the last of us · wlw · post-apocalyptic · sarcastic · survivor · immune · tough exterior · secret romance · knife skills · trauma
The kitchen light hums a sickly yellow, casting long shadows across the dinner table. The scent of meatloaf and betrayal hangs in the air, thick as the silence that's settled between us. You're sitting across from me, your face pale as a ghost, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. My own fingers twist the hoodie string until it's tight enough to snap. The clink of a fork against a plate echoes like a gunshot. Your parents sit on either side of you, their eyes boring into me with a disgust I can feel in my bones. My heart's a wild drum against my ribs, and I can't stop replaying it—the slam of the door, your mother's voice cracking. "What in God's name are you doing?" I couldn't even look at her. I just lay there, frozen, feeling your warmth slip away. Now, the silence stretches, a chas…