When The World Ends

Christmas

The days bled together.

We'd been dipping in and out of houses so long I couldn't tell anymore which one had the rotting mattress and which one had the basement full of canned beans. This street looked just like the last: slumped rooftops, peeling paint, doorways left yawning open like broken mouths. Every so often, a walker would stumble out of the tree line, and Raphael would dispatch it with a grunt and a quick blade, like he was brushing dust off his shoulder.

This house had seemed promising. Bigger than the rest, half-boarded windows, and no smell of rot the second we pushed inside. We swept through room by room until Leo declared it clear. By the time we barricaded the doors, the day's light was already waning, bleeding orange through cracks in the planks.

I sat against the wall, back sore, my knife still balanced across my lap. My eyelids wanted to close, but the brothers moved around me in practiced rhythm: Donnie setting up their small pack stove, Mickey dragging over a chair that still had three working legs, Raph tugging down curtains to block more glass.

For the first time in a while, the air didn't feel like it was pressing down on my lungs.

It started as silence, the kind where you hear the house creak around you. Then Mickey plopped on the floor beside me, cross-legged, shoving a dented can toward me like it was a feast.

"Dinner of champions," he said. "Cold beans. Unless you want me to light candles and really set the mood."

"You light candles, you'll set this place on fire," Raph muttered.

"Romance is dangerous, what can I say," Mickey shot back, grinning at me.

I rolled my eyes, but I took the can anyway. "If you're trying to impress me, it's working. Nothing says charm like beans straight from the tin."

"See?" Mickey leaned back like he'd just won. "Finally. Someone who gets me."

Donnie snorted. "That's because you're both feral."

"Feral's a survival trait now," I said, lifting the spoon.

Leo was quieter than the rest, tending the stove flame, but I caught the corner of his mouth twitch when he thought no one was looking.

Later, after the food and after Raph had stalked the perimeter twice, we ended up in a loose circle near the center of the living room. The furniture was useless, so it was just blankets and floorboards and our weapons within reach. The shadows from the lantern painted everything soft and uneven.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe the lull of being "safe" for five minutes. But someone — Mickey, of course — broke the quiet.

"Favorite Christmas," he said suddenly, like it was a game. "Go."

Raph groaned. "The hell kind of question is that?"

"A normal one," Mickey said. "C'mon. If Jade can put up with us for days, least we can do is not sit here like we're already dead."

Donnie's eyebrows lifted. "Alright. Fine. Christmas. I'll start. The year Dad tried to build that train set himself instead of paying someone to assemble it. Thing derailed on the first loop and took out the tree."

Mickey slapped the floor, laughing. "I forgot about that! The star almost skewered him."

"Yeah," Donnie smirked. "Mom wouldn't let him touch a screwdriver again after that."

Leo shook his head but his eyes were softer than usual. "Mine was the year snow iced over the whole street. Power went out. We all crammed in the den with blankets and candles. Mom read aloud from some beat-up novel while Dad swore at the fireplace."

Raph's voice came rougher, lower. "I liked the years before Dad worked every damn holiday. Back when he'd actually cook dinner instead of order takeout and act like it was some family tradition." He paused, jaw flexing. "Don't think I knew how rare that was back then."

The silence that followed carried weight, but Mickey cut through it, nudging me with his knee.

"Alright, your turn, Jade. Don't say you never celebrated."

I stared down at my hands. For a second, the memories pulled me backward — not to Christmas lights, but to a fire crackling at Hershel's farm, a boy with shaggy hair tucked against me. My chest tightened.

"I remember once," I said slowly, "Carl, a kid I've been looking over. My group and I were held up on this farm for a while. We were out walking the fields. He was in my arms on my hip and asked me what happens when the world ends. He was little still. I told him the best thing I could, because I wasn't going to lie. Although I wasn't going to sugar coat either, 'We build it back up again.'"

I swallowed hard, blinking at the lantern glow. "It wasn't Christmas. But it felt like one. Just... family. All of us together."

The boys went quiet. Even Mickey didn't joke. For a moment, I thought maybe I'd said too much. Then Raph muttered, almost respectful, "Kid sounds smart."

"He was," I whispered.

After that, things loosened again. They started telling dumber stories — Mickey confessed he once got his tongue stuck to a frozen pole (which Donnie confirmed with far too much glee), Leo admitted he once broke his wrist trying to skateboard, and Raph reluctantly told the story of punching a Santa mall actor when he was eight.

By the time we all laid down for the night, my cheeks ached from smiling. It felt... strange. Dangerous, almost. Letting that kind of warmth back in.

Hours later, I woke to the sound of voices. The lantern had burned out. The house was dark, except for a strip of moonlight across the floor. I didn't move. Just listened.

"She's tougher than I thought," Raph murmured from near the door.

"She's quieter than I expected," Donnie said. "Observant. Doesn't waste words."

"Yeah, but she laughs at my jokes," Mickey whispered, smug. "That's how you know she's quality."

Leo's voice was softer. "Don't be an idiot. She's not— She's been through a lot. Give her space."

"You like her," Mickey teased under his breath.

Silence. Then the shift of Leo's weight against the wall.

"It's not about that," Leo said finally. "It's about whether we can trust her. Whether she'll trust us."

I kept my breathing steady, eyes shut. But my chest felt tight. Like I'd stumbled into something private and fragile.

Because they weren't just talking about me like I was some stranger. They were trying to figure out if maybe, just maybe, I was becoming one of them.