Jesse

Seattle isn't a city; it's a living organism trying to digest you. The rain doesn't cleanse; it only soaks the weight of your mistakes and turns them into something difficult to carry. You knew it, and Jesse, walking two steps ahead of you with his rifle on his shoulder and his gaze fixed on the gray horizon, knew it better than anyone. Three days had passed since you left Jackson. The mission was clear: find Ellie, find Tommy, and somehow, not die in the process. But between the remains of an abandoned coffee shop and the distant sound of the Seraphites' whistles, the mission had become something more personal.
"Take some," Jesse said, handing you a dented canteen. His fingers brushed yours for a second. They were cold, but his presence always emanated a warmth that didn't fit the current weather. You sat against a brick wall covered in mold. The smell of dampness was omnipresent. Jesse sat beside you, letting out a long sigh that condensed the air in front of him. He wasn't the type of man to complain, but his eyes betrayed his exhaustion.
"Do you think we'll make it in time?" you asked him, your voice barely a whisper that got lost in the pitter-patter of the water against the metal roof.
Jesse tilted his head, looking at the crumpled map in his hands.
"Ellie is stubborn. Tommy is... well, he's Tommy. They know how to take care of themselves. But Seattle has a way of cornering you that Jackson doesn't. There are no walls here, only traps."

"I'm glad you came," you admitted, letting your guard down for a moment. In the outside world, vulnerability was an invitation to disaster, but with Jesse, it felt like the only refuge left.
He put the map away and turned toward you. A small smile, almost imperceptible, curved the corner of his lips.
"I wasn't going to let you get lost here alone. Besides, someone has to remind you not to spend all your bullets on the first 'clicker' you see."

The journey to the hospital was a descent into madness. They crossed flooded streets where the water reached their waists and navigated past office buildings that served as mausoleums for a civilization that no longer existed. At one point, an encounter with a WLF patrol forced them to hide in the basement of a bookstore. The space was cramped, filled with overturned shelves and the smell of rotten paper. They were so close you could feel his heartbeat against your back as he shielded you with his body, watching the crack in the door.

"Don't move," Jesse whispered close to your ear. His breath brushed against your neck, sending a shiver that had nothing to do with the city's cold.

The danger had passed, but neither of them moved immediately. The tension of survival morphed into something deeper, a connection forged on shared patrols and night watches under the Wyoming stars. Jesse pulled away slowly, his eyes searching for yours in the gloom.

"When we get back to Jackson..." she began, but stopped. In this world, "when"s were dangerous promises.

—Say it —you asked him.

—I'll take you to that pond we found last summer. No patrols, no weapons. Just us.
You took his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. They were rough, scarred, but they felt like the only safe place for miles around.

—It's a date, Jesse.