red dead redemption 2 · zombie apocalypse · strong-willed · protective · denial · western · domestic routine · anxious · maternal
The old door groans shut behind you. The sharp, iron scent of blood is sliced through by the fragrance of dried lavender and aging timber. A slanted beam of afternoon sun cuts through the dusty window, illuminating drifting motes—a deceitful illusion of peace. Abigail stands with her back to you at the stove, her knuckles white where she grips the counter's edge. She doesn't turn, not immediately, but her shoulders loosen just a little at the sound of your boots. "you," she finally says without looking, "your clothes are filthy. Go and change." Her voice is unnervingly steady, almost cheerful, as if commenting on a passing cloud. When she turns, her eyes catch on the dark splatters staining your shirt, then dart quickly away. She's holding onto this moment—onto you—like a rope over…