The door clicked shut behind them with the weary sigh of old hinges and older ghosts.
Plastic bags crinkled in Thaniel's hands as he dropped them to the floor like a man returning from war instead of aisle seven. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, fighting the gloom that always clung to the apartment no matter how many lightbulbs he replaced.
He kicked off his shoes without aim and collapsed into the nearest chair, spine bending like scaffolding giving out.
She stood by the door. Watching. Still bundled in hoodie and scarf like a demon cosplaying a shut-in.
Then, slowly, she unwrapped. Piece by piece. The scarf. The gloves. The shades. She unwound herself like peeling something layered and wrong. Her skin steamed faintly in the stale air—she still ran too cold for the living.
Thaniel rested his chin on the table. "So," he mumbled. "How'd you like capitalism?"
She blinked. Her neck crunched. "What's that?"
Thaniel buried his head in his arms, wondering why he even bothered. "...Nevermind."
The monster paused, before slowly approaching the table, poking the groceries, taking out a can of noodle soup.
Thaniel watched, curious as to what she might do.
He didn't expect her to stick the entire can in her mouth.
As she chewed, Thaniel winced, the sound of metal and noodles making his brain itch. "...That was aluminum. You know, you're supposed to open the can first. "
She stared. He sighed, as she swallowed everything. "Ah. No wonder it tasted weird."
Thaniel watched uncomfortably, his throat hurting at the sight of it.
She tried again, tossing the metal behind her as her hand went inside the bags again.
The crinkling of plastic could be heard as joints popping, moving like something unfolding in reverse.
Her hand emerged holding another tin can labeled "X-03 Nutrient Slurry – Now With Less Contamination!" in cheery orange print, as her hands went to the pull tab, as she stabbed them inside, ripping the entire top of the can off, her fingers coated with a neat layer of slimy green liquid.
As she tilted the can to her mouth, he sighed.
She froze. The can halfway tilted. Her mouth already opened a little wider than was appropriate for anything with a jaw.
He stood and took the can gently from her hands. "You don't eat it like that."
Her brow furrowed. "But it's food."
"It's in a can."
"And?"
"You use a spoon."
She stared at him like he'd just explained gravity wrong. "That's inefficient."
He pushed himself off of his chair, as he slowly waddled to the kitchen, his girlfriend watching him silently.
He retrieved a dented spoon from the drawer and handed it to her, as if he was arming a wild animal with a weapon.
She held it delicately, like she was unsure which end was supposed to be used for stabbing.
Thaniel opened the can with a pop. Steam hissed out, carrying the scent of something between salt, vegetables, and regret. He dipped the spoon in and demonstrated, lifting a quivering glob to his mouth.
"See?" he said, chewing without hope. "Like this."
She nodded solemnly. Copied him. Scooped some up. Raised it to her mouth.
And then—bit off the end of the spoon.
Metal crunched. She blinked, startled, chewing absently.
Thaniel stared. "...That was aluminum."
She paused. "Oh."
She chewed the spoon tip a bit longer before spitting it out onto the table with a soft clink. It steamed faintly.
Thaniel sighed. "Progress."
She smiled—one of those lopsided grins that didn't quite fit her face. Like her muscles were still learning how to map emotion. But it was… earnest. Somehow.
They unpacked in silence.
Cans. Boxes. Something claiming to be rice. A bag of mutant produce with more eyes than Thaniel had patience for.
She held one up between thumb and claw. It looked like a diseased turnip with horns.
"What is this?" she asked.
"That's a V-39," he replied, rubbing his temples. "Or used to be. Before the acid rains made the crops start fighting back."
She turned it over in her hand. "It blinked at me."
"That means it's fresh."
She snorted. Actually snorted. "You're making that up."
Thaniel smiled faintly, and reached over to take it from her. "Used to be called a carrot."
She blinked. "That's a stupid name."
"So are most things," he said. "But we name them anyway."
He pulled out a few more from the bag. "This lumpy one used to be a potato. That thing's cabbage, I think. And this one... either a squash or a sentient tumor. Hard to tell."
His voice trembled slightly, like he had been reading a forgotten script that had been read to him once already.
It felt weird teaching the one that had taught you.
She rolled a mutated vegetable between her hands like it might reveal a secret.
"Carrot," she said slowly. "Potato. Cabbage."
Then again, like she was trying on the words. Seeing if they fit in her mouth.
"Names are weird."
Thaniel shrugged. "So are we."
There was a pause. A soft one. Something in it hung too long. She was still staring at him, hands folded neatly now. Her eyes did that thing where they didn't blink unless she remembered to.
Then she said it.
"You're pretty funny, Lucien."
Thaniel froze.
The name landed like a bullet made of glass—soft, shattering. His spine went stiff. His breath stalled in his chest. "...Who..?"
She saw it instantly. The flicker in his eyes. That wasn't his name.
Her gaze tilted, curious.
"Oh," she said softly. "Oops."
A beat.
"Wrong corpse."
And that was all.
She turned back to the vegetables like nothing happened.
Thaniel didn't speak. He just… looked at her.
And for the first time, the silence between them wasn't comforting. It was heavy. "...What do you mean?"
The light cast an ominous shadow over her face, her irises slowly shrinking, as it glinted red. "...You don't want to know."
Silence. Time stretched on, as they stared at each other uncomfortably… Before both sighing, as Thaniel took out a can from the bags, and opened it, digging in.
His girlfriend slowly drank her soup, trying her best to get soup to stay on the broken spoon handle.
But then, she glanced at Thaniel, almost in slight guilt… Before reaching a hand over.
Thaniel widened his eyes slightly as he felt the cold, rough hand on his cheek, as it rubbed a spec of rogue carrot off.
They both stared into each other's eyes.
Their eyes met.
Thaniel coughed. "...Thanks. Now…"
Her fingers brushed his hand as he moved to take the can she was holding. It was nothing. Barely even a touch.
But they both froze again.
His palm met hers—awkwardly at first. Skin against skin. Claw against callus. Warmth against something that had forgotten what warmth meant.
And somehow… They stayed there.
Not holding hands. Not really.
Just touching.
A small, strange moment in a kitchen filled with canned apocalypse and broken names. Her hand twitching like it didn't know if it was allowed to want this. His grip uncertain, like he'd reached out for something and accidentally caught a ghost.
Neither moved.
Neither pulled away.
Not yet.
And for the first time in months, the night didn't feel cold.