The living room still carried the sharp tang of copper and rot, though Shane had dragged the two fresh corpses outside and dumped them in the overgrown side yard, far enough that the stench wouldn't creep back in overnight. Brutus stood guard by the back door now, silent and patient, milky eye fixed on nothing in particular. Shane had given the zombie a quick pep talk before leaving him there: "Stay frosty, big guy. No humping the furniture, no eating the houseplants. We're classy zombies now. Classy."
Nyra sat on the edge of the couch, knees pressed tightly together, hands clasped so hard her knuckles showed white. She looked smaller than she ever had in lecture halls, smaller than the woman who used to command a room full of hungover undergrads with nothing more than an arched brow and a single pointed question. The bruise on her jaw had darkened to an ugly purple, and the split in her lower lip still wept tiny beads of blood when she moved.
Shane rummaged through the hallway closet, then ducked into Mia's old bedroom. The art major's wardrobe had survived the roommate massacre mostly intact. He pulled out a few items that looked like they might fit: a black ribbed tank top, dark leggings, a loose flannel shirt for layering. Nothing fancy. Nothing that screamed "apocalypse couture." But clean. Mostly.
He came back downstairs with the bundle and dropped it on the coffee table in front of her.
"Best I've got," he said, keeping his tone light. "Mia's stuff, it should be close to your size. Bathroom's down the hall; hot water's gone, but there's a bucket of rainwater I boiled earlier. Towels are in the cabinet. Take your time. I'll heat up what's left of the soup. We're eating like kings tonight: chicken noodle and existential dread, five-star review pending."
Nyra looked at the clothes, then at him. Her expression was unreadable for a second, gratitude mixed with something heavier, something that made her eyes linger on his face a beat longer than necessary.
"Thank you," she murmured. She stood slowly, wincing as she tested her weight on her left ankle. "I'll… be quick."
Shane nodded and turned away to give her privacy, already moving toward the kitchen. "Take your time. I'm not going anywhere. Unless Brutus decides to start a dance party without me, in which case I'm joining. He's got surprisingly good rhythm for a dead guy."
He heard the bathroom door click shut. The faint slosh of water. The rustle of fabric.
He busied himself in the kitchen, cracked open the last two cans of chicken noodle, dumped them into a pot over the camp stove. The flame hissed blue. The smell of broth filled the air, almost normal. Almost comforting. He stirred absently, talking to himself the whole time because silence felt wrong now.
"Gourmet apocalypse dining," he muttered. "Two cans, one pot, zero fucks given. If Gordon Ramsay saw this, he'd have a stroke. But hey, it's hot, it's food, and it's not brains. Small victories."
When Nyra emerged ten minutes later, Shane nearly dropped the wooden spoon.
The black tank top was ribbed, stretchy, and clearly designed for someone smaller. On Mia it had been snug. On Nyra it was obscene. The fabric clung to her like a second skin, stretched taut across the heavy swell of her breasts. The neckline dipped low, far lower than Mia ever wore it, showing deep, inviting cleavage that rose and fell with every breath. Her nipples, hardened from the cold water or nerves or both, pressed visibly against the thin material, dark points begging for attention. The hem rode up just enough to expose a tantalizing strip of soft midriff, the gentle curve of her waist flaring out into wide, generous hips that made the shirt look painted on.
The leggings were worse.
They hugged her thighs like liquid latex, thick, toned legs that spoke of yoga classes and long walks she used to take around campus. But it was her ass that made Shane's throat go dry: round, full, the kind of heart-shaped perfection that made the seams strain with every step. Every movement pulled the material tighter, outlining the deep cleft between her cheeks in shameless detail.
She'd left the flannel open, sleeves rolled up, but it did nothing to hide the body underneath. If anything, the contrast, casual shirt over pornographic curves, made it more devastating.
Nyra crossed her arms self-consciously under her chest, which only pushed her breasts higher, deepening the cleavage until Shane had to remind himself to blink.
"It's… tight," she said, cheeks flushing a soft pink. "Mia must have been smaller."
Shane swallowed once. Twice. His mouth had gone desert-dry.
"Yeah," he managed, voice coming out rougher than he intended. "Tight is definitely one word for it. Another word is 'criminal.' Like, felony-level distracting. I'm pretty sure staring at you right now is a war crime in at least three countries. Possibly four if we count the Vatican."
Her eyes flicked to his face, catching the way his gaze had lingered, hungrily, and shamelessly, on every curve. She didn't look away. Instead, one corner of her mouth twitched, barely a smile, but there.
"Careful, Mr. Walker," she said softly, voice dropping into that low, lecturing tone she used to use when calling out lazy answers in class. "I'm still technically your professor."
"Was," he corrected, turning back to stir the soup so he wouldn't keep staring like a starving man at a buffet. "World ended and titles are optional now. Besides, I always thought 'Professor Voss' sounded way too formal for someone who could make me fail a midterm with one arched eyebrow. Nyra suits you better. Short and sweet. Easy to moan in the heat of the moment."
He ladled the steaming broth into two mismatched bowls, carried them to the coffee table. Grabbed the last two crackers from a sleeve, split them between the bowls.
"Gourmet dining, apocalypse edition," he said, sitting cross-legged on the floor across from her. "Bon appétit. Try not to choke on the existential dread; it's low-calorie but high in fiber."
Nyra lowered herself carefully to the carpet, legs tucked to the side. The movement made the leggings ride up another inch, exposing more of her thigh. She didn't fix it.
They ate in silence for the first minute, hungry, mechanical. Then she spoke.
"I remember how you always sat in the back row," she said, voice soft but steady. "Third seat from the left. Never raised your hand, but your papers were always the sharpest. Sarcastic little footnotes and everything."
Shane smirked around a spoonful. "Guilty as charged. Figured if I was gonna half-ass attendance, I'd at least make the work entertaining. Plus, back row meant I could doodle zombies in the margins without you noticing. Or so I thought. Apparently, you noticed everything."
"I did." She took a small sip, eyes on him over the rim of the bowl. "I used to look forward to grading yours. Made the stack less soul-crushing."
He leaned back on one hand, studying her openly now, letting his gaze wander down the deep valley of her cleavage, then back up to her face with zero shame.
"You're saying I was your favorite?" he asked, voice dropping into playful territory. "Because if so, I'm gonna need that in writing. For the ego. And maybe for dirty roleplay later."
"I'm saying you were memorable." Her gaze dropped to his mouth for half a second, then flicked back up. "Still are."
Heat crawled up his neck. He covered it with a grin, wide, shameless.
"Flattery will get you extra crackers, Professor. Also, possibly a private tutoring session. I'm very hands-on. And mouth-on. And everything-else-on."
"Nyra," she corrected quietly. "No more titles. Not tonight. Not after… everything."
"Nyra," he repeated, letting the name roll slow and deliberate off his tongue like he was tasting it. "Suits you better without the lecture hall lighting. Less 'scary professor,' more 'woman I want to bend over the desk.'"
She laughed, soft, surprised, a little breathless. "And what about you? Still the same Shane who doodled zombies in the margins of his notes?"
He tilted his head, grin turning wicked. "Upgraded. Now I collect them. And I'm thinking about collecting other things too. Like hot professors who look like they could ride me into next week and still grade my performance afterward."
Her cheeks flushed darker, but she didn't look away. Instead, she shifted, legs uncurling, stretching out so one foot brushed his knee.
Accidental? Maybe.
But she didn't pull away.
Shane reached out slowly, gave her time to stop him, and rested his hand on her ankle. His thumb stroked the inside, soft skin over tendon, slow, deliberate circles.
"Tell me to stop," he said quietly, voice dropping to a husky rumble. "Say the word and I back off. No hard feelings. Well, maybe some hard feelings, but I'll deal."
She didn't.
Instead, she leaned forward, close enough that he could smell the faint soap on her skin, the lingering trace of rainwater, and the warm, feminine scent that was pure Nyra.
"I haven't felt safe in weeks," she whispered, voice trembling just a little. "Haven't felt… wanted. Not like this. Not since before."
His hand slid higher, calf, then the back of her knee, thumb tracing slow patterns that made her breath hitch.
"You are now," he said, voice rough with promise. "Safe, wanted and worshipped. Pick your poison, Nyra. I've got all three in stock."
Her breath hitched again.
Then she closed the last few inches and kissed him.
Soft at first, tentative, testing. Then hungrier. Her hands found his shoulders, fingers digging in. He pulled her onto his lap in one smooth motion; she straddled him without breaking the kiss, thighs clamping around his hips, the tight leggings doing nothing to hide how warm she was, how wet she already was.
Shane groaned into her mouth, low, filthy sound.
Hands roamed, up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the thin tank. She arched into the touch, whimpering softly when he grazed her nipples, the hard peaks pressing against his palms like they were begging.
They broke apart only when air became necessary.
Nyra's eyes were dark, pupils blown wide.
"We shouldn't," she breathed, even as her hips rocked once, grinding down against the growing hardness beneath her.
"World's ended," Shane murmured against her throat, kissing the bruise there gently, then not so gently, sucking a fresh mark into the soft skin. "Shouldn't is off the table. Only 'want' and 'need' left. And right now, I want you so bad I can taste it. And I need to be inside you before I lose my fucking mind."
She laughed, shaky, breathless, beautiful.
"Then don't stop."
He didn't.
XXXX
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