Kale wasn't used to quiet that didn't feel hostile.
But this? This was different.
Not peaceful, exactly. Not in a world where buildings grow teeth and clouds bleed mana, but… quieter.
Like the air around them was finally letting them breathe. Or maybe just letting her breathe, and he was caught in the bubble by accident.
She was still asleep when he woke up.
Curled near his pack, arms wrapped tightly around that threadbare rabbit. Chest rising and falling in slow, careful rhythms, like even in rest she wasn't sure she had permission to relax.
He sat up carefully. Every bone in his back cracked in protest.
"Morning," he mumbled.
"Or as the gods of this busted apocalypse call it: Level Reset With Bonus Suffering."
She didn't stir.
Kale rubbed his face, yawned hard enough to unlock a new jaw pain, and peeked through the slats of broken concrete.
Still gray.
Still dead.
Still his life.
He turned back toward her, softened a little.
"You drool, by the way."
Her eyes opened.
"Just a little," he added, holding up a thumb and forefinger.
"Like, baby fountain levels. Super classy."
She sat up slowly, blinked at him, rubbed her eyes, and yawned. Then, without a word, shuffled closer and plopped down beside him, rabbit in her lap.
No fear. No hesitation.
He blinked at the sudden proximity.
"Wow," he said.
"That's it? We're just skipping all the emotional slow-burn tension arcs now?"
"I was cold," she said.
"Yeah, well. I was awkward, and you don't see me making life choices."
"You're always awkward."
"Hey, I'm endearingly awkward. There's a difference."
She stared at him.
Then held out a piece of stale energy bar he didn't know she'd saved from yesterday.
He took it, stunned.
"…You realize this makes us best friends now, right?"
She shrugged.
They ate in silence.
Eventually, as he adjusted the pack on his lap, he said:
"Y'know, if we're gonna do this whole end-of-the-world family sitcom thing, it's probably time I stop calling you Ghost Goblin or Tiny Stalker."
She didn't look at him.
"You got a name?" he asked gently.
Silence.
Then:
"Ember."
He blinked. "That's a hell of a name."
"It's mine."
"Well, I wasn't gonna argue. Ember it is. Has a cool post-apocalyptic ring to it. Very 'I survived the fire, and now I set the rules.'"
"My dad gave it to me."
Kale froze.
She didn't look up, didn't say more. Just picked at the hem of her sleeve.
He didn't ask. Didn't press.
Some things hurt too much when you name them.
He just said, "Your dad had good taste. Though I'm assuming he didn't mean for you to spend the end of the world following around a guy who can't even fry a ration bar without burning it."
"You don't burn them. You char them."
He grinned. "See? You do listen."
She leaned against his arm without warning. Lightly. Barely a brush.
But he felt it like a punch.
It had been so long since someone had touched him just to be close.
He coughed into his elbow, hiding something too real behind the rasp.
"Okay, okay. That's enough emotional development for one morning. Let's go find a dungeon and almost die in it."
The rest of the day was uneventful.
As uneventful as a collapsed metro tunnel haunted by mana-bloated worms could be, anyway.
They fought one — Kale with his machete, Ember with a weirdly calm stare that unnerved him more than the worm.
Afterward, as they caught their breath, he turned to her and said, "Okay, real talk. Did you make that thing explode just by looking at it?"
"Maybe."
He squinted. "That's terrifying. And deeply impressive. I'm both proud and mildly threatened."
"You should be."
He grinned.
But something in his stomach twisted.
Not fear. Not quite.
Just a whisper of realization: she wasn't normal.
Not just in the 'survived too much' way. In a different way.
Something old lived in her eyes.
Something that didn't belong in a kid.
He pushed the thought aside.
She was his now. That was the deal.
That night, they camped in a long-abandoned watchtower.
Kale started a fire with dried vines and pieces of an old bookshelf. Ember sat cross-legged across from him, carefully breaking down a handful of mushrooms he'd insisted were "probably not deadly."
He watched her for a long time. Quietly. Thoughtfully.
And then, before he could second-guess it, he said:
"…Hey, Ember."
She looked up.
"I know I said it as a joke before, but… if you want to be my kid. For real. I mean—" He scratched the back of his neck, grimacing.
"I'm not, like, dad material. I have the emotional range of a soggy rock. But I'll keep you safe. Feed you. Teach you how to tell good mushrooms from evil ones. The basics."
She didn't answer right away.
Just tilted her head.
"Like adoption?"
He smiled. "Sure. Post-apocalyptic honorary dungeon apocalypse adoption."
She considered.
Then nodded.
"Okay."
And just like that, the world felt a little less like it was ending.