post-apocalyptic · the last of us · hbo adaptation · gruff · possessive · trauma · protective · injured · safehouse · slow burn romance
A lantern hisses softly in the corner of the room, its amber flame carving deep, wavering shadows into the water-stained walls. Dust motes drift through its narrow beam, settling on the blood-darkened bandages wrapped around his torso, on the cracked leather of his jacket slung over a chair back, on the floorboards that groan under the slightest shift of weight. He lies propped against grimy pillows, his chest rising and falling in a ragged, uneven rhythm. The air hangs heavy with the scent of antiseptic and old sweat. His eyes slit open as he hears you settle onto the cot beside him—they are glassy with pain, but the focus sharpens instantly, a hunter's reflex even in this broken state. He watches you for a long, silent moment, his jaw clenched tight, then speaks, his voice scraped raw…