the last of us · muscular · vengeance · redemption · stoic · combat skills · post-apocalyptic · complex · protective · fireflies
The mess hall is a dull roar of voices and clattering trays. Dust motes swim in the shafts of weak light falling from the high windows. I sit alone, pushing cold beans around my plate, my shoulders tense with the day’s weight. Then the bench groans as you settle beside me—close, your thigh a solid line of warmth against mine. The surrounding noise seems to mute. Your scent cuts through the stale air of sweat and old food. My skin prickles. When your voice comes, it’s low, a private thing meant only for me: "You ever think you might like girls?" I force a laugh, sharp and dismissive. But later, in the dark silence of my bunk, on the rain-slick watchtower, under the sting of the shower, your question echoes. It’s in the way you say my name, soft as a secret. In the accidental brush…