Chapter 6: Here's to us
The water, once boiled and cooled, tasted faintly of metal and despair. They sipped it from their bottles without pleasure, a necessary fuel. The trek back to the Balfron Tower was silent, the weight of the spoiled river hanging between them.
“We need a win,” Milly said abruptly, her voice sharp against the quiet. She stopped in the middle of a looted high street, her eyes scanning the shattered storefronts. “Something that isn’t contaminated, or crumbled, or trying to bite us.”
Jim followed her gaze. A newsagent’s was a cave of scattered paper. A chemist had been stripped to empty shelves. Then, three doors down, a fortified storefront caught the weak light differently. The security shutter was half-cranked, jammed on its tracks. Behind the scratched, reinforced glass, dark shapes of bottles stood in rows.
“Think it’s been picked clean?” Jim asked, hefting his crowbar.
“Only one way to be corpse-free,” Milly said, already moving toward it.
They approached low and quiet, listening. No sound came from within. The shutter was stuck about four feet up—just enough to duck under, but a perfect bottleneck. Jim went first, sliding under on his back, crowbar raised. Milly followed, knife in hand.
Inside, the air was stale and cool, smelling of old wood, spilled sugar, and the ghost of a thousand spirits. Dust motes danced in the slants of light cutting through the grimy windows. The place was a mess—shelves toppled, glass crunching underfoot—but not empty. Not by a long shot. Bottles of obscure Polish vodkas and ornate Italian liqueurs lay shattered in sticky puddles. But towards the back, the sturdy metal shelves holding the beer and cider stood relatively intact.
“Jackpot,” Milly breathed, a real smile breaking across her face for the first time since morning.
They moved quickly, efficiently. Jim kept watch at the front, his eyes on the street, while Milly investigated. The beers were warm, of course, but most were in cans or dark bottles, still sealed. She shoved a few each into their packs—bitter, lager, a couple of spicy ginger beers for variety. Then her eyes fell on a single, heavy bottle with a ceramic swing-top. A German wheat beer. She pulled it out, the weight satisfying in her hand.
“For morale,” she said, holding it up.
Jim’s worried expression softened. “Essential supplies.”
Back on the street, with the packs heavier and the afternoon light fading to a dull copper, the world felt marginally less hostile. They took a different route back, climbing through a quiet estate where birch trees grew through cracked tarmac. The silence here was different, almost peaceful.
After twenty minutes of walking, Milly stopped. “Screw it. I’m not carrying this morale all the way up without sampling it.” She wrestled the ceramic bottle from her pack. “It’s practically a duty.”
Jim leaned against a moss-covered wall, a smirk playing on his lips. “A solemn one.”
She struggled with the swing-top, her nails digging at the stubborn wire clasp. “Come on, you beautiful bastard.”
“Here.” He stepped closer, taking the bottle from her. His fingers brushed against hers, a deliberate contact this time. He worked the top with a firm, practiced twist. The seal broke with a satisfying hiss-pop. A faint, yeasty aroma escaped.
He handed it back. “Your duty awaits.”
She took a long swig. It was warm, cloudy, and tasted profoundly, wonderfully of before. She closed her eyes for a second. “Oh, that’s good. That’s illegally good.” She passed it to him.
He drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He lowered the bottle, a line of foam on his upper lip.“Yeah. That’s not bad.”
“Not bad? That’s a masterpiece trapped in a bottle.” She reclaimed it, her fingers overlapping where his had been, warm from his grip. They started walking again, slower now, passing the bottle between them.
The alcohol was a low, glowing ember in her stomach. It loosened the tight coil of constant vigilance, just a notch. “You know what I miss?” she said, taking another sip. “Ice. Just a single, perfect cube clinking in a glass.”
“I miss music,” Jim said, taking the bottle. “Not just hearing it. The feeling of it in a room. The bass line thrumming in your chest at a gig. Or just some rubbish radio playing in another room while you’re making tea.”
“Making tea,” Milly sighed wistfully. “A whole ritual. Boiling the kettle, choosing the mug, dunking the bag exactly four times.”
“Four?A barbarian. It’s three. A gentle three.”
“Four for strength. For fortitude.” She nudged his shoulder with hers. “You were probably one of those people who used loose leaf and a strainer. A total snob.”
“I had a pot,” he admitted, a laugh in his voice. “My mum’s. Little cosy and everything.”
The shared memory of a mundane object hung between them, sweet and sad. They walked in silence for a few paces.
“You’re good at this, you know,” she said, her tone softer.
“At what? Finding warm beer?”
“At… this. The not-going-mad. The keeping on.” She glanced at him. “Most people I ran into after… they were either already feral or about to start praying to a traffic cone. You’re still you.”
He didn’t look at her, studying the cracked pavement. “You make it easier.”
“How?”
“You joke. About the important things. The tea-bag-dunking treaties of the world. It… grounds things. Makes it feel less like we’re just meat waiting to spoil.”
She took the bottle from him, their hands touching again, lingering. “We’re not just meat, Jim.”
“I know,” he said, and his voice was low, certain. He finally looked at her. The fading light caught in his blue eyes, turning them the colour of the sky just before it went dark. “Not with you.”
The air changed. The simple words hung there, bare and undeniable. The flirting had been a game, a series of nudges and smirks. This was different. This was a door swinging open.
Milly held his gaze, the bottle forgotten in her hand. The usual quipped deflection died on her tongue. She thought of his thumb on her skin at dawn, the solid warmth of him at her back in the dark. The way his hand always found her elbow when she stumbled.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” she finally said, the words less glib than she intended. They sounded like the truth.
A corner of his mouth lifted. “High praise.”
They reached the base of the Balfron Tower, its brutalist form blotting out the twilight. The climb up the dark stairwell awaited, a slog back to cold concrete. They paused outside the utility door.
Jim took the near-empty bottle from her, finishing the last warm swallow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked at the bottle. “We should save this. For… next time.”
“For the next win,” Milly agreed.
He nodded, stowing it carefully in his pack. He straightened up and, without a word, reached out. He didn’t grab her hand. He simply slid his palm against hers, his fingers threading through her fingers, slow and deliberate. His skin was rough, his grip firm.
She curled her fingers, locking them with his. The contact was electric, a current that ran straight up her arm and settled deep in her chest. It was more intimate than the night-time clinging for warmth, more potent than the morning’s unconscious embrace. This was a choice.
“Come on,” he said, his voice a rough scrape. “Before it gets completely dark.”
He didn’t let go. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and led her into the pitch-black stairwell, their joined hands the only tether, the only point of navigation in the utter dark. She followed, her heart hammering a frantic, hopeful rhythm against her ribs, their footsteps and their linked hands echoing in the concrete hollow of the stairs as they began the long ascent together.
The stairwell swallowed them, a vertical tunnel of pure black. Their linked hands became their only compass, a warm, living chain in the oppressive dark. Milly’s other hand skimmed the cold, gritty wall, her breath loud in the confined space.
Jim’s thumb moved slightly, a slow stroke against the side of her hand. It was a small, conscious motion. Her heart, already thumping from the climb, stuttered in response. The silence between them was no longer empty; it was taut, vibrating with everything they hadn’t said downstairs.
“Sixteen floors,” Jim murmured, his voice a low rumble in the dark. “My legs are going to hate me tomorrow.”
“Your legs are a pair of ungrateful bastards,” Milly replied, the words a little breathless. “Complain to management.”
“I would, but management is a terrifying woman with a knife and very strong opinions on tea.”
She snorted, the sound echoing upwards. “Four dunks. It’s non-negotiable.”
They fell back into a rhythm, their combined footfalls and shared breath marking their progress. A sliver of grey moonlight cut across the landing of the tenth floor, illuminating dust and a discarded shoe. They paused, listening. Only the wind whistling through a broken window answered.
“Clear,” Jim whispered, giving her hand a squeeze before releasing it to lead the way onto the landing. The loss of contact felt like a sudden chill. He peered around the corner, crowbar rising, his silhouette sharp against the light.
He gestured her forward. She moved past him, close enough to smell the warm, clean scent of his skin beneath the day’s dust and sweat. They were on the home stretch, the familiar, scarring on the concrete of their own corridor just three flights up.
The final door to their squatted flat was still barricaded with the filing cabinet they’d dragged there days before. Jim shifted it aside with a grunt, the metal screeching on the tiles. The sound was a violation of the quiet, too loud. They slipped inside quickly, sliding the cabinet back into place with a final, solid thud.
Home. It was four walls, a corpse of someone else’s life, and a sleeping bag on a door. But the air inside was still, and it was theirs. Milly dropped her pack with a thud, the weight of the water and cans suddenly enormous. Every muscle protested.
“I am officially a broken human,” she groaned, leaning against the wall and sliding down to sit on the floor.
Jim lit a single candle from their precious stash. The flame grew, painting the room in soft, dancing amber. He sank down beside her, not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat from his body. He pulled out the ceramic bottle, now only a quarter full, and handed it to her.
“For medicinal purposes.”
She took it, drinking deeply. The warm, spicy beer was a reward. She passed it back. “Doctor’s orders.”
They sat in comfortable exhaustion, passing the bottle until it was empty. The candlelight flickered in Jim’s eyes. He was looking at the wall, but his mind was somewhere else. His knuckles were grazed, she noticed. From the shutter, probably.
“You’re bleeding,” she said, nodding at his hand.
He looked down, flexing his fingers. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” She pushed herself up, rummaging in her pack for the small, nearly empty bottle of antiseptic and a scrap of relatively clean cloth. “Give it here.”
He hesitated, then offered his hand. She took it, turning it gently towards the light. His palm was calloused, his fingers long and capable. The grazes were superficial, but dark with grit. She poured a tiny splash of the precious liquid onto the cloth.
“This might sting,” she said, her voice softer now.
“I’ll try to be brave.”
She dabbed at the dirt, her touch careful. He didn’t flinch. The room was so quiet she could hear the slight catch in his breath. This simple act, tending to a small wound, felt more intimate than anything that had passed between them. It was a declaration. I see your hurts. I will try to fix them.
“There,” she whispered, letting go. Her fingers lingered on his wrist for a heartbeat too long.
“Thanks.” His voice was rough. He didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he turned his wrist, his fingers curling gently around hers. The candle guttered, sending shadows leaping across his face.
Milly’s breath hitched. The hopeful, frantic rhythm from the stairs returned, a deep drumbeat in her chest. The world outside, the contaminated river, the silent streets, all of it receded. There was only this room, this flickering light, and the warm, solid pressure of his hand holding hers.
He stood first, pulling her up with him. Their makeshift bed, the door on boards with its nest of blankets, waited. Wordlessly, they went through the familiar, silent routine of preparing for night. Boots were unlaced and set neatly by the packs. Jackets were shed, becoming lumpy pillows.
Jim blew out the candle. Darkness crashed in, absolute and thick. Milly lay down on her side, facing the wall, listening to the rustle of him settling beside her. The cold of the concrete began its nightly siege through the layers of fabric.
She felt the dip of the boards as he moved closer. Then his arm came over her ribs, his hand settling flat against her stomach, drawing her back firmly against the solid warmth of his body. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
She let out a shuddering sigh, all the day’s tension dissolving at the contact. She melted into him, her back fitting perfectly against his chest, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder. His other arm slipped beneath her neck, his hand coming to rest over her heart, feeling its rapid beat.
His face pressed into her hair. She could feel his breath, warm and even, against her scalp. His thumb began to move again, that same slow, unconscious circle on the fabric over her ribs. This time, she covered his hand with her own, lacing her fingers through his.
He went very still for a moment. Then his fingers tightened, holding her hand in place against her heartbeat. They lay like that, two shapes in the dark, fused together against the cold and the vast, hungry silence outside. No words were left. None were needed. The fear of the day, the weight of the ruined world, it was all still there. But here, in this fragile cradle of warmth and touch, it was held at bay. For now, it was enough.
For now, it was enough.
The world returned not with a sound, but with a sensation: a deep, pervasive warmth. Milly swam up from a dreamless sleep, her body heavy and utterly relaxed. An ache in her shoulder from an awkward position was the only reminder of the hard floor beneath their makeshift bed. A different pressure, firm and steady, was wrapped around her.
She was still tucked against him, her back to his chest. His arm was a solid weight across her ribs, his hand splayed possessively over her stomach, even in sleep. Her own hand was resting atop his, their fingers loosely tangled. His forehead was pressed gently between her shoulder blades, his slow, even breaths heating a small, damp spot on her thin top.
She didn’t move. She just listened. To his breathing. To the distant, empty hum of the tower. To the frantic, joyful tattoo of her own heart. The grey dawn light painted the room in soft, blurry strokes.
He stirred first. A subtle tensing of the muscles in his arm, a shift in his breathing pattern from the deep rhythm of sleep to something more conscious. He didn’t pull away. His fingers flexed slightly against her, a gentle, waking squeeze.
“Morning,” she whispered, her voice rough with sleep.
His response was a low, wordless hum against her back. He nuzzled gently into the fabric of her top, a sleepy, instinctive gesture that made her breath catch. Then he went still again, as if realizing what he’d done.
She turned carefully in his arms, the layers of sleeping bag rustling. She rotated until she was facing him, their noses almost touching on the bundled curtain that served as a pillow. His blue eyes were open, watching her, soft and unclear with sleep. A faint stubble shadowed his jaw. She saw no trace of alarm, no regret. Just a quiet, focused stillness.
“You’re here,” he said, his voice a gravelly whisper.
“Where else would I be?” Her reply was equally soft. “The Ritz is fully booked.”
A slow smile touched his lips, not reaching his eyes yet. He lifted a hand and brushed a strand of her dark fringe from her forehead. The touch was deliberate, tender. His knuckles grazed her temple. “You okay?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. She was more than okay. She was unmoored. The careful distance she’d maintained for two years had vaporized in the night, leaving this terrifying, wonderful closeness. She searched his face. “You?”
“Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. His thumb traced the arch of her cheekbone, a slow, wondering stroke. “Milly.”
He said her name like it was a fragile, precious thing he’d just discovered. It wasn’t a question. It was an acknowledgment. Of her. Of this. Of them, here, in this ruin.
She leaned forward and kissed him.
It was not a dramatic, world-ending kiss. It was slow, and soft, and slightly clumsy. A tentative exploration of chapped lips and shared breath. A confirmation. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, his fingers sliding into her hair. He kissed her back, just as carefully, just as deeply.
When they finally parted, she kept her forehead resting against his. Their breath mingled in the small space between them.
“So,” she breathed, a shaky attempt at her usual tone. “That happened.”
“Yeah,” he breathed back, his smile finally reaching his eyes, crinkling the corners. “It did.”
He kissed her again, this one firmer, surer. A promise. Then he sighed, the practical world seeping back in. “We should move. Light’s getting up.”
They untangled themselves with a reluctant, slow grace. The cold air attacked immediately, rushing into the space where their bodies had been joined. Dressing was a silent, efficient ritual performed inches from each other. She laced her boots; he shrugged into his jacket. Every glance was a live wire.
He lit the little stove for tea, using the last of their cleaner water. The mundane act felt sacred now.
“Three dunks,” he said quietly, placing her mug beside her. “For patience.”
She took the mug, wrapping her hands around its warmth. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”
They ate a breakfast of cold beans from the can, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder against the wall. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was full. Every bite, every sip, was charged with the memory of the night, of the morning, of his hands and his mouth.
“River water’s going to taste like shit in this,” Jim said finally, tapping his mug.
“Everything tastes like shit,” Milly replied. “But this is our shit.”
He barked a surprised laugh. The sound was good. It grounded them.
When they shouldered their packs to leave, he didn’t just hold the door. He reached for her hand. She took it, lacing her fingers through his again, this new habit already feeling essential. His palm was warm and rough. It fit.
They stepped out into the corridor, the broken world waiting. But the chill in the air felt different today. It was just weather. The silence was just silence. She squeezed his hand once, tightly.
He squeezed back.
THEY WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING STILL IN EACH OTHER'S ARMS.