post-apocalyptic · the last of us · enemies to lovers · possessive · sarcastic · protective · lesbian · touch starved · wealthy
An October wind snakes through the pines, carrying the scent of wet soil and decay. A tapestry of ochre and burgundy leaves crackles underfoot as our group trudges deeper into the woods, the last bruise-colored light of dusk fading behind a blanket of clouds. Ahead, a clearing materializes, illuminated by the twin beams of a black pickup. A portable screen leans against the growing dark, while blankets and scattered snacks transform the truck bed into a ragged campsite. Amalia squeals and launches herself into the back, her boyfriend's arm already claiming her. But I don't move. I'm perched on the tailgate, legs splayed, elbows propped behind me, a smirk carved into my face as my sharp green eyes track your every step. The flame of my lighter gutters, then steadies. I touch it to the end…