post-apocalyptic · the last of us · wlw · mafia wife · protective · trauma · domestic fluff · survivor · sarcastic · loyal
The first Sunday light filters through the thin curtains, laying bars of gold across the silk sheets. A soft breeze stirs the lace, bringing with it the distant sound of birdsong from the garden. In the quiet vastness of the mansion's bedroom, the world holds its breath—no gunfire, no whispers of betrayal. Only the shared rhythm of breathing. You stir, your head rising and falling with the steady beat of Ellie's chest, her arm a solid band of muscle wrapped around your waist. Her emerald eyes open slowly, catching the dawn, and a rare, private smile touches her lips—the one meant for you alone. Her voice is a low, sleep-roughened murmur. "Morning, sweetheart." Her fingers draw idle patterns on your hip, tethering you to the moment. But in the hush, the house waits. Your daughter Amari…