Itt was a nice morning as I stood in the backyard, keeping watch while Mark worked on his latest engineering project. True to his word, the old smoker was installing the solar panel system he'd promised us weeks ago—a sophisticated array that would give our house self-sufficient energy independence.

More than two months had passed since the initial outbreak, and we'd managed to restore some basic electrical functionality through Mark's genius and determination. The Municipal Office had been his testing ground, where he'd successfully jury-rigged a power grid using salvaged generators, car batteries, and miles of repurposed electrical cable. But this solar installation represented something far more ambitious—a completely autonomous energy system that wouldn't depend on fuel supplies or mechanical maintenance.

I watched Mark work with the focused precision that had made him invaluable to all of us. Despite his age and his concerning smoking habit, the man moved across our rooftop with surprising agility, securing mounting brackets and positioning the photovoltaic panels with the care of someone who understood that mistakes at this altitude could be fatal.

"How much power are we actually going to get from this setup?" I called up to him.

Mark paused in his work to light another cigarette and took a long drag before answering. "With optimal sun exposure and this array configuration, you're looking at roughly twelve to fifteen kilowatt-hours per day during summer months," he said, smoke curling around his words. "That's enough to run essential lighting, small appliances, and maybe some limited heating or cooling."

"What about powering larger equipment?" I asked, thinking about our food preservation needs and the possibility of eventually running more sophisticated electronics.

"Don't get too excited about turning this place into a pre-outbreak suburban paradise," Mark replied with a laugh, ash from his cigarette drifting down toward me. "This system will keep you comfortable and functional, but you won't be running electric ovens or central air conditioning. Think of it as reliable baseline power rather than unlimited electrical freedom."

The realistic assessment was both encouraging and a bit sobering. Twelve to fifteen kilowatt-hours would represent a massive improvement over our current situation—candles and battery-powered devices—but it also meant we'd need to continue managing our energy consumption carefully.

"The beauty of this setup," Mark continued, securing another panel to its mounting rail, "is that it's completely independent of external infrastructure. No fuel requirements, minimal maintenance, and the batteries will store enough energy to keep essential systems running for three or four days even without direct sunlight."

I was about to ask another technical question when I heard footsteps behind me. Rachel emerged from the house, carrying a basket for collecting herbs from our small garden, but her attention was immediately drawn to the cigarette ash that was drifting down from Mark's position on the roof.

"Mark," she called up with a gentle tone, "is smoking really beneficial for your health at your age? And in your current physical condition?"

Mark's laughter echoed across the yard, completely unfazed by Rachel's worry. "I'm in perfect health, my dear!" He replied with obvious amusement. "Besides, at my age, what's the worst that could happen? Lung cancer? In our current circumstances, I'm more likely to be eaten by infected before any long-term health consequences catch up with me."

I saw a mischievous glint in Mark's eyes as he prepared to add something else. "Besides, I'm not the only one around here who's developed certain tobacco-related habits. Isn't that right, Ryan?"

I stiffened and immediately shot Mark a glare that could have melted steel. The old bastard knew exactly how sensitive I was about keeping my smoking habit secret from Rachel and the others, and he was clearly enjoying the opportunity to cause some mischief.

Fortunately, Mark caught my expression and apparently decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He chuckled and returned to his panel installation without elaborating further, leaving Rachel looking confused but not particularly suspicious.

"Never mind the old dinosaur," I said quickly, hoping to redirect the conversation. "He just likes to cause trouble when he's feeling particularly pleased with himself."

Rachel studied my face for a moment, clearly sensing some undercurrent she didn't quite understand, but ultimately decided not to pursue the matter further. "Regardless," she said, returning her attention to Mark, "please be careful up there, and try to take better care of your health. We need you around for a long time yet."

"Would you like me to bring you anything?" She called up to him. "Water, food, maybe some tea?"

"Tea would be perfect," Mark replied gratefully. "All this technical work makes a man thirsty, especially when combined with Virginia's finest tobacco products."

Rachel nodded and headed back toward the house, and I found myself following her almost automatically.

"Why is Mark so careless about his health?" Rachel asked as we entered the kitchen, her voice carrying genuine frustration. "He's intelligent enough to understand the risks of smoking, especially at his age, but he acts like it doesn't matter."

I considered her question seriously while she began preparing the tea kettle. "I think he's coping with our current situation in his own way," I said finally. "For someone of Mark's generation, smoking was normal for most of his adult life. Asking him to quit now, when the world has ended and every day is uncertain, probably seems pointless."

Rachel's expression showed she wasn't satisfied with that explanation. "That's not a good reason to ignore his health," she replied firmly. "If anything, our current circumstances mean we need to be more careful about maintaining our physical condition, not less. We can't afford to have people getting sick from preventable causes."

She paused in her tea preparation to look at me directly. "You're close to him. You should tell him to stop smoking. He might listen to your advice."

I couldn't help but laugh at the suggestion, though I tried to keep the sound gentle rather than dismissive. "Rachel, Mark has been smoking for probably forty years or more. He's not going to quit because a young man he's known for a few months suggests it might be healthier. That's just not how people work."

"Aren't you worried about him?" She pressed, clearly not ready to drop the subject.

"Of course I'm worried about him," I replied honestly. "Mark is important to all of us—not just for his technical skills, but because he's a close friend as well. But I also think he deserves to live whatever time he has left according to his own choices."

I watched Rachel's face as she processed my words, clearly struggling between her natural desire to take care of everyone around her and her recognition that adults had the right to make their own decisions about their health and lifestyle.

"His lungs probably aren't in great shape after decades of tobacco use," I continued. "Forcing him to quit smoking now might extend his life by a few months or a few years, but it would also take away one of the few pleasures he has left in this world we're living in."

Rachel didn't seem entirely convinced by my reasoning, but she returned to preparing the tea without further argument.

The kitchen was empty except for the two of us, and I found myself studying Rachel's profile as she worked. Her red hair caught the morning light streaming through the windows, and there was something graceful about the way she moved through the familiar domestic tasks. The intimacy we'd developed since the confession had changed the way I perceived these quiet moments together.

Moving quietly, I approached her from behind while she was focused on measuring tea leaves into the brewing pot. The scent of her hair—clean and slightly floral from whatever soap she'd been using—drew me closer, and I found myself running my nose gently through the soft strands at the base of her neck.

"What are you doing?" Rachel asked, though her voice carried amusement rather than objection.

"Helping my girlfriend," I replied, letting the word roll off my tongue with the pleasure of someone who still couldn't quite believe he was allowed to use it.

Rachel chuckled softly, leaning back slightly into my presence. "I don't think you can help much from behind me," she said, though she made no move to step away.

Instead of answering verbally, I wrapped my arms around her waist and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her neck, just below her ear. The contact sent a shiver through her body, and she made a soft sound that was part sigh, part moan.

"Ryan..."

The intimate moment was interrupted by footsteps in the hallway, and Elena's voice preceded her appearance in the kitchen doorway.

"Am I bothering you two?" Elena asked, though her tone suggested she had a pretty good idea of what she'd walked in on.

I immediately pulled back from Rachel, heat flooding my face as embarrassment crashed over me like a wave. "Elena! I was just... I mean, I was helping Rachel with the tea preparation," I stuttered, knowing how unconvincing the explanation sounded even as I spoke.

Elena's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I can see exactly how you were helping her."

Unable to face Elena's perceptive gaze, I glanced around the kitchen desperately looking for any excuse to escape the awkward situation. Through the window, I spotted Daisy working in our vegetable garden, carefully tending to the mature tomatoes and other crops we'd planted and cultivated over the past several months.

"I should... I should go help Daisy with the garden," I said, seizing on the excuse with obvious relief. "Those tomatoes won't harvest themselves."

Without waiting for a response, I practically fled the kitchen, leaving Elena and Rachel to whatever conversation would inevitably follow my hasty departure.

The morning air felt cool against my heated face as I made my way toward the garden area we'd established behind the house. Daisy was kneeling among the tomato plants, carefully examining each fruit to determine which ones were ready for harvest. Her methodical approach and newly self taught or maybe always expertise made it clear that she'd become our unofficial agricultural specialist, developing skills that none of us had possessed before the outbreak.

"Good morning, Daisy," I said. "How's the harvest looking today?"

Daisy looked up with her usual bright smile. "Ryan! Perfect timing. I was just thinking we could use another pair of hands to help collect these beauties."

She gestured toward a cluster of bright red tomatoes that had clearly reached peak ripeness. "We've got enough here to make a proper sauce, maybe even preserve some for winter storage if we can find the right containers and salt supplies."

I knelt beside her and began carefully picking the ripe tomatoes, grateful for the simple, productive task that helped settle my nerves. "You've done incredible work with this garden," I said, genuinely impressed by the abundance of vegetables she'd managed to coax from what had been an empty yard just a few months earlier.

"It's amazing what you can accomplish when survival depends on it," Daisy replied, moving to examine a row of bell peppers that were approaching harvest readiness. "Before the outbreak, I could barely keep a houseplant alive. Now I'm calculating crop rotations and soil nutrient management. Clara taught me a lot when she came last time!"

She seemed really excited about it…

The tomatoes in my hands were warm from the morning sun and perfectly ripe, representing months of careful cultivation and patient waiting. In our harsh post-apocalyptic world, they felt like small miracles.

"This feels incredibly satisfying," I said, turning one of the perfect red tomatoes in my palm and marveling at its weight and warmth.

"Right?" Daisy grinned with infectious enthusiasm, her face lighting up with pure joy.

"Now we can have fresh tomatoes for dinner tonight! And look at everything else we've managed to grow—potatoes, green beans, bell peppers, herbs!" She gestured excitedly around the garden, her arm sweeping across the various plots we'd established over the past months.

The abundance was genuinely impressive, especially considering we'd started with nothing but empty dirt and salvaged seeds.

"We should enjoy this bounty while we can," I said, though I couldn't keep a note of concern from creeping into my voice. "We're still in early August, peak summer growing season, but autumn will arrive soon enough, and then winter. Fresh vegetables are going to become much more precious once the growing season ends."

"Don't worry about that!" Daisy said, puffing out her chest with exaggerated confidence. "By the time winter arrives, we'll be completely ready with preserved foods, root vegetables in storage, and everything we need to keep everyone fed and healthy."

The enthusiastic gesture caused her glasses to slide down her nose, the frames slipping from their usual position until they were barely perched on the tip. The sudden shift in her vision made her blink in confusion.

"Oh! My glasses..." She said with a small laugh of embarrassment, reaching up instinctively to push them back into place.

But I was already moving, setting down the tomatoes I'd been holding and gently taking her glasses before she could fumble with them herself. "Let me help," I said, noting that the lenses had picked up some garden dust and plant matter during her enthusiastic gesturing.

Using a clean section of my shirt, I carefully wiped both lenses until they were spotless, taking care not to scratch the delicate surfaces. Daisy stood perfectly still during this process, her face tilted slightly upward and her eyes slightly unfocused without her corrective lenses.

When I gently placed the glasses back on her nose, adjusting the frames until they sat comfortably in their proper position, Daisy's vision snapped back into sharp focus. For a moment, she found herself looking directly into my face from just inches away, close enough to see the flecks of different colors in my eyes and the slight smile that had formed at her earlier enthusiasm.

"T…Thank you," she stammered, a deep blush spreading across her cheeks as she became acutely aware of our proximity and the gentle intimacy of the moment. "I... um... thank you for helping."

Unable to maintain eye contact, she turned her gaze away toward the vegetable plots, though the pink flush continued to color her features.

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