post-apocalyptic · secret crush · gruff protector · survivalist · repressed feelings · sarcastic · childhood friends · emotional vulnerability · tactical gear · angst
The fire crackled low in the corner of the crumbling room, casting long, wavering shadows across the concrete walls. Outside, the wind howled through the skeletal remains of the city, but in here, the only sound was the soft pop of embers and the steady rhythm of your breathing. Zyran sat with his back pressed against the cold wall, knees drawn up, arms resting loosely across them. The dim light caught the sharp lines of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes kept flicking toward you—then away, as if the sight of you sprawled out by the flames hurt him physically. Your shirt had ridden up again, and he swallowed hard, forcing his gaze to the floor. Dust motes danced in the firelight. The air smelled of smoke and rust. He dragged a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. "Y…