took his hand, the familiar warmth of his fingers grounding you. "You know I do." you said, standing and grabbing your jacket. "But if this is one of CC's pranks, I'm blaming you."

He laughed, pulling you close for a quick kiss. "No pranks. Just us."

The bus slowed, pulling into a rest stop nestled in a clearing surrounded by towering pines.

The sky was a deep indigo, streaked with the last embers of sunset, and the air was cool, carrying the scent of earth and resin.

Mike, the driver, gave Andy a knowing nod as you stepped off the bus, and you caught a glimpse of the band watching from the windows, their faces lit with poorly concealed excitement.

You frowned, suspicion creeping in, but Andy's hand in yours kept you moving.

He led you down a short path, away from the rest stop's fluorescent lights, into a small grove where the trees parted to reveal a breathtaking view.

A meadow stretched out, framed by mountains in the distance, the grass silvered by moonlight.

At the center stood a single cherry tree, its branches heavy with late blooms, petals drifting softly to the ground.

Fairy lights were strung through the branches, casting a warm golden glow, and a blanket was spread beneath, a lantern flickering at its edge.

You stopped, your breath catching. "Andy... what is this?"

He turned to you, his expression soft but intense, his blue eyes reflecting the light. "A moment." he said simply. "For us."

You let him lead you to the blanket, your heart racing as you took in the scene.

It was beautiful, intimate, and so him—romantic in a way that felt personal, not performative.

You sat together, the lantern casting shadows across his face, and he pulled a small thermos from his jacket, pouring hot cocoa into two mugs.

"Hot cocoa?" you said, a smile tugging at your lips. "You're pulling out all the stops."

"Gotta keep you warm." he said, handing you a mug. "And I know you're a sucker for chocolate."

You laughed, the sound easing the nervous flutter in your chest. "You know me too well."

He watched you sip the cocoa, his gaze lingering, and you felt the weight of the moment shift.

This wasn't just a sweet gesture, a stolen date on the road.

There was something deeper here, something that made your pulse quicken.

"Y/n." he said, setting his mug down and taking your free hand. His voice was low, steady, but there was a tremor beneath it, a vulnerability that made your heart ache. "I've been thinking about this for a long time. About us, about everything we've built. And I need you to know... you're my everything."

You swallowed, your throat tight. "Andy..."

He shook his head, gently cutting you off. "Let me get this out, okay? I've been carrying it around for months, and if I don't say it now, I'm gonna lose my nerve."

You nodded, your eyes locked on his, the world narrowing to just the two of you.

He took a deep breath, his fingers tightening around yours.

"Five and a half years ago, you crashed into my life—literally." He chuckled softly, the sound tinged with emotion. "I was just some guy trying to keep my band together, and you... you didn't see the stage, the makeup, the hype. You saw me. You spilled coffee on me, made me laugh, and somehow made me feel like I could be more than the guy screaming into a mic."

Your eyes stung, and you blinked back tears, his words hitting deep.

"You were always more than that," you whispered.

He smiled, a flicker of that dimple, but his expression stayed serious. "Maybe. But you made me believe it. You've been with me through every high and low—sold-out shows, nights when I thought I'd burn out, moments when I didn't know if I could keep going. You're not just my partner, Y/N. You're my home. The band, the road, this life—it's all better because of you."

He shifted, reaching into his jacket pocket, and your breath caught as he pulled out a small velvet box.

Your heart stopped, time slowing as he opened it to reveal a ring—a delicate band of white gold, set with a single black diamond that caught the lantern's light like a star.

"I want forever with you." he said, his voice breaking slightly. "I want every road, every city, every quiet night like this. I want your laugh, your strength, your heart. I want to build a life with you, not just on tour, but beyond it. Y/n, will you marry me?"

The world tilted, your vision blurring with tears.

You'd imagined this moment a thousand times, in fleeting dreams and quiet hopes, but nothing could have prepared you for the raw emotion in his voice, the love in his eyes, the weight of the ring glinting between you.

The cherry tree, the fairy lights, the meadow—it was all so perfectly him, a private sanctuary he'd created just for you.

"Oh, Andy." you said, your voice trembling. "I... yes. Yes, a thousand times, yes."

His face broke into a smile, bright and unguarded, and he slid the ring onto your finger with hands that shook just slightly.

It fit perfectly, the black diamond a quiet rebellion, a reflection of the life you'd built together.

You threw your arms around him, tears streaming down your cheeks, and he held you tight, his breath ragged against your hair.

"I love you." he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "So much."

"I love you too," you said, pulling back to look at him.

His eyes were wet, his makeup-free face open and vulnerable, and you'd never loved him more.

You kissed him, slow and deep, the taste of cocoa and salt mingling, the world fading to just the two of you.

When you finally parted, he rested his forehead against yours, his hands framing your face. "You've made me the happiest man alive." he said, a tear slipping down his cheek. "I don't know how I got this lucky."

You laughed through your tears, brushing his away with your thumb. "I'm the lucky one, rockstar. You're stuck with me now."

"Good." he said, his grin returning. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

You sat together on the blanket, wrapped in each other's arms, the lantern casting a soft glow.

Andy told you how he'd planned it—scouting the rest stop on a previous tour, enlisting the band to help set up the lights, swearing Mike to secrecy.

He'd chosen the cherry tree because it reminded him of your first date in the botanical gardens, the night you'd kissed under falling petals and promised to give this a chance.

The black diamond, he said, was for you—a symbol of your strength, your uniqueness, the way you'd carved a place in his world.

"I was so nervous." he admitted, his arm around you as you leaned against his chest. "I kept thinking, what if she says no? What if I screw this up?"

"You? Nervous?" you teased, tilting your head to look at him. "Mr. Commands-the-Stage?"

He chuckled, his fingers tracing circles on your arm. "Yeah, well, this was bigger than any stage. This was you."

Your heart swelled, and you held up your hand, the ring catching the light. "You didn't screw it up. It's perfect. This... all of it."

He kissed you again, softer this time, and you felt the weight of the moment settle—a promise, a future, a love that had already carried you through so much.

The meadow, the tree, the quiet—they were yours, a memory you'd carry forever.

Eventually, the chill of the night crept in, and Andy helped you to your feet, folding the blanket and packing away the lantern.

You walked back to the bus hand in hand, the ring a new weight on your finger, a reminder of the vow you'd just made.

As you approached, the bus door swung open, and CC's voice boomed out. "Well? Did she say yes, or do we need to start a group hug to cheer you up?"

You laughed, holding up your hand, and the band erupted in cheers. Jake, Jinxx, CC, Lonny, and even Mike crowded the doorway, their faces lit with joy.

CC pulled you into a bear hug, lifting you off the ground, while Jake clapped Andy on the back, grinning like a proud brother.

"Told you she'd say yes." Jinxx said, his eyes warm as he hugged you. "Welcome to the family, officially."

Lonny handed you a beer, winking. "You're stuck with us now, Y/n. No escape."

"Wouldn't dream of it." you said, your voice thick with emotion.

Andy wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close as the band crowded into the lounge, passing around drinks and toasting to your future.

The bus started moving again, the highway stretching ahead, but the mood was electric, a celebration of love and the family you'd built.

You caught Andy's eye across the chaos, and he mouthed, "I love you." his smile brighter than the fairy lights.

The rest of the night was a blur of laughter, stories, and music.

CC insisted on playing "your song"—an impromptu rendition of "In the End" on an acoustic guitar, with everyone singing along, their voices rough but heartfelt.

You snapped photos, your lens capturing the joy in their faces, the love in Andy's eyes, the ring glinting on your finger.

These were the moments you lived for, the ones that made the road worth it.

As the hours ticked toward dawn, the band drifted to their bunks, leaving you and Andy alone in the lounge.

You sat on the couch, your legs across his lap, his hand resting on the ring as if to make sure it was real.

"Still can't believe you said yes." he said, his voice soft, his eyes searching yours.

"Still can't believe you asked." you replied, leaning in to kiss him. "But I'm so glad you did."

He pulled you closer, his lips lingering on yours, and you felt the world settle.

The bus, the road, the band—they were your home, but Andy was your heart.

And now, with a ring on your finger and a future unfolding, you knew you'd face whatever came next together.

As you curled up in your bunk, his arms around you, the hum of the highway lulling you to sleep, you thought of the meadow, the cherry tree, the black diamond.

It was a moment you'd carry forever, a frame in the story of you and Andy—a story that was far from over.

Chapter Text

The tour rolled on, a relentless rhythm of cities and stages, but your world felt brighter, sharper, since Andy's proposal under the cherry tree two months ago. He confessed that he had called and hired someone to set up the whole thing while Mike drove.

The black diamond ring on your finger was a constant reminder of the promise you'd made, a vow that anchored you through the chaos of Black Veil Brides' North American tour.

Five and a half years together had woven your lives into a tapestry of love, laughter, and shared dreams, and now, with a wedding on the horizon, you were determined to make your commitment to Andy as personal and meaningful as his had been to you.

The idea had sparked late one night on the bus, as you lay in your bunk, Andy's arm draped over you, his steady breathing a lullaby against your ear.

He'd given you a ring that was uniquely you—a black diamond, bold and unapologetic, a symbol of your strength and the life you'd built together.

You wanted to give him something just as significant, a ring of his own, not for tradition's sake but as a tangible piece of your heart.

The challenge was how to pull it off.

Andy was rarely away from your side, his presence a constant comfort whether you were shooting photos at a show, grabbing coffee in a new city, or stealing quiet moments on the bus.

Telling him to leave you alone wasn't an option—you could never push him away, not when every second with him felt like a gift.

You needed a plan, and you needed the band's help.

It was early December, the tour paused for a three-day break in Denver, a city you'd come to love for its crisp air and mountain views.

The band was staying at a boutique hotel downtown, a rare luxury after weeks of cramped bunks and roadside motels.

You'd spent the morning with Andy, wandering through a local record store, his hand in yours as he geeked out over a rare Misfits vinyl.

Now, he was in the hotel gym, burning off tour energy, giving you a narrow window to hatch your plan.

You gathered the band in Jake's room, the air thick with the scent of coffee and the faint hum of a TV playing low in the background.

Jake sprawled on the bed, a guitar across his lap, while Jinxx leaned against the desk, sipping an energy drink.

CC bounced on the edge of an armchair, his usual chaotic energy dialed up, and Lonny sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through his phone.

They'd all been thrilled about your engagement, their brotherly affection for you and Andy making them eager accomplices in any scheme that involved love.

"Okay, Y/n, what's the big secret?" CC said, tossing a stress ball in the air and catching it. "You've got that look—like you're about to pull off something epic."

You grinned, closing the door to ensure privacy. "I need your help. I want to get Andy a ring—a wedding band, something special, just from me. But I can't do it with him glued to my side, and I don't want him to suspect anything."

Jake raised an eyebrow, strumming a soft chord. "A ring for Andy? That's badass. He's gonna lose it when he sees it."

"Yeah." Jinxx said, his eyes warm. "It's perfect. He's always talking about how much your ring means to him. Giving him one... that's gonna hit deep."

You nodded, your heart swelling. "Exactly. I want it to be a surprise, something that feels like us. But he's always with me, and I can't just ditch him without raising flags. I need you guys to distract him for a few hours tomorrow so I can go to a jeweler and pick something out."

CC grinned, tossing the stress ball higher. "Distraction? Oh, we got this. We'll keep him so busy he won't even notice you're gone."

"Careful, CC." Lonny said, looking up from his phone. "Your distractions usually end with someone covered in glitter or stuck in a vending machine."

"Hey, that was one time!" CC protested, and the room erupted in laughter.

You held up a hand, smiling. "No glitter, no vending machines. Just... keep him occupied. Take him to a bar, a music shop, whatever. Make it natural. I'll need at least three hours to find the right jeweler and make this happen."

Jinxx tilted his head, thoughtful. "What kind of ring are you thinking? Something flashy like him, or more subtle?"

You'd been mulling it over for weeks, picturing Andy's style—his love for the dramatic, but also the quiet depth he showed only to you.

"Something simple but bold," you said. "Maybe silver or gunmetal, with an engraving inside.

Nothing too shiny, but something that feels like him—rock and roll, but with heart."

"Love that." Jake said, nodding. "You know him better than anyone. You'll find the perfect thing."

"So, what's the plan?" Lonny asked, setting his phone down. "We need a solid cover story to get him out of the hotel."

You leaned against the wall, thinking. "Tell him you're going to check out a new gear shop or a studio. He's been talking about wanting to demo some amps. Say it's a band thing, so it doesn't feel weird that I'm not there. I'll say I'm meeting a friend for coffee or doing some photo editing—something boring enough that he won't want to tag along."

CC rubbed his hands together, his grin mischievous. "I'm thinking we take him to that dive bar we found last time we were here. The one with the killer jukebox. We'll get him talking about old punk records, and he'll be distracted for hours."

"Perfect." Jinxx said. "And if he starts asking about you, we'll just keep the beers coming. Not enough to get him trashed, just... relaxed."

You laughed, but a flicker of nerves crept in. "Just don't let him get suspicious. He's got a sixth sense for when I'm up to something."

"Don't worry." Jake said, setting his guitar aside. "We've got your back. Andy's family, but so are you. We'll make this happen."

You looked around the room, their faces lit with excitement and loyalty, and felt a rush of gratitude. "You guys are the best." you said, your voice softening. "I couldn't do this without you."

"We've got your back." CC said, tossing the stress ball at you. You caught it, laughing. "Now go find that ring. We'll handle the rockstar."

~~~~~~

The next morning, you woke in Andy's arms, the hotel room bathed in soft light filtering through the curtains.

He was still asleep, his dark hair a mess across the pillow, his breathing slow and steady.

You traced the lines of his face with your eyes, memorizing the curve of his jaw, the faint freckles across his nose, the way his lips parted slightly.

Nearly six years, and he still made your heart race like it was the first day.

You slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to wake him, and got ready for the day.

The plan was set: the band would lure Andy out around noon, giving you a window to slip away to a jeweler you'd researched, a small shop known for custom designs.

You'd packed your camera bag as a cover, planning to tell Andy you were scouting locations for a potential shoot.

It wasn't a lie, exactly—just a convenient half-truth.

Andy stirred as you zipped up your jacket, his blue eyes blinking open. "Morning, coffee girl." he said, his voice rough with sleep.

He propped himself up on one elbow, the sheet slipping to reveal the tattoos across his chest and the v at the apex of his hips. "You sneaking out on me already?"

You smiled, leaning down to kiss him. "Just getting an early start. Got some photo stuff to check out. You sleeping in?"

"Nah." he said, stretching. "Jake texted about hitting a music shop later. Said they found some vintage amps we should look at. You wanna come?"

Your heart skipped, but you kept your expression neutral. "Sounds fun, but I'll pass. I've got a lot to do, and you know how I get with gear talk—it's all Greek to me."

He chuckled, pulling you back for another kiss. "Fair enough. But you're missing out. I'll bring you a souvenir. Maybe a guitar pick with my face on it."

"You're ridiculous." you said, laughing as you swatted his arm. "Have fun. I'll see you for dinner?"

"Deal." he said, his eyes lingering on you with that familiar warmth. "Love you."

"Love you too." you said, your heart aching with the secret you were keeping.

You grabbed your bag and left before you could second-guess yourself, the weight of the plan settling in.

~~~~~~

By noon, the band had executed their part flawlessly.

You'd lingered in the hotel lobby, pretending to work on your laptop, until you saw Andy leave with Jake, CC, Jinxx, and Lonny, their laughter echoing as they piled into a van.

CC shot you a subtle thumbs-up, and you nodded, your nerves buzzing with anticipation.

You waited ten minutes to be safe, then grabbed an Uber to the jeweler, a quaint shop tucked into a cobblestone street in Denver's arts district.

The shop was warm and inviting, its walls lined with glass cases of sparkling rings, necklaces, and custom pieces.

A woman in her fifties, with silver hair and kind eyes, greeted you.

"Welcome." she said, her voice soft. "I'm Elise. Are you looking for something special?"

You nodded, your fingers brushing the black diamond on your ring. "I'm looking for a wedding band for my fiancé. Something unique, masculine, maybe silver or gunmetal. I'd love to engrave something inside, if that's possible."

Elise's eyes lit up. "That's beautiful. Let's find something perfect for him. Tell me about your fiancé—what's he like?"

You smiled, the words coming easily. "He's... everything. Passionate, intense, but also the kindest person I know. He's a musician, so he's got this rock-and-roll edge, but he's also a total romantic. He proposed under a cherry tree with fairy lights. I want something that feels like him—bold but heartfelt."

Elise led you to a case of men's bands, pulling out trays of sleek designs.

You spent the next hour narrowing it down, your heart racing as you imagined Andy's reaction.

You finally settled on a gunmetal band, simple but striking, with a subtle texture that caught the light like a stage spotlight. The inside was wide enough for an engraving, and you chose the words "Together and Always"—a nod to the life you'd built together, the road that had become your shared sanctuary.

"It's perfect." you said, your voice thick with emotion as Elise boxed it up. "He's going to love it."

"He's lucky to have you." Elise said, handing you the small velvet box. "This is a ring that tells a story."

You thanked her, slipping the box into your bag, and stepped back into the crisp Denver air, your heart soaring.

The secret felt alive, a spark you couldn't wait to share with Andy when the moment was right.

~~~~~~

Back at the hotel, you stashed the ring in a hidden pocket of your camera bag, your hands trembling with excitement.

The band returned an hour later, Andy bursting into your room with a grin, a new guitar strap slung over his shoulder.

"You missed a good time," he said, pulling you into a hug. "CC tried to haggle for a broken amp, and Jake almost bought a ukulele. A ukulele, Y/N."

You laughed, relief flooding you that he hadn't suspected anything. "Sounds like I dodged a bullet. How'd you survive?"

"Barely." he said, kissing your forehead. "Missed you, though. How was your photo stuff?"

"Boring." you lied, your smile easy. "Just scouting some spots. Ready for dinner?"

He nodded, his arm around you, and you leaned into him, the secret ring a quiet promise in your bag.

That night, over dinner at a cozy steakhouse, the band couldn't stop grinning, their covert mission a success.

CC kept winking at you across the table, and Jake nearly choked on his beer when Lonny made a cryptic comment about "shiny things."

Andy raised an eyebrow, sensing the undercurrent, but you distracted him with a story about a fan's tattoo you'd photographed, and he let it go, his hand resting on yours under the table.

Later, in your hotel room, you lay together, the city lights filtering through the window.

Andy's fingers traced the black diamond on your ring, his voice soft. "You happy, coffee girl?"

"More than I've ever been." you said, your heart full. "You?"

He smiled, that dimple flashing. "You have no idea."

You kissed him, the ring's secret burning bright in your mind, and knew the moment you'd give it to him was coming—a moment as perfect as the one he'd given you.

With the band's help, you'd pulled off the impossible, and soon, you'd close the circle, binding your hearts in silver and words that would last forever.

Chapter Text

The winter air was sharp, carrying the promise of snow as the tour bus rolled into Salt Lake City.

It was mid-December, the final week of the North American leg of the tour, and the band was riding a high of sold-out shows and electric crowds.

You'd been with them every step of the way, your camera capturing the chaos and beauty of their world, your presence a steady anchor for Andy and the band you'd come to call family.

Six years had passed since that coffee-soaked meeting at Warped Tour, and now, with a black diamond engagement ring on your finger and a secret gunmetal band hidden in your camera bag, you were ready to take the next step in your love story.

The idea of giving Andy a ring had consumed you since his proposal under the cherry tree two months ago.

His gesture had been so perfectly him—romantic, private, a moment carved out of the tour's madness just for you.

You wanted to match that, to give him something that spoke to the depth of your love, a symbol of the life you'd built together.

The gunmetal band, engraved with "Together and Always," was your answer, chosen with care in a Denver jeweler's shop while the band distracted Andy with a fabricated music store outing.

Now, with the tour winding down and a quiet night ahead, you knew the time had come to give it to him.

The challenge was finding the right moment.

Andy was your shadow, his love a constant presence whether you were shooting photos backstage, sharing takeout on the bus, or stealing kisses in hotel hallways.

You wanted the moment to be intimate, a mirror of his proposal—private, emotional, and undeniably yours.

The band, your co-conspirators in the ring's acquisition, were ready to help again, but you'd decided to keep this part simple.

No elaborate distractions, just a quiet plan to slip away with Andy after tonight's show.

The Salt Lake City venue was a historic theater, its velvet seats and gilded balconies a stark contrast to the gritty dive bars the band had played earlier in their career.

The show was a triumph, Andy's voice soaring through anthems, the crowd a sea of raised hands and screaming voices.

You moved through the pit, your camera catching every moment—Jake's blistering solos, Jinxx's haunting violin, CC's frenetic drumming, Lonny's steady rhythm, and Andy, magnetic as ever, commanding the stage with a fire that still took your breath away.

You lingered on him, your lens framing the sweat on his brow, the intensity in his blue eyes, the way he poured himself into every note.

Six years, and he still made your heart race like it was the first day.

After the encore, the band retreated backstage, sweaty and exhilarated.

You joined them in the green room, snapping candids as CC chugged a water bottle and Jake sprawled on a couch, guitar still in hand.

Andy found you immediately, his makeup smudged, his grin wide as he pulled you into a hug. "What'd you think, coffee girl?" he said, his voice hoarse but warm.

"You guys killed it." you said, kissing his cheek. "As always."

He chuckled, his arm around your waist, and you felt the weight of the ring in your bag, a secret pulsing between you.

The band exchanged glances, their subtle nods confirming they knew tonight was the night.

Jinxx, ever the quiet observer, gave you a small smile, and CC's exaggerated wink nearly gave the game away, but Andy was too caught up in the post-show high to notice.

"Hey." you said, leaning into him. "Wanna get some air? I found a spot near the venue that's quiet. Just us."

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You sneaking me away for a secret rendezvous? I'm in."

You laughed, your nerves sparking. "Something like that. Grab your jacket."

~~~~~~

The spot you'd scouted was a small courtyard behind the theater, hidden from the street by a wrought-iron gate and a cluster of evergreen trees.

You'd discovered it during soundcheck, its stone benches and ivy-covered walls lit by a single lantern that cast a soft, amber glow.

It wasn't as grand as Andy's cherry tree meadow, but it was intimate, a pocket of stillness in the tour's chaos, and you'd felt an immediate pull to bring him here.

You'd slipped away earlier to set up a small touch of magic—a blanket draped over a bench, a thermos of hot cocoa, a string of battery-powered fairy lights woven through the ivy.

It was simple but deliberate, a nod to the night he'd proposed and the countless quiet moments you'd shared.

Andy followed you through the gate, his hand in yours, his breath visible in the chilly air.

When he saw the setup, he stopped, his eyes widening. "Y/n..." he said, his voice soft. "What's all this?"

You smiled, leading him to the bench. "A moment." you said, echoing his words from the proposal. "For us."

He sat beside you, his leather jacket creaking, his gaze searching yours.

"You're up to something." he said, a playful edge to his voice, but there was a flicker of curiosity, maybe even nervousness, in his blue eyes.

"Maybe." you said, pouring cocoa into two mugs and handing him one. "Humor me."

He took the mug, his fingers brushing yours, and you sat together, the lantern's light dancing across his face.

The courtyard was quiet, the distant hum of the city muffled by the trees, and you felt the world shrink to just the two of you.

You sipped your cocoa, gathering your courage, the weight of the ring in your bag a steady reminder of what you were about to do.

"Andy." you said finally, setting your mug down and turning to face him. Your voice was steady, but your heart was pounding. "I've been thinking a lot about us, about everything we've been through. Six years ago, I didn't know spilling coffee on you would change my life, but it did. You changed it. You gave me a home, a purpose, a love I didn't know was possible."

His expression softened, and he set his mug aside, taking your hands in his. "Y/n," he said, his voice low, "you're gonna make me cry before we even get to dessert."

You laughed, the sound shaky, and squeezed his hands. "Just listen, okay? You proposed to me under that cherry tree, and it was the most perfect moment of my life. You gave me this—" You held up your hand, the black diamond catching the light. "—and it's more than a ring. It's a promise, a piece of you. I've been carrying that promise every day, and I wanted to give you something in return. Something that's just us."

His brow furrowed, confusion mingling with anticipation, and you reached into your bag, your fingers closing around the velvet box.

Your heart stuttered as you pulled it out, the gunmetal band inside a secret you'd held close for weeks.

You opened the box, revealing the ring, its sleek surface glinting in the lantern's glow, the engraving "Together and Always" hidden but heavy with meaning.

"Andy," you said, your voice trembling now, "this is for you. I want you to have a ring, not because tradition says so, but because I want you to carry a piece of me, the way I carry you. You're my heart, my home, and I want you to know that every time you look at this. I love you, more than I can ever say, and I'm yours, forever."

His eyes widened, fixed on the ring, and for a moment, he was utterly still, his breath catching.

Then his gaze met yours, and you saw the tears welling, his blue eyes shimmering in the dim light. "Y/n..." he whispered, his voice breaking. "You... you did this for me?"

You nodded, tears spilling down your cheeks. "Yeah. I wanted it to be special, like you made it for me. The band helped—kept you busy in Denver so I could get it. It's engraved. Together and Always.' Because that's what we are."

He let out a shaky breath, a single tear slipping down his cheek, and you reached up to brush it away, your thumb lingering on his skin.

He took the box from you, his hands trembling as he lifted the ring, turning it to catch the light.

When he saw the engraving, his shoulders shook, and he pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to hold back the sob that escaped.

"God, Y/n..." he said, his voice thick with emotion. "This is... I don't even know how to tell you what this means. You're—" He broke off, shaking his head, tears streaming now. "You're everything."

You moved closer, taking his face in your hands, your own tears falling freely. "You don't have to say anything." you said. "Just let me put it on you."

He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours, and you took the ring, sliding it onto his left ring finger.

It fit perfectly, the gunmetal a striking contrast against his pale skin, a quiet rebellion that matched his spirit.

He stared at it, his tears falling onto your hands, and then he pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly you could feel his heartbeat against yours.

"I love you." he said, his voice raw, his face buried in your hair. "I love you so much. I didn't think I could love you more than I already did, but this... God, baby, you've wrecked me."

You laughed through your tears, clinging to him. "Good. Because you wrecked me first."

He pulled back, his hands framing your face, and kissed you, deep and slow, the salt of your tears mingling.

It was a kiss that held everything—six years of love, the weight of your promises, the future stretching ahead.

When you parted, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged, his ringed hand tangled in your hair.

"Look at us." he said, a shaky laugh escaping. "Crying in a courtyard like a couple of saps."

"The sappiest." you tease, smiling through the tears. "But I wouldn't trade it for anything."

He looked down at the ring again, his thumb tracing the engraving, and his eyes welled anew. "This is perfect." he said. "It's... it's us. How did you know?"

"Because I know you." you said, your voice soft. "Every part of you. The rockstar, the romantic, the guy who still blushes when I call him out. I wanted this to be yours, the way I'm yours. Together Always."

He shook his head, a tear slipping down his cheek. "I don't deserve you."

"You do." you said, fierce now. "You deserve every bit of this, Andy. You've given me a life I never dreamed of. This is just me giving a little back."

He kissed you again, softer this time, and you sat together on the bench, wrapped in the blanket, the fairy lights glowing above.

You told him about the Denver mission—how CC's over-the-top winks nearly blew the cover, how Jake had to physically drag Andy into a dive bar to keep him distracted, how Jinxx and Lonny had debated ring styles with you like they were planning a heist.

Andy laughed, his tears drying, but his hand never left yours, his ring a new weight between you.

"I should've known." he said, his grin returning. "The guys were acting so weird that day. CC kept trying to start debates about punk vs. metal, and I was like, 'What is wrong with you?'"

You laughed, leaning against his shoulder. "They're the best. They love you, you know. Almost as much as I do."

"Almost." he said, kissing your temple. "But you've got them beat."

You stayed in the courtyard until the cold crept in, the cocoa long gone, the lantern flickering low.

Andy draped his jacket over your shoulders, and you walked back to the bus hand in hand, the rings on your fingers a matched promise.

The band was waiting, sprawled across the lounge, their faces lighting up when they saw you.

"Well?" CC said, bouncing on the couch. "Did he cry? Tell me he cried."

Andy laughed, holding up his hand to show the ring, his eyes still red-rimmed. "Yeah, I cried. You happy?"

"Ecstatic!" CC said, pulling you both into a hug. "Look at you two, all engaged and shit. This is the best tour ever."

Jake grinned, clapping Andy on the back. "That ring's badass, man. Y/N nailed it."

"She always does." Jinxx said, his smile warm. "Congrats, you two."

Lonny raised a beer. "To Andy and Y/n. May your marriage be as epic as your coffee spill."

You laughed, the sound mingling with the band's cheers, and the bus filled with the warmth of family.

Andy's arm stayed around you, his ring glinting as he poured drinks, his smile brighter than you'd ever seen.

You snapped a photo of him later, his hand raised in a toast, the gunmetal band catching the light, and knew it would be one you'd keep forever.

As the night wound down, you and Andy retreated to your bunk, the bus rumbling toward Seattle.

You lay together, the space cramped but perfect, his ringed hand laced with yours.

He traced the black diamond on your finger, his voice soft in the dark.

"This changes everything." he said, his tone reverent. "Not just the ring, but... knowing you did this. For me. I'm never taking it off."

"Good." you said, kissing his knuckles, the gunmetal cool against your lips. "Because it's yours, forever."

He pulled you closer, his breath warm against your neck. "Forever's not long enough." he murmured.

You smiled, your heart full, and as the bus carried you through the night, you felt the weight of your promises—his ring, yours, the life you'd built, the one you'd build still.

Six years ago, you'd stumbled into his world, coffee in hand, heart open. Now, with rings that bound you, you knew you'd never walk alone again.

Chapter Text

2020

The winter of your sixth year with Andy was a season of transformation, a bridge between the life you'd built on the road and the future you were crafting together.

The gunmetal ring on Andy's finger, engraved with "Together and Always" matched the black diamond on yours, twin symbols of a love that had weathered tours, distance, and the chaos of Black Veil Brides' rising fame.

With the North American tour wrapped and a rare six-month break before the band's European leg, you and Andy had settled into a temporary home base in Los Angeles, a small apartment filled with your camera gear, his vinyl collection, and the quiet joy of planning a wedding.

The wedding was set for early May, a spring affair in Cincinnati, Andy's hometown, where you'd have the privacy of a family-owned venue and the charm of blooming gardens.

The idea of marrying Andy under a canopy of flowers, surrounded by the band and the people who'd become your chosen family, filled you with a warmth that carried you through the stress of planning.

But the process wasn't without its challenges, especially when it came to your family.

You loved your parents and siblings, but your relationship with them had been strained for years.

They'd never approved of your choices—leaving a "stable" job to join a rock band, trading a conventional life for one on the road, falling in love with a man whose world was loud and unpredictable.

When you'd called to share the news of your engagement, their response was tepid, a polite congratulations laced with skepticism.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" your mother had asked, her tone heavy with doubt. "It's a big commitment, Y/n. His life isn't exactly normal."

You'd sent wedding invitations, but their silence since then gnawed at you, a quiet ache you tried to bury under the excitement of planning.

Thankfully, you had Amy, Andy's mother, as your anchor.

Amy was everything your own mother hadn't been in this moment—warm, enthusiastic, and fiercely supportive.

From the moment Andy introduced you to her years ago, she'd welcomed you like a daughter, her Cincinnati home a haven of homemade meals and easy laughter.

When you and Andy announced your engagement, Amy had cried, pulling you into a hug that felt like home.

"You're perfect for my boy." she'd said, her eyes shining. "I can't wait to help you make this day yours."

Now, as February unfolded, Amy had become your partner in wedding planning, her practicality and warmth a lifeline through the maze of decisions.

She'd flown to LA for a week to help you tackle the big details—venue, catering, guest list—and today, the focus was on finding your wedding dress.

You'd booked an appointment at a boutique in West Hollywood, a place known for its eclectic designs, and Amy was by your side, her presence a steady comfort as you navigated the emotional weight of the day.

The boutique was a dreamlike space, its walls draped in soft ivory silk, racks of dresses shimmering under chandelier light.

You stood in the fitting room, surrounded by mirrors, as the consultant, a kind woman named Lila, laced you into a sleeveless gown with a flowing tulle skirt and delicate lace bodice.

It was the fifth dress you'd tried, each one beautiful but not quite you.

Amy sat on a plush velvet chair outside, her eyes bright with encouragement, a glass of champagne in hand.

"You look stunning, Y/n." she said as you stepped out, the gown swishing around your ankles. "What do you think?"

You turned to the mirror, your reflection a stranger in white. The dress was gorgeous, its lace catching the light like starlight, but something felt off.

You smoothed the fabric, trying to pinpoint the disconnect, and realized it wasn't the dress—it was the weight of the moment.

This was your wedding dress, the one you'd wear to marry Andy, to step into forever with him.

And the people who should have been here—your mother, your sister—weren't.

You hadn't heard from them since the invitations went out, and the silence was louder than any rejection.

"It's beautiful." you said, your voice quieter than you intended. "But... I don't know. It doesn't feel right."

Lila tilted her head, her expression gentle. "That's okay. Sometimes it takes a few tries to find the one. Want to try something with a bit more edge? Maybe something less traditional?"

You nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah, that'd be great."

As Lila disappeared to pull more options, Amy stood, setting her champagne aside and crossing to you.

She took your hands, her touch warm and grounding. "Talk to me, sweetheart." she said, her voice soft. "It's not just the dress, is it?"

You swallowed, your throat tightening. "It's... everything. The dress, the wedding, my family. I sent them invitations, and they haven't responded. Not a call, not a text. I don't even know if they'll come." Your voice cracked, and you looked down, blinking back tears. "I love Andy so much, and I'm so happy, but... I wish they could see that. I wish they could be here for this."

Amy's eyes softened, and she pulled you into a hug, careful not to crush the gown. "Oh, honey." she said, her voice thick with empathy. "I'm so sorry they're letting you down. You deserve to have your family here, celebrating you. But you know what? You've built a family with Andy, with the band, with us. And we're here, every step of the way."

Her words broke the dam, and you sobbed into her shoulder, the tulle of the dress catching your tears. "I just... I wanted them to see me." you said, your voice muffled. "To see how happy I am. But they never have. Not with my job, not with Andy, not with any of it."

Amy held you tighter, stroking your hair. "I know, sweetheart. I know. But you listen to me—you are extraordinary. You've built a life most people only dream of, and you've done it with courage and heart. Andy sees that. The band sees that. I see that. And if your family can't, that's their loss, not yours."

You clung to her, the mother you'd always needed, and let the tears fall.

The boutique felt smaller, the mirrors reflecting your vulnerability, but Amy's embrace was a shield, her love a balm.

When you finally pulled back, your face streaked with mascara, she handed you a tissue, her smile gentle.

"Let's take a breather." she said. "We don't have to find the dress today. But I think we need a little backup."

You frowned, wiping your eyes. "Backup?"

She pulled out her phone, her expression determined. "I'm calling Andy. He'll want to be here for you."

You shook your head, panic flaring. "No, Amy, he's got meetings all day. I don't want to bother him—"

"You're not bothering him." she said firmly. "You're his fiancée, and you're hurting. He'd want to know. Trust me."

Before you could protest, she dialed, stepping into the hallway to speak.

You sank onto the chair, the gown pooling around you, and tried to steady your breathing.

The thought of Andy seeing you like this—raw, unraveling—made you feel exposed, but you also knew Amy was right. He'd always been your safe place, the one who could pull you back from the edge.

Ten minutes later, the boutique door chimed, and Andy strode in, his leather jacket zipped against the LA chill, his blue eyes scanning the room until they found you. He crossed the space in three long strides, ignoring Lila's startled greeting, and knelt in front of you, his hands gentle on your knees.

"Hey, coffee girl," he said, his voice soft but steady. "What's going on?"

You tried to speak, but the sight of him—his concern, his love, the ring glinting on his finger—sent fresh tears spilling. "I'm sorry." you said, your voice breaking. "It's stupid. I just... I tried on these dresses, and they're beautiful, but my family... they haven't responded to the invitations, and I don't know if they're coming, and I just—"

He stood, pulling you into his arms, and you buried your face in his chest, the leather cool against your cheek. "It's not stupid." he said, his voice fierce. "It's real, and it hurts. I'm here, Y/N. I've got you."

You clung to him, the sobs coming harder now, and he held you, one hand stroking your back, the other cradling your head.

Amy watched from the doorway, her eyes misty, and Lila discreetly busied herself at the counter, giving you space.

Andy didn't rush you, didn't try to fix it with words. He just held you, his presence a lifeline, until the tears slowed and you could breathe again.

When you pulled back, he cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the last of your tears. "Talk to me, baby." he said. "What's going on in that beautiful head of yours?"

You took a shaky breath, the gown's lace scratching your skin. "I love you so much." you said. "And I'm so excited to marry you. But trying on these dresses... it made it real, you know? And I realized how much I want my family there, even after everything. But they don't get me, Andy. They never have. And it hurts."

His eyes softened, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I know it does." he said. "And it's okay to want them there, even if they've let you down. You're allowed to feel this. But listen to me—you are not alone. You've got me, the band, my crazy parents who love you like their own. You've got a family, Y/N, one that sees you for the incredible woman you are."

You nodded, his words sinking in, and glanced at Amy, who gave you a warm smile. "Your mom's been amazing." you said, your voice steadier. "She's... she's been the mother I needed today."

Andy looked at Amy, his expression full of gratitude. "She's pretty great, huh? Takes after her son."

Amy laughed, swatting his arm. "Oh, please. Y/n, you're stuck with us now. And we're not going anywhere."

You managed a small smile, the weight in your chest lifting slightly.

Andy sat beside you, his arm around your shoulders, and you leaned into him, the gown's tulle spilling over his jeans.

"I just want the day to be perfect." you said. "For us."

"It will be." he said, his voice certain. "Not because of the dress or the flowers or who shows up. Because it's you and me, promising forever. That's what makes it perfect."

You looked at him, his blue eyes steady, and felt the truth of his words settle deep. "You always know what to say." you said, your voice soft.

"Only when it's you." he said, kissing you gently, his lips warm against yours.

With Andy there, the dress search felt less daunting. Lila returned with a new option, a gown that was less traditional—sleeveless, with a fitted bodice of matte satin and a skirt that flowed like liquid, edged with subtle black embroidery. It was bold, romantic, a perfect blend of your style and the life you shared with Andy.

When you stepped out of the fitting room, Amy gasped, and Andy's jaw dropped, his eyes shining.

"Y/n..." he said, standing. "You look... God, you're breathtaking."

You turned to the mirror, and for the first time, you saw yourself—not just the dress, but the woman you'd become. Strong, loved, ready to step into forever with the man who'd changed your world.

The tears came again, but they were different now, born of joy, not pain.

"This is it." you said, your voice steady. "This is the one."

Amy clapped, her eyes wet, and Andy pulled you into his arms, whispering, "You're gonna be the most beautiful bride. I can't wait to marry you."

The rest of the appointment was a blur of measurements and details, Amy taking notes while Andy stayed close, his hand in yours.

When you left the boutique, the gown ordered and a deposit paid, you felt lighter, the ache of your family's absence still there but softened by the love surrounding you.

Amy insisted on dinner at a nearby Italian place, and over plates of pasta and glasses of wine, you laughed and planned, the wedding taking shape with her practical magic.

Later, back at the apartment, you and Andy curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over you, the city lights twinkling outside.

He held your hand, his ring catching the lamplight, and you traced the engraving with your thumb, your heart full.

"Thank you." you said, your voice soft. "For today, for everything. I don't know what I'd do without you."

He kissed your temple, his arm tightening around you. "You'll never have to find out." he said. "We're in this together, coffee girl. Always."

You leaned into him, the future unfolding in your mind—May, Cincinnati, a garden filled with flowers, Andy waiting at the end of an aisle, Amy's proud smile, the band's raucous cheers.

Your family might come, they might not, but you knew one thing for certain: you were loved, deeply and fiercely, by the people who mattered most.

And with Andy by your side, Amy as your anchor, and a dress that felt like you, you were ready to walk into forever.

Chapter Text

The Los Angeles skyline glittered through the apartment window, a constellation of lights that usually calmed Andy's restless mind.

But tonight, as he sat on the couch, the ring on his finger catching the glow of a nearby lamp, his thoughts were a storm.

It had been two days since the emotional wedding dress fitting, two days since he'd held you in his arms as you sobbed over your family's silence, their failure to embrace the life and love you'd built.

The memory of your tears, raw and unguarded, burned in his chest, fueling a rage he couldn't shake.

You were his life, his home, the woman who'd transformed his world with a spilled coffee and a smile, and the idea that anyone—especially your own parents—could hurt you like this was intolerable.

Andy had always been protective, a quiet fierceness that surfaced when it came to you.

He'd seen you weather the grind of touring, the pressures of your role with the band, and the occasional venom of online trolls, always with a strength that awed him.

But this was different. This was personal, a wound that cut deeper because it came from the people who should have loved you unconditionally.

Your parents' disapproval of your choices—quitting your job, joining the band, choosing him—had been a constant undercurrent, but their silence after the wedding invitations was a deliberate slight, a rejection that had left you unraveling.

And Andy wasn't about to let it stand.

He'd kept his plan from you, knowing you'd try to stop him, your heart too kind to want confrontation.

You were at a coffee shop with Amy, his mother, discussing floral arrangements, your smile, a fragile thing he'd kissed before you left.

The moment you were gone, he'd booked a flight to your hometown where your parents still lived in the same suburban house you'd grown up in.

He didn't know if he'd walk away with their blessing or their scorn, but he was on a mission.

They needed to hear what their neglect had done, to understand the woman they were dismissing, and to know that he'd fight for you, always.

~~~~~~

The flight was a blur, Andy's earbuds blasting music as he stared out the window, the dark expanse of sky mirroring his mood.

He'd packed light—a leather jacket, jeans, the ring on his finger his only anchor.

The rental car he picked up at the airport was a nondescript sedan, a far cry from the tour bus he was used to, but it carried him through the quiet streets of your hometown as dawn broke, the first light painting the snow-dusted lawns in soft pinks.

Your parents' house was a two-story colonial, its white siding and neatly trimmed hedges a picture of middle-class order.

Andy parked across the street, his heart pounding, and took a moment to steady himself.

This wasn't a stage, but it was a performance of sorts—a raw, unscripted reckoning for the woman he loved.

He stepped out, the cold biting through his jacket, and crossed the street, his boots crunching on the icy sidewalk.

The doorbell's chime echoed inside, a sound that felt too gentle for the fire in his chest.

He waited, hands shoved in his pockets, until the door opened, revealing your mother.

She was in her late fifties, her hair a tidy bob, her expression shifting from curiosity to guarded recognition as she took in Andy's tall frame, his tattoos peeking from his collar, the intensity in his blue eyes.

"Andy?" she said, her voice cautious. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you." he said, his tone firm but controlled. "And to D/n. It's about Y/n."

She hesitated, her hand tightening on the doorframe, but something in Andy's gaze—unyielding, raw—made her step back. "Come in." she said, her voice clipped. "D/n's in the kitchen."

Andy followed her inside, the house a snapshot of your childhood—framed photos on the walls, a staircase you'd once described running down on Christmas mornings.

But the warmth was superficial, undercut by the tension in M/n's posture.

Your father was at the kitchen table, a newspaper spread before him, coffee mug in hand.

He looked up, his brow furrowing as Andy entered, the rockstar's presence a stark contrast to the suburban calm.

"What's this about?" D/n asked, setting the mug down. He was a broad man, his hair graying, his demeanor one of quiet authority. "Is Y/n okay?"

"She's not okay." Andy said, standing at the edge of the table, his voice low but edged with steel. "And that's why I'm here. You've been hurting her, and it needs to stop."

M/n's eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms. "Hurting her? We haven't done anything—"

"That's the problem," Andy cut in, his control fraying. "You haven't done anything. You got her wedding invitation—our wedding invitation—and you didn't call, didn't write, didn't even acknowledge it. Do you have any idea what that's done to her? She cried, M/n. She broke down trying on wedding dresses because the people who should love her most are acting like she doesn't exist."

D/n's jaw tightened, and he leaned back, his expression defensive. "We're not thrilled about her choices, Andy. Running off with a band, living on a bus, marrying someone whose life is... unstable. We raised her to be practical, to have a career, a home. Not this."

Andy's hands clenched into fists, but he forced himself to breathe, to channel his anger into words. "You raised her to be herself, and that's exactly what she's doing. Y/n is the most incredible woman I've ever known. She's brave, talented, and so damn strong it humbles me every day. She's built a life she loves, a career that lights her up, and you're dismissing it because it doesn't fit your idea of 'practical.' You're missing out on who she is."

M/n's lips pursed, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "We just want what's best for her." she said. "This life you lead—it's chaotic. How can she be secure, long-term, with a musician?"

Andy laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "Secure? You think a desk job would make her happy? Y/n was miserable in that world, trapped in a cubicle, her creativity stifled. I saw it in her the day we met—she was starving for something real. And she found it, not just with me, but with her photography, with the band, with a family that loves her for who she is. My life might be chaotic, but it's hers too, and we're building something unbreakable."

D/n stood, his chair scraping the floor. "You don't get to come into our home and lecture us." he said, his voice rising. "We're her parents. We know what's best."

"Then act like it." Andy shot back, stepping closer, his height and intensity filling the room. "Parents don't ghost their daughter when she's planning her wedding. They don't let her cry alone because they're too stubborn to see her happiness. You didn't see her two days ago, D/n. You didn't see her shaking, trying to hold it together because she loves you, and your silence is breaking her heart. I did. I held her, and I swore I'd never let anyone hurt her like that again. Not even you."

M/n's hand went to her mouth, and for the first time, her composure cracked, tears welling in her eyes. "We didn't mean to hurt her." she said, her voice trembling. "We just... we're scared for her. We don't understand this life."

Andy softened, just a fraction, his anger tempered by their vulnerability. "I get that." he said. "It's not a normal life. But it's hers, and she's thriving in it. She's not just my fiancée—she's the heart of our band, the reason we're better than we've ever been. Her photos, her vision, her spirit—they're part of our story. And she deserves to have you in hers, not as critics, but as family."

D/n sank back into his chair, his shoulders slumping. "We thought... maybe if we held back, she'd reconsider." he admitted. "Come back to something safer."

Andy shook his head, his voice quieter now, but no less fierce. "Y/n doesn't need to come back. She's exactly where she's meant to be. And if you can't see that, you're not just losing her—you're losing the chance to know the woman she's become. She's planning a wedding, a life, and she wants you there, even after everything. That's how big her heart is. Don't make her regret it."

The kitchen fell silent, the weight of Andy's words settling like a stone.

M/n wiped her eyes, her hands shaking, and D/n stared at the table, his fingers tracing the edge of his mug.

Andy stood tall, his chest heaving, the fire in him burning for you, for the love you'd built, for the future he'd fight to protect.

"I'm not here to beg." Andy said finally. "I'm here because Y/n deserves better. You've got a chance to be part of her happiness, to show up for her the way she's always shown up for the people she loves. The wedding's in May, in Cincinnati. You've got the invitation. It's your choice whether you come, but know this—if you don't, you're the ones missing out, not her. She's got a family that loves her, with or without you. But I know she'd rather have you there."

He turned to leave, his boots heavy on the hardwood, but M/n's voice stopped him. "Andy..." she hesitated, her voice small. "Is she... is she really happy?"

He looked back, his gaze steady. "Happier than I've ever seen her. She's found her place. With me, with the band, with herself. All she's missing is you."

M/n nodded, tears spilling, and D/n reached for her hand, his own eyes glistening.

Andy didn't wait for more. He walked out, the door closing behind him, the cold air a shock against his flushed skin.

He stood on the porch, his breath visible, and felt the weight of what he'd done.

He didn't know if they'd show up, if they'd call, if they'd ever see the truth of you. But he'd said what needed saying, laid bare the love that drove him, and that was enough.

The drive back to the airport was quiet, Andy's hands tight on the steering wheel, his mind replaying the confrontation.

He'd kept his phone off during the visit, not wanting distractions, but now he powered it on, finding a text from you.

Florals picked! Amy's a genius. Miss you. Dinner tonight?

Your words, simple and warm, grounded him, a reminder of why he'd done this. He typed back, Miss you too, coffee girl. Dinner sounds perfect. Love you.

He hit send, his ring glinting as he shifted gears, and headed for the airport, ready to return to you

~~~~~~

Back in LA, he didn't tell you about the trip, not yet. He wanted to protect you from the uncertainty, to let you focus on the joy of planning. But that night, as you curled up together on the couch, your head on his chest, he held you a little tighter, the memory of your tears fueling his resolve.

Whether your parents came to the wedding or not, he'd be there, the band would be there, his family would be there.

You'd walk down that aisle surrounded by love, and he'd spend every day making sure you knew you were enough.

As you drifted to sleep, your black diamond ring catching the light, Andy pressed a kiss to your hair, his voice a whisper. "I've got you." he said. "Always."

And in the quiet, with the city humming outside, he knew that no matter what came next, you'd face it together, your love a fire that nothing could extinguish.

Chapter Text

Spring in Cincinnati was a symphony of color, the May air warm and fragrant with the scent of blooming lilacs and freshly cut grass.

The venue, a family-owned estate tucked into the rolling hills, was a vision of rustic elegance—white wooden arbors draped in ivy, wildflower arrangements bursting with pinks and purples, and a sprawling lawn where guests mingled under a canopy of string lights.

It was the day you and Andy had been dreaming of, the culmination of six years of love, laughter, and a journey that began with a spilled coffee at Warped Tour.

Today, you'd become his wife, and he'd become your husband, in a celebration that promised to be as vibrant and heartfelt as your story.

The morning was a whirlwind of preparation, your suite at the estate filled with the chatter of bridesmaids—your closest friends from the road and Amy' niece, who'd become a surrogate sister.

Amy, your anchor through the planning, was a calm presence, adjusting your veil and wiping away her own tears as she helped you into your dress.

The gown was a masterpiece, sleeveless with a fitted satin bodice and a flowing skirt edged in black embroidery, a perfect blend of romantic and rebellious.

The black diamond glinted on your finger, matched by the band you'd given Andy, a secret you'd both worn with pride since that tearful night in Salt Lake City.

Your family's absence still lingered, a quiet ache in your heart.

After Andy's unannounced visit to their home, you'd received a hesitant call from your mother, promising to attend but warning that your father was still "processing."

You'd invited them, leaving the door open, but as the morning unfolded, their seats in the guest list remained uncertain.

You pushed the thought aside, focusing on the love that surrounded you—Amy's warm hugs, the band's raucous laughter from the groom's suite, and the promise of Andy waiting at the end of the aisle.

The ceremony was set for late afternoon, the sun casting golden light across the lawn as guests took their seats.

The band—Jake, Jinxx, CC, and Lonny—were your groomsmen, dressed in tailored black suits with subtle red accents, their usual stage chaos tempered by pride and joy.

Amy and Chris sat in the front row, their smiles radiant, joined by extended family and friends from the music world.

The officiant, a close friend of Andy's from his Ohio days, stood under the arbor, a leather-bound book in hand, ready to weave your story into the vows.

You stood at the edge of the aisle, your arm linked with Amy's, who'd insisted on walking you down the aisle, your fathers absence a wound to your soul, but you pushed it down.

Your heart pounded, not from nerves but from the overwhelming joy of the moment.

The music began—a soft acoustic rendition of "In the End," arranged by Jinxx, its melody haunting and personal.

The crowd turned, and you stepped forward, your eyes locking on Andy.

He stood at the arbor, breathtaking in a black velvet suit, his tie a deep crimson with his dark hair swept back. Beautiful. He was so beautiful.

His blue eyes found yours, and the world fell away.

Tears welled instantly, his lips trembling as he smiled, that dimple you loved flashing through his emotion. He pressed a hand to his heart, mouthing, "You're beautiful." and you laughed softly, tears spilling down your cheeks.

Amy squeezed your arm, her own eyes misty. "He's all yours, sweetheart." she whispered, kissing your cheek before stepping back to join Chris.

You reached Andy, and he took your hands, his grip warm and steady, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles.

"Hi, coffee girl." he said, his voice thick with emotion, loud enough for only you to hear.

"Hi, rockstar." you replied, your smile shaky but radiant.

The officiant began, his voice warm as he spoke of love, resilience, and the serendipity of your meeting.

He recounted the coffee spill, drawing laughter from the crowd, and the years that followed—your courage in joining the band, your role as their heart, the rings that bound you.

Andy's eyes never left yours, his tears falling freely, and you mirrored him, the love between you a tangible force.

When it was time for the vows, Andy went first, his voice steady despite the emotion.

"Y/n," he said, squeezing your hands, "you crashed into my life like a storm, and I've been chasing that lightning ever since. You saw me—not the stage, not the noise, but me—and you made me want to be better, every day. You're my home, my heart, my everything. I promise to love you fiercely, to stand by you through every mile, every song, every moment. I promise to make you laugh, to hold you when you cry, and to never let you doubt how much you mean to me. Together, coffee girl."

You laughed through your tears, the crowd a blur as you clung to his words.

When it was your turn, you took a shaky breath, your voice strong despite the lump in your throat. "Andy, you gave me a life I never dared dream of. You saw my heart, my passion, and you made me believe I was enough. You're my rock, my safe place, the melody in every moment. I promise to love you with everything I am, to capture our story through every lens, to be your partner in every adventure. I promise to keep spilling coffee, just to make you smile, and to hold your hand through every road ahead. Always, rockstar."

The crowd sighed, some wiping tears, and Andy laughed softly, his tears falling as he pulled you closer, whispering, "You're killing me."

The officiant smiled, pronouncing you husband and wife, and Andy didn't wait for permission.

He kissed you, deep and fierce, his hands framing your face, the crowd erupting in cheers.

You melted into him, your arms around his neck, the world fading to just the two of you, his lips a promise sealed in salt and love.

The reception was a celebration of everything you and Andy were—wild, heartfelt, and unapologetically yourselves.

The estate's barn had been transformed, its rafters strung with fairy lights, tables laden with wildflower centerpieces and candles.

A buffet overflowed with comfort food—mac and cheese, sliders, and a taco bar at CC's insistence—paired with an open bar that kept the drinks flowing.

The band's music played softly in the background, a mix of Black Veil Brides anthems and the punk and metal you both loved.

You and Andy couldn't keep your hands off each other, his arm around your waist, your fingers laced with his, stolen kisses between conversations.

He was radiant, his smile never fading, his touch a constant—brushing your hair behind your ear, resting on your lower back, pulling you close for slow dances on the wooden floor.

"You're my wife." he kept saying, his voice awed, and each time, you laughed, kissing him, the word "husband" a thrill on your lips.

The band was in top form, their speeches a mix of humor and heart. Jake toasted to your coffee spill, calling it "the best accident in rock history" while Jinxx spoke of your strength, his voice cracking as he called you family. CC, predictably, went for laughs, recounting a tour prank gone wrong, but ended with a sincere, "You make Andy better, and that makes us better." Lonny, the newest member, raised a glass to your future, his words simple but profound: "To love that lasts, no matter the road."

Amy and Chris danced nearby, their pride evident, and you hugged them both, Amy's tears soaking your shoulder.

"You're my daughter now," she said, and you cried, grateful for the mother you'd found in her.

The guest list was a mix of music friends—producers, fellow bands, crew members who'd become family—and Andy's extended relatives, all welcoming you with open arms.

The absence of your parents stung, their seats empty, but the love around you was a balm, filling the space they'd left.

As the night deepened, the dance floor came alive. Andy pulled you into a slow dance to "Everlong" by Foo Fighters, a song you'd both loved for years.

His hands rested on your hips, your arms around his neck, and you swayed, the world narrowing to just you.

"I love you, Mrs. Biersack." he said, his forehead against yours, his voice soft.

"I love you, Mr. Biersack." you replied, kissing him, the crowd fading as you lost yourself in him.

He spun you, your skirt flaring, and you laughed, the sound mingling with his, a melody of joy.

Later, the band took the stage for an impromptu set, Andy joining them for a raw, acoustic version of "Saviour," dedicating it to you.

You stood at the edge of the crowd, tears streaming, as his voice washed over you, the lyrics a vow renewed. CC tossed you a drumstick, winking, and Jake blew you a kiss, the band's love a tangible force.

The night was a blur of moments—cutting the cake, a three-tiered masterpiece with black and red accents, Andy smearing frosting on your nose; toasting with champagne, his arm around you as you laughed through tears; dancing with friends, your gown swishing as CC spun you wildly.

Andy was insatiable, stealing kisses at every turn, his hands roaming your waist, your shoulders, your face, as if he couldn't believe you were his.

"You're killing me in this dress." he whispered during a quiet moment, his lips brushing your ear, and you grinned, pulling him into another kiss.

As the reception wound down, guests began to drift away, leaving the core group—band, family, closest friends.

You and Andy sat at a table, your shoes kicked off, his jacket draped over your shoulders, sharing a plate of late-night tacos.

He fed you a bite, laughing when sauce dripped on your chin, and wiped it away with his thumb, his eyes soft.

"Best day of my life." he said, his voice low, his hand finding yours, rings resting against one another.

"Mine too." you said, leaning into him, your heart full. "Forever starts now, right?"

"Forever started the day I met you." he said, kissing you, slow and deep, the taste of tacos and champagne lingering.

As the stars emerged, you and Andy slipped away to a quiet corner of the garden, the fairy lights casting a glow over a wooden bench.

You sat together, your head on his shoulder, his arm around you, the sounds of the party distant.

The empty seats where your parents should have been, lingered in your mind, but the love of the day—Andy's vows, Amy's embrace, the band's joy—outweighed the pain.

You didn't know if your parents would ever understand, but you knew you had everything you needed right here.

"Thank you." you said, your voice soft, "for loving me like this."

He tilted your chin up, his eyes searching yours. "Thank you for choosing me." he said, his voice thick. "I'm gonna spend everyday making sure you never regret it."

You kissed him, the world falling away, and knew that no matter what came next, you'd face it as husband and wife, your love a fire that would burn through every road, every storm, every moment.