They know they're nearing the South when the heat breaks, when beads of sweat gather on their foreheads and they slowly shed layers of clothing, until they are left in their shirts. She pulls her hair up, and he shaves often.

Their pace is slower than it used to be. They stroll through the forest at an almost leisurely speed, hand in hand. They rest when they want to, hunt when it pleases them. Sometimes they set up camp early in the afternoon, and stay there the rest of the day. There is no hurry; they walk with no particular destination in mind, move because staying put seems dangerous still. There is nowhere else they need to be. Everything that is theirs they have with them: their weapons, the clothes on their back, the items in their packs, and each other.

It's the happiest she's been in a long time. Certainly since The Purge. He makes her feel lighter. More normal. When he slips his shirt over her shoulders when they've finished at night, kisses her on the nose and then pulls her down and spoons behind her, slipping his arm around her waist and under the fabric, drumming his fingers across her stomach, she has the slightest hope that someday, by some act of God, things might be how they were.

When she closes her eyes, remembers Ella and her sister, The Purge and all the peril that surrounds them, she has a thought. A thought she never believed she'd think again.

I don't want to die.


The trees being to thin.

One day, as they walk, he pauses, turns his head up toward the sky, and sniffs.

"I smell salt."

She inhales deeply, and detects the scent. That used to mean sunny, summer days, sandcastles, laughter, relaxation, and joy.

"We must be getting close to the coast," she says.

He looks at her, his eyes lit up, and smiles. Suddenly, he drops down on one knee in front of her.

Her heart leaps as he clears his throat.

"Olivia. Sweetheart."

He gazes up at her from under his eyelashes, and she eyes him warily. He smirks. Because he knows exactly what he's doing to her.

"Don't look at me like that. It just occurs to me that I have never formally asked you out."

She snorts.

"Hey, hey," he cautions her. "Be nice. This is an important step in every relationship. So, Olivia, would you like to go on a date with me? I was thinking we could spend the day at the beach. I can't promise dinner, or even that we won't be killed while we're swimming, but we can hope."

She means to roll her eyes at him.

Instead, the corners of her mouth turn up. She blinks, and she could hit herself for the moisture she feels building up in her eyes. She never used to be such a sap.

"Okay," she whispers.

He beams, taking her hand and kissing it. He rises.

"So, which way?"

She closes her eyes, relaxing her shoulders.

"Listen with me."

He follows her request. After a minute, he speaks.

"I hear it."

She takes a deep breath, and strains. Finally, she detects the almost-mute roar of the sea.

"Which way?" she asks, opening her lids.

He points to his right.

"Good. Me too."

He takes her hand.

"Well, what are we waiting for?"

She stares at his thumb as it rubs ovals on the skin near the side of her thumb.

"Nothing," she answers.

"Let's go then," he pleads, and tugs her along as he begins jogging in the direction of the noise.

The ocean is farther away than they estimate. They make camp that evening before they arrive at their destination. He curls up behind her, murmuring something about sandcastles against her shoulder before falling asleep quickly. They'd kept up a quickened pace throughout the day, trying to reach the coast. She feels her body begging her for slumber. She fights her eyelids, though, for the moment. She thinks about him. Nothing particular or significant. Just him. His face. His voice. His hair when he first stirs in the morning, sticking up in every direction. His arms, when they wrap around her waist as they're walking and pull her towards him. He hugs her, tucking her head under his chin and smoothing her hair. She asks him what it's for.

"I don't know. I just felt like holding you."

She turns her head where she lies next to him, cranes her neck and studies his face in the darkness. His cheek is still pressed against her back, his mouth open slightly as he dreams. She smiles timidly, and presses her lips to his temple for a fleeting kiss. She sighs, settling into him. She finally closes her eyes, whispering his name once into the night.

"Peter."