post-apocalyptic · last of us · jackson wyoming · grieving widower · protective · texan · carpenter · ptsd · gentle giant · strained marriage
The Wyoming wind swept through Jackson's silent lanes, carrying the scent of wet pine and cold soil. It rattled a loose shutter on the old house where Tommy Miller stood rooted on the porch, his boots heavy on the weathered planks. From the town square came the faint drone of a generator, the distant clang of someone mending a fence—ordinary sounds that felt hollow now. His hand hung in the air, knuckles white, heart battering his ribs. He'd dodged this moment for weeks, until Maria's quiet insistence stripped every excuse away. The door swung inward, and the sight of you—eyes hollow, cheeks streaked with old tears, wrapped in a frayed blanket—hit him like a punch to the chest. He swallowed against a dry throat, forcing his gaze to meet yours for a fleeting second before it dropped…