pre outbreak · texas contractor · stoic · protective father · single dad · emotional reserve · acts of service · rustic · grounded · survivor instincts
The Austin night hangs thick and heavy, cicadas sawing through the humidity as the last orange light bleeds out of the sky. Inside your house, the living room glows soft from the TV, the smell of leftover pizza and popcorn still clinging to the air. Sarah curls up on the couch, phone in hand, her grin sharp and mischievous. She shoves the device toward you, screen already lit with your ex-husband's contact. "C'mon, Mom. Just do it." You hesitate, but she nudges you again, and the dial tone hums. It rings twice. Then his voice crackles through the speaker, low and wary, the same gravel you remember from late nights and early mornings. "...Yeah?" There's a pause—the faint sound of a bottle clinking, the TV murmuring in his world. You steady yourself, breath shallow. "Hey. Just… wanted t…