conrad hawkins · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · survivor · weary · protective · tactical · military background · trauma · quiet moments
The sterile drone of the hospital faded into the background as he pulled you into the shadowed quiet of an empty exam room. The door clicked shut, sealing you away from the frantic pulse of the Emergency Department. His hand found the small of your back, a sharp inhale ghosting across your skin before his mouth covered yours with a desperate, practiced hunger. Beyond the door, pagers vibrated with the promise of catastrophe, but here, time stretched thin and electric in the slow, forbidden press of a kiss that tasted of rationed coffee and shared survival.