– Not everyone’s a fighter. Not everyone’s a leader.

  – But if you can stop Alex from stabbing Gail with a screwdriver, you’re already the MVP.

  – Bonus points if you do chores without being asked.

  ---

  Harun was proving himself—in ways none of us expected.

  He still couldn’t throw to save his life. Literally. The one time he tried to lob a can of beans to Jules, he nearly took out a propane tank. I’d trust a blindfolded toddler with spaghetti arms before I trusted Harun in a game of catch.

  But he cleaned up without being asked. Scrubbed pans. Re-hinged the pantry door. Organized our supplies with labels like “Eat only if desperate or dead inside – H.”

  And somehow, he kept people from murdering each other. Like during what we now call The Great Screwdriver Incident.

  ---

  Like most disasters, it started with something stupid.

  Alex had been up since dawn rewiring the backup generator. Gail, thinking it was leaking “too much juice,” turned it off.

  “You’re leaking too much juice!” Alex shouted, slamming her screwdriver on the table like she was filing for emotional damages.

  Gail stood there with that unreadable expression that made you want to either follow him into battle or throw a brick at his face. Maybe both.

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  “I followed safety protocol,” he said. “Exposed wiring’s a fire hazard.”

  “You’re a fire hazard!”

  I was halfway out of my chair, ready to play referee, when Harun strolled in—wet mop in hand, smelling like lavender and peace treaties.

  “Whoa, whoa. What’s going on?” he asked like he’d walked in on a family game night gone nuclear.

  “Gail shut off the generator!” Alex barked, pacing like a hoodie-clad jungle cat.

  “She’s yelling about it,” Gail said, arms crossed like a disappointed father.

  Harun didn’t flinch. Just nodded thoughtfully. “So what I’m hearing is... an energy debate. Literal and emotional.”

  Alex blinked. Gail twitched. I choked on a laugh.

  Harun kept going. “Alex, you busted your ass on that generator, right?”

  “Obviously.”

  “And Gail, you were trying to keep us safe?”

  “Correct.”

  “So, we’ve got two people trying to do the right thing. Just... stepping on each other’s wires. Pun absolutely intended.”

  Alex squinted. “Was that a dad joke?”

  “Yes,” Harun said, dead serious. “And I have more.”

  I watched, dumbfounded, as Alex’s fists unclenched and Gail stopped standing like a brick wall of judgment.

  Alex grumbled, “Fine. Just... next time, ask.”

  Gail gave a grunt that might’ve meant “deal” in military Morse code.

  Harun looked over at me and whispered, “Crisis defused. Boom.”

  ---

  Turns out, he did that kind of thing a lot.

  Take Jules. She’d been trying to teach herself booby-trap engineering because our defenses kept getting bypassed by either clever variants or really ambitious raccoons. Jury’s still out.

  She’d been holed up for days, buried in books, muttering like a mad scientist. I once heard her yell, “Who wrote this garbage?!” like the author had personally insulted her wiring skills.

  Harun showed up with tea. And a smile soft enough to smother a forest fire.

  “Want me to read it out loud?” he asked.

  She glared. “You think I can’t read?”

  “No. I think reading aloud is 50% magic. Works on kids, monsters, and stressed-out apocalypse engineers.”

  Jules narrowed her eyes. “Is this cinnamon?”

  “Yeah. You like cinnamon.”

  Ten minutes later, they were side by side. Him reading aloud in a soothing baritone, her nodding like she hadn’t been threatening to burn down the book an hour ago. She didn’t stab him. Which was progress.

  Later, she told me, “He’s like a therapy dog. But taller. And with okay goulash.”

  ---

  I asked him about it one night, while he folded towels with alarming precision.

  “You always this good at calming people down?”

  He shrugged. “Back home, yeah. I was the guy people vented to. Coworkers. Classmates. My mom’s knitting circle.”

  “And now?”

  “Now everyone’s angrier. Sadder. Scared-er. So maybe I’m better at it. Or maybe people just really need someone to shut up and listen.”

  “You ever think of being a therapist?”

  “Not really. I was a pencil pusher. Desk job. It was peaceful too. Saved enough for my hobbies. Just wanted to spend time with friends here. Then, you know. Zombies.”

  I nodded. “Well, congrats. You’re our apocalypse therapist.”

  He grinned. “Do I get a badge?”

  “No. But you’re exempt from Gail’s MRE chili.”

  His face lit up like I’d handed him a golden ticket. “Best reward ever.”