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SHE COMES TO him in the middle of the night.

Instead of curling up next to him like she always does, she settles down on the chair by his makeshift bed. He's awake-of course he is, how can he sleep when he's counting down the hours until she leaves him?-and he props himself up on one elbow to stare at her.

Under the dim light, he can see that she's already fading. Gone is the lovely pallor of her cheeks; in its place is a shade paler than normal. Her eyes are duller, even though they still haven't lost their spark; and her hands tremble-just the slightest of tremors, but noticeable to someone as observant as him.

Sensing the direction of his gaze, she firmly tucks her hands beneath her thighs. "He's gone back to the lab," she says conversationally, as though they're discussing nothing of consequence. "He's making a last attempt at finding a cure before tomorrow."

He finds that he admires the determination of his other self. Pulling aside the blanket, he gestures her into his bed. "Come here."

Hesitation flits across her features. "I-I don't think it's the best idea," she says at last. "I'm...my body is colder, you see. He said so earlier. And I'm not sure if...what if I suddenly turn vicious while I'm right next to you?"

"I'll risk it."

He doesn't give her the chance to argue. Reaching forward, he pulls her into his arms and onto his bed. She lets out a startled sound, unable to react to his swiftness. His legs intertwine with hers, and he loops one arm loosely around her waist, keeping his other beneath her head. She does seem colder; and he's close enough to feel the sudden tremor that wracks through her body.

Worry flashes in her eyes, even as her lips twitch with amusement. Eventually, her body relaxes against his, and she reaches up to tuck her hands under the pillow. "I didn't save you so that you could throw your life away, Taehyung," she says softly. "Promise me that when you go back to the future, you'll treasure it. I want you to be happy."

He swallows. "I don't know how to. I don't know how to without you."

"You'll find a way, I'm sure. You have your family. That's a good place to start."

Yes, but they're not you. No one will ever be you.

Sudden tears sting his eyes and, this time, he can't keep them from falling. "I wish you hadn't saved me," he admits, with raw honesty. "I wish-fuck, I really wish that I had been the one to be bitten. It would hurt so much less knowing that you could be in the future, instead of me."

Her eyes glisten, but she drags in a deep breath and brings a hand to his face. Gently, she brushes her thumb across the tears staining his cheek. "Don't you know that my life was never mine to begin with?" she asks. "From the moment you saved my mother, my life was in your hands. You saved me again and again and again. I exist because of you."

No, he thinks. I exist because of you.

She is really the one who saved him-not just from the zombies, but from the world, the guilt, himself. She had stayed with him when the world was full of monsters, had loved him when he believed himself to be a monster, and had saved him from the monsters.

Overwhelmed by emotion, he lets out a slow breath, and turns his head to press his lips against the palm of her hand. She shivers; he revels in it, loving how her body still reacts to him even when it's almost taken over by something else.

She smiles, her eyes sparkling. "Do you want to hear a secret that I've never been able to tell your other self?"

"Tell me."

"Well, this is really quite embarrassing, but I had the biggest crush on you in the past."

"Oh, really?" In spite of his earlier sadness, smug satisfaction blooms in his chest, and he props himself up on one elbow to look down at her. "And how old were you when you started seeing me as the man of your dreams?"

"Let's see-I did think you were handsome when I was ten, even though you were horrid to me and a bit too old." She laughs when he shoots her a mock glare of indignation. "At fifteen, I thought of you as my knight in shining armor. But I was convinced you were The One when you saved me on the bridge."

His lips turn up in a smile, and he rests his cheek against his hand as he listens to her.

"Sometimes," she continues, a fraction quieter this time, "I wondered if I'd dreamt you up. I was so desperately lonely all the time, you see. My mom worked everyday, and the other girls from school didn't seem to like me. I thought that maybe I'd imagined you, because when I didn't have anyone else-I had you."

His smile fades; he understands that only far too well. When he'd woken up in the Dark Ages, he'd been convinced she was a figment of his imagination, because he was so alone. This loneliness, this isolation, this dependency-he knows these as well as she does, and it had only been by her presence that these feelings had abated.

Unable to put his thoughts into words, he simply lowers his head and kisses her. She hesitates again, like before, but soon leans into the kiss. He has his eyes closed, so he doesn't notice her crying until he tastes the salty tang of tears on his tongue.

He opens his eyes and pulls back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says quickly, flashing him a brave smile as she brushes her hand against her cheek. "I just..."

"Tell me."

She gazes up at him; an expression he's never seen before flashing across her face. It's one so utterly sad that his breath catches in his throat, and he tightens his arm protectively around her waist.

"I just can't bear to be apart from you, that's all," she says, with a strangled sob. "I don't, for a second, regret what I did. I would've given up my life to save yours a million times over. But I just...I wish I didn't have to go, you know?"

"I know," he says quietly.

"We're so close to the end of the Dark Ages, and I just wish I didn't have to miss it. I wish I could see how the world comes back together; how there would be happiness and peace and laughter again. And I wish I could spend the rest of my life with you in the world that you saved. But I can't-" she finishes, her voice catching. "I'll miss all of it. And I'll miss you so much."

He can't think of anything else to say. All words of comfort are empty at this point-because this is the cold, hard truth: she will be gone. And nothing, nothing will ever change it. He drags in a painful breath, slides his hand up to her cheek, and kisses her again, drowning on the taste of her.

I'll miss you too.

He tries to tell her that with every brush of his lips, every slide of his tongue against hers, every shift of hands on her body. This time, when he pushes the hem of her shirt up her hips, she doesn't help him remove it. She shivers, pliant under his touch, and allows him to map her skin with his mouth and fingers. Her hands move in featherlight touches, but her eyes study him fiercely, as though committing every inch of him to her memory.

They make love quietly, slowly. But underneath it is a layer of desperation, of urgency. Everything is a one last time, everything is so final that he wants to shatter to pieces under the sheer knowledge of it. He breathes into her sweat-glazed neck and tries to engrave her scent into his own skin. There aren't any words needed to be exchanged, except for IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou, which he whispers against her lips like he's telling her that for the first time.

Afterwards, he wraps his arms her waist and pulls her flush to him. If he's holding her a little too tightly for comfort, she doesn't complain.

"Don't go," he whispers. "Stay a little longer."

Her lips tilt up into that sunshine on snow smile and she lowers her head down onto the pillow. "Alright."

He lets out a quiet breath-relieved, for now-and tucks her head under his chin, before closing his eyes. He's in a vulnerable position, he knows. One additional hour, one slip of time, and she could turn within his arms. She could even kill him. And yet he finds that he doesn't care.

You are a weakness that I crave.

But when he wakes up, she's already gone.