Apocalypse: After Reanimation, I Became The Queen-Chapter 70: _ Let’s Just F*ck

"Hey," Leon says softly in a low tone.

Low enough that the others can’t hear. "You good?"

I glance at him. His eyes are serious and warm like he truly wants to unravel me. I know what’s in those eyes. Memories of our little kiss.

I nod once.

"Yeah," I whisper. "For now."

But my finger stays curled on the trigger just in case.

*****

I sit in the semi-darkness, gun warm in my lap with my eyes tracing the doorway like it owes me an answer.

The building groans like an old man with arthritis, joints shifting in protest with every gust of wind slamming into its ribs. It’s silent otherwise, the kind of silence that doesn’t last.

Not in this world.

Bea’s finally out cold, curled up like a defensive hedgehog, arms crossed like she’s protecting the last bit of pride she has. Yara snores softly, one foot poking from the tattered blanket like she’s taunting death with her pinkie toe.

I don’t envy them. Sleep’s a privilege. One I don’t deserve. Not when I’m not even human.

And definitely not when my teeth ache with the suppressed urge to bite. Feed.

I clench my jaw and shift slightly in the recliner, careful not to squeak the damn thing. The last thing I need is Bea waking up and trying to psychoanalyze me again like she’s a discount therapist from a pre-apocalypse drama.

And then I hear it.

Boots.

Light, soft steps. No rotter shuffle, no breathless panic. Just a calm approach.

Leon.

Of course.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just slides down onto the floor next to my chair like we’re kids camping out under a blanket fort, not two half-dead survivors in a building that could collapse if someone sneezes too loud.

He stretches his long legs out in front of him, arms draped over his knees like this is his living room and he’s got snacks to offer.

"You gonna hog all the existential dread to yourself or can I join?" he asks, teasing.

I smirk. "Only if you brought sarcasm and fun."

"Oh, baby, I’ve got both in spades."

I roll my eyes. "Lucky me."

He nudges my leg with his elbow. "You good?"

"Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to," I say, voice soft.

"Touché." He exhales and leans back against the chair. "Hell of a day, huh?"

"That’s one way to put it."

Another silence settles, not heavy this time. More... companionable. The kind that lives between people who’ve nearly died together and now have nothing left to offer but presence.

He taps his fingers against his thigh absently. "You ever miss it?"

I glance at him. "Miss what?"

"Normal stuff. Electricity. Showers. DoorDash."

I laugh—genuinely and unexpectedly. "You miss DoorDash?"

"Damn right I do," he says solemnly. "Specifically the pad thai from that tiny place on Fourth. Best I ever had. That little delivery guy? Always smiling. Wonder if he made it..."

"Probably became a rotter delivering a hot meal," I say, snorting.

"RIP, Thai Guy," Leon says with mock solemnity, and we both grin into the darkness.

He shifts again, this time closer. The warmth of him bleeds into my space and it’s... distracting. Comforting and Dangerous.

"So," he says casually, but there’s a note of gravity under the words. "You gonna tell me your story?"

My story...

I stiffen.

He notices.

"Sorry," he adds quickly, palms up like he’s surrendering. "Didn’t mean to hit a nerve."

I breathe out slowly. "I don’t have a story. Just a history of not dying."

He studies me. "That’s a story in itself."

I shrug. "You want trauma? Get in line. We’re all carrying our own coffin on our back."

"Yeah," he murmurs. "But yours looks heavier."

That stops me.

I glance at him. His eyes are serious now, the joking gone. They’re warm and curious and there, not just looking at me but into me.

It’s unnerving. No one should be that perceptive. Especially not a guy who has my oxytocin popping.

He leans a bit closer. "I’ll wait, Renata. However long it takes. You don’t have to tell me your story now. But I know there’s more in there and I can’t wait to hear it."

The only story I can picture is me shooting at him and his friends and finally eating two of them.

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.

He touches my thigh gently. It’s just a press of fingertips, like he’s testing a wire to see if it’ll snap.

My pulse jumps. This is stupid. Dangerous.

Everything in me says to pull back. But my mouth?

My mouth is a traitor.

"Or..." I murmur, "We could skip the story time and just fuck."

His eyes widen. "Wait—what?"

I grin lazily and wickedly. "Bedroom’s free."

He looks past me at Bea and Yara who are both knocked out like they’ve been drugged. "They’re right there."

"They’re scared. That’s why they’re here in the living room. No one took the bedroom."

Leon blinks, and I watch the gears turn behind his eyes. There’s a second of hesitation in there. His fingers twitch on my leg. He’s still close enough that I can smell his masculinity, the salt of dried sweat, and the hint of blood he hasn’t fully washed off.

It’s intoxicating. I’m starving—for everything.

I think he might say no when suddenly, he moves. One second he’s sitting. The next, he’s on me.

Mouth on mine like he’s been waiting all damn week. I gasp against him, half because of the kiss and half from the way he shifts his weight, straddling the chair, one arm braced beside my head and the other gripping my jaw like I’m something fragile he’s afraid to shatter.

Spoiler alert: I’m not fragile.

His lips are hot, urgent, tasting of adrenaline and dust and something I want more of. I kiss him back hard, fingers fisting in the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. The recliner creaks a protest. We freeze, staring at each other.

"You think they heard that?" he whispers.

I listen but Bea snores.

"Nope. Keep going."

He groans softly. "You’re gonna be the death of me."

I smirk. "That’s the idea."