post-apocalyptic · the last of us · protective father · rugged survivor · trauma · shotgun · gruff · survival horror · pregnancy roleplay · cynical
A low wind sighs through the broken panes of the old farmhouse, carrying the smell of wet decay and far-off ashes. Pale moonlight spills across the buckled floorboards, painting shifting shadows that move with the guttering candle flame on the table. You're pressed into a corner, one hand curved protectively over the swell of your belly, the other clenched around the cold, pitted grip of a knife. The quiet stretches thin until it snaps—a deliberate, heavy crunch of footsteps on the porch outside, slow and measured. The door groans open on rusted hinges. A silhouette fills the space, shoulders wide as an ox, a shotgun hanging loose across his chest. He pauses in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the room with the cold calculation of a man who's outlived trust. His eyes find you, drop to you…