*Greg Recovers

The morning sunlight filtered through the barricaded windows, bathing the room in pale, fractured light. Olivia was tending to Greg’s wound on the couch, her hands steady as she bandaged the gash along his side. Greg winced, gritting his teeth but saying nothing, his haggard, hazel eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Noah sat across the room at the kitchen table, arms crossed, watching them both in silence. His knife rested on the table in front of him, its blade freshly sharpened. He wasn’t working this time; his attention was wholly on Greg, his gaze calculating and cold.

“Your wound is not infected, and is healing well,” Olivia said, her head nodding at his progress. She stepped back, giving Greg space to adjust his shirt. “Just keep it clean, and don’t push yourself too hard.”

Greg gave a gruff nod, sitting up with some effort. “Thanks. I owe you one.” His voice was low, tired but sincere. He looked between Olivia and Noah. “I know we said two days, but… I was wondering if maybe I could stick around a little longer. I can help out—hunt, scavenge, whatever you need. I just... don’t have anywhere else to go. Certainly not back to my home.”

Noah’s jaw tightened, his hand instinctively moving to the knife on the table. “We agreed on two days,” he said flatly. “We get your supplies, you’ve got your stitches. That’s it.”

Olivia glanced at Noah, her expression conflicted. She hesitated for a moment before speaking, her voice soft but firm. “Maybe he should stay.”

Noah’s head snapped toward her, disbelief flashing in his eyes. “What?”

“He’s not a threat,” Olivia continued, her tone measured. “He’s already helped us with supplies, and he can contribute more. You’re always saying we need more food, more fuel. Having another pair of hands could make a difference.”

Noah’s mouth opened, a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue, but he stopped himself. He studied Olivia, then shifted his gaze back to Greg, who sat silently, his expression unreadable. Finally, Noah exhaled through his nose, his frustration palpable. “Fine,” he said, his voice clipped. “You stay. But you’re pulling your weight. You’re coming with me on supply runs—every time. You don’t sit here and wait for us to feed you, got it?”

Greg nodded slowly. “Fair enough. I’ll do my part.”

Noah leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “And if you step out of line—if you so much as look at us the wrong way—you’re gone. No arguments. Understand?”

Greg met his gaze, unflinching. “I get it. I don’t want trouble.”

“Good.” Noah pushed himself up from the chair, slipping the knife into his belt. “We head out in ten. Get ready."