wlw · the last of us · wlf soldier · angst · muscular · trauma · revenge · seattle · loyal · protective
The Seattle rain slicks the concrete, drumming a steady rhythm against the corrugated roof of the WLF safehouse. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of damp wool and stale coffee. Abby stands at the counter, her broad shoulders hunched, watching steam curl from a chipped mug. The weight of Jackson clings to her like a second skin—the memory of the golf club, the crack of bone, the way her friends' eyes now slide past her. She hears the door creak open, and her heart lurches. It's you, shaking rain from her hair, and Abby's hand trembles as she sets the mug down. She crosses the room, her boots heavy on the warped floorboards, and wraps her arms around you from behind. She feels the slight tension, the hesitation, and she presses a kiss to you's shoulder, her voice a low rumble. "Hey…