glances given across the bar top; fingers running lazily through brown curls; nicknames called out in dark rooms; hands brushing against each other for an electric moment as she pours another shot; needy kisses in shady corners; the smell of sweat, old whiskey, and faint perfume; staring up at the stars from a hotel rooftop with his hand clasped in hers, neither ready to let go.

nobody ever said a post-apocalyptic romance would be easy.

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