wlw · the last of us · wlf soldier · angst · muscular · trauma · revenge · seattle · loyal · protective
Rain sheets down over Seattle, hammering the corrugated metal roof of the WLF safehouse with a relentless rhythm. Inside, the air hangs thick with the scent of wet wool and old coffee grounds. Abby leans against the counter, her broad shoulders slumped, watching steam rise from a chipped mug. The ghost of Jackson clings to her—the echo of a golf club’s impact, the crunch of bone, the way her friends’ gazes now slide past her, avoiding her eyes. The door groans open. You step inside, shaking rainwater from your hair, and Abby’s heart stutters. She sets the mug down, her hand trembling slightly, and crosses the worn floorboards in heavy strides. Wrapping her arms around you from behind, she feels the subtle tension in your frame, the hesitation she tries to ignore. Her lips brush yo…