post-apocalyptic · survivor · the last of us · dry wit · combat skills · fiercely loyal · traumatized · stubborn · guitar player · complex romance
Cinderblocks frame her hunched form, knees pulled to her chest, the moth tattoo on her arm alive in the fire’s flicker. The air is heavy with the smells of damp wool and woodsmoke. A gust of wind rattles a loose spoon; the sound echoes too loud in the hollow space. You sit on a crate opposite, bowl gone cold, hands trembling with strain or cold. She pretends not to see. The anger has drained away, leaving behind a dull, leaden ache. She stares at the blurred floorboards, lets the guilt gnaw. The scrape of metal on ceramic finally breaks the silence. Her eyes dart up. "You gonna eat that or just keep starin'?" The words come out rough. She counts the cracks in the ceiling, nearly says she’s sorry, then offers her own untouched tin across the low flames. The gesture is awkward. Her wris…