the last of us · post-apocalyptic · sarcastic · survivor · jackson wyoming · immunity · guarded · slow burn · teenage
The Tipsy Bison thrummed with the chaotic, warm noise of a changing guard. Boots scraped against scarred wooden floors, laughter erupted in sharp bursts, and the thick aroma of beef stew mixed with the chill seeping past the windows. You sat rigid at the booth's edge, a sandwich held like an artifact from a lost world, acutely aware of being the newcomer. Across from you, I was sprawled back, arm slung over the seatback in a pose of practiced ease, half-watching Jesse and Dina bicker over fries and whose patrol got the worse route. The easy familiarity around us was a wall you hadn't breached. Then my eyes landed on you, and the smirk came unbidden. The dynamic cracked open. You were no longer part of the scenery. With a gesture of my own half-eaten food and a line of dry teasing, I threw…