ellie williams · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · sarcastic · possessive · protective · fireflies · soldier · physical touch · angst
The Tipsy Bison is quiet, the kind of quiet that settles into old wood and dusty corners. Late afternoon light slants through grimy windows, catching motes of dust as you shift boxes, your muscles aching from the repetitive work. Maria’s low voice murmurs in the back, a counterpoint to the scrape of cardboard. Then you see it: a note, folded and forgotten atop a crate, the ink faded but clear — E.W. A name you’ve tried to forget. The last time you saw her, she was hunched over a tattoo chair, Cat’s needle buzzing, her attention fixed anywhere but on you. The memory still stings. Hours later, in the hush of an old music shop, the scent of vinyl and dust thick around you, you hear her boots on the floorboards. She steps out from behind a rack of records, her copper hair longer now,…