There’s a certain kind of silence that follows a heavy conversation. Not the calm kind. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that wraps around you like a wet towel on a cold day—uncomfortable, heavy, and hard to shake off.

  That’s where Jules and I landed after she spilled her truth.

  She’d been with the bandits. From the beginning. Played me like a violin in a trash fire. And somehow, I wasn’t trying to push her out the door.

  I was still reeling, trying to figure out what part of me decided to let her stay. The part that missed her? The part that didn’t want to sleep with one eye open? The part that knew deep down, I’d probably have done something just as shitty if I was in her shoes?

  Maybe all of the above. Maybe none. My brain was a loading screen that never finished buffering.

  Jules had gone upstairs after our meal, probably to cry or pace or stab a pillow. I sat there at the dining table, pretending I was thinking about anything else. But I wasn’t.

  I looked toward the stairs.

  Then toward the corner of the room.

  “Hey, Alex,” I said, like I wasn’t talking to the empty air. “You left your awkward silence on the stove again.”

  She poked her head out from behind the bookcase like a cat caught mid-mischief. Eyes wide. Guilty. Busted.

  “How long you been listening?” I asked.

  “Long enough,” she muttered, and then she disappeared again—this time, for real.

  I let her go. Wasn’t gonna scold her. She wasn’t wrong for wanting to know. I would’ve done the same thing if our roles were flipped.

  Still… yeah. I saw it in her face. That glint of anger. Not aimed at me—but at Jules.

  ---

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  The next few days were what I could only describe as a sitcom running on anxiety. Me and Alex? Still our usual chaos gremlin duo. We bickered about food, raided an abandoned bakery for stale pop tarts, and tried seeing who could build the stupidest makeshift weapon. (Spoiler: she won. You don’t beat a slingshot that launches compact mirrors.)

  Me and Jules? Well. We existed in the same space without trying to murder each other. Which was progress, I guess. Our conversations were… awkward. Polite. Cordial. Like two coworkers who used to date but now have to pretend the breakroom isn’t haunted by bad memories. We were trying. I think.

  Jules tried making breakfast once. Pancakes. She used salt instead of sugar. I didn’t say anything. I ate the salty discs and smiled through the pain.

  Alex didn’t touch hers.

  That was the thing.

  Alex and Jules didn’t talk. Not really. Not unless they had to. Jules made a few attempts, but Alex dodged her like a videogame tryhard dodges a shower, Touhou style.

  And it all came to a head one evening while I was patching up a hole in the attic floor.

  Alex climbed up, hands covered in grease, holding a wrench like it was her emotional support weapon. She plopped down beside me, quiet for a second, then finally spoke.

  “I don’t trust her.”

  Didn’t need a name. I knew who she meant.

  I paused mid-hammer swing. “Yeah,” I said. “Figured.”

  “You’re really okay with her just… being here?”

  “No,” I said, setting the hammer down. “Not fully. But I’m not not okay, either. If that makes sense.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “Cool. Same page, then.”

  Alex frowned. “She could’ve gotten you killed.”

  “I know.”

  “She probably did get others killed.”

  “I know.”

  “And you’re just gonna let that slide?”

  “I never said that.”

  She looked at me, waiting for more. So I gave it.

  “Look,” I said. “You remember what you told me? Back when I didn’t trust Gail? You said I should treat him the same way I treated you. That maybe, just maybe, I should give people a chance.”

  Alex blinked. Her jaw tensed.

  “You were rotting in that bookstore,” I continued. “And I could’ve left you there. Hell, I should’ve, statistically speaking. But I didn’t. I dragged your gremlin ass out of there, fed you, fought for you, gave you the chance to grow into the zombie-punching loot goblin you are today.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” she muttered.

  “I’m just saying,” I said, nudging her. “People surprise you. I didn’t trust Gail, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt—and he helped us. He saved my ass more than once. Doesn’t mean I’d leave my stuff with him unattended, but y’know. Baby steps.”

  Alex looked down at her knees.

  I kept going.

  “Jules did something awful. Yeah. No excuses. But she also had a life before me. Before us. Before this apocalypse turned everything sideways. And maybe she’s not trying to fix everything, but she stayed. She didn’t have to. But she did.”

  Alex didn’t reply right away. Then:

  “She’s still a bandit.”

  “So was I. Kinda.”

  “You were a shoplifter.”

  “Details.”

  She huffed a laugh despite herself.

  I looked over at her. “I’m not saying you have to forgive her. Hell, I haven’t. But I’m giving her a chance. One chance. And if she breaks it, I’ll personally let you hit her with your compact-mirror slingshot.”

  Alex didn’t smile, but her shoulders relaxed. Just a little.

  “I still don’t like her,” she mumbled.

  “You don’t have to. But maybe… talk to her eventually. You’re good at reading people. Maybe you’ll spot something I missed.”

  She nodded once.

  Then added, “...And I’m not making her coffee.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We sat there for a while longer, watching the sunset burn through the cracked window. Somewhere below us, Jules was probably rereading one of the books Alex alphabetized out of boredom. I wondered what

  she thought of us. Of herself.

  I didn’t trust her.

  But I wanted to.

  And maybe that was enough—for now.

  Maybe.