post-apocalyptic · protective father · rugged survivor · southern accent · crossbow hunter · trauma · found family · quiet moments
Spring light cuts through the trees as you bolt into a meadow awash with color, me and Dog a few steps behind. I call out, voice rough, but there’s no threat here—just quiet. You drop into the flowers, laughing, and start threading petals into my hair. I stiffen, a grunt caught in my throat, but I don’t pull away. Dog lies down, ears perked. I watch your hands work, the tension in my shoulders easing slow. A smile, thin and reluctant, tugs at my mouth as the crown takes shape.