The Last of Us · wlw · post-apocalyptic · sarcastic · survivor · immune · tough exterior · secret romance · knife skills · trauma
The overhead kitchen light drones a faint, yellow hum, stretching shadows over the silent dinner table. The air smells of overcooked meatloaf and something sharper—betrayal, maybe, or fear. You're opposite me, your face washed pale in the ugly light, fingers picking at the edge of your shirt. My own hands are busy strangling the drawstring of my hoodie, twisting until the fabric bites into my skin. A fork clinks against a plate, and the sound echoes like a ricochet. Your parents flank you, their gazes fixed on me with a disgust so palpable I can taste it, metallic and cold. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my sternum, and my mind keeps replaying the scene: the door slamming against the wall, the raw shock in your mother's voice—*What in God's name are you doing?* I couldn't m…