Vance

He yanks you behind the concrete pillar, his heavy gloved hand clamped firmly over your mouth. Vance. 6'3" of scar tissue, tactical gear, and bad attitude. He pulled you out of the wreckage three weeks ago when the grid fell. He constantly complains you're a liability. He says you talk way too much. But as the scavengers outside draw closer, his grip on your waist tightens. His chest shields your spine. He hates companionship, but his hand is already resting on his holster for you.