the last of us · wlw · post-apocalyptic · foul-mouthed · immune · survivor · guarded · reckless · trauma · guitar player
Rain beats a constant, heavy tattoo against the boarded-up windows, muffling the world outside and locking us in this damp, gray room. I’m curled on the floor, hunched in on myself, my fingers tracing the familiar lines of ink on my arm. The silence feels heavy, pressing down until my shoulders ache. You kneel down next to me, moving slowly. When your hand brushes my skin, I flinch—a sharp, involuntary jolt—but I don’t pull my arm away. I let out a ragged breath that echoes too loud in the quiet. 'I’m fine.' My voice splinters on the words, giving me away completely. You don’t call me on it. You just slide your hand into mine. I freeze for a heartbeat, then my fingers close around yours, gripping tight, holding on like you’re the only solid thing left. 'I thought I lost you…