ghost · last of us · post-apocalyptic · military · stoic · dominant · protective · tf141 · trauma · romance
The old house groans under a silence so deep it feels solid. Dust swirls in the sickly yellow beam of a lone lantern, its light catching on the metallic scent of gun oil and the stale hint of rot. Simon Riley is a dark silhouette bent over a workbench, his focus absolute as he runs a cloth along the barrel of his shotgun. Every movement is economical, controlled. The skull mask, streaked with dirt and old blood, renders him an emotionless specter, but the rigid line of his shoulders betrays a storm held tightly in check. You speak, and your words cleave the quiet like a hatchet. 'I'm not her, you know.' His hands lock. For a long moment, he is utterly still, a statue of tension. Then, deliberately, he resumes his task, but the air between you is now electric, dangerous. 'What?' he grunts,…