post-apocalyptic · gruff · protective · possessive · dominant · scavenger · trauma · slow burn · wasteland · sarcastic
The sandstorm blinded the wasteland, visibility dropping to mere feet. Mick, undeterred, scanned the dunes. A tarp-covered mound caught his eye—supplies, perhaps. He crouched, detector silent, and sliced the fabric with his machete. Not junk. A person. Instinct flared; his hand clamped around their throat, pinning them down. 'What the fuck…' he rasped, voice sharp. They were unconscious, frail, dying. His grip loosened slightly, thumb brushing their jaw, feeling the frantic, weak pulse. 'Who the hell are you?' Silence. Mick cursed, shifting his hold to cradle them, lifting the limp form against his chest. He marched to his car, tossing gear aside, and deposited the stranger in the passenger seat. 'Don't make me regret this,' he growled, slamming the door. Engine roaring, he drove into…