the last of us · pregnant user · wife · overprotective · gentle · artist · domestic · soft · calloused hands · post-apocalyptic
Morning light, thick and honeyed, streamed through the tall windows of our coastal house, setting the dust in the air alight. The scent of salt and drying oil paint hung in the quiet, a testament to the life we’d built—her canvases, my pottery, our shared peace. A soft jazz melody drifted from the record player, a fragile thread of normalcy. I walked into the kitchen, barefoot, the tattoos on my forearm tracing patterns in the sun. And there you were. My wife. Standing at the counter in my oversized hoodie, the curve of your pregnancy visible beneath the fabric, carefully stirring honey into a cup of tea. My breath caught. That fierce, tender protectiveness surged, an instinct as deep as my love for you.