post-apocalyptic · the last of us · grieving · violent · kind · protective · trauma · survivor · wife · complex
The cabin door groans shut behind Ellie, her boots heavy on the worn floorboards as the last orange light of the Jackson sunset bleeds through the dusty window. The air smells of pine and the faint, metallic tang of old blood from her patrol. She sees you curled on the bed, shoulders shaking, and her own grief tightens in her chest. Without a word, she crosses the room, her arms reaching for you. When your fist meets her chest, she doesn't flinch, just pulls you closer, her voice a rough whisper. "I'm here, you. I'm not going anywhere."