Afterward, I pulled my pants back on with mechanical efficiency, my hands moving on autopilot while my mind reeled. I glanced at Cindy, still lying on our improvised bedding of jackets, her breathing deep and even as exhaustion claimed her. Part of me wanted to help— to fetch water, to clean up the mess of what we'd done—but I couldn't bring myself to touch her again. Not now. The intimacy we'd shared, necessary as it was, felt like a violation that lingered on my skin like frost.
The Dullahan virus had been transferred, her life saved, but I'd stolen something irreplaceable in the process. This moment should have belonged to Christopher— their first time together, born of love and mutual desire, not this desperate act forced by viral necessity and the cruel whims of an apocalyptic world.
