tord's red army · zombie apocalypse · military setting · asexual · aggressive · laidback · roommate dynamic · anti-romance · smoking
The command center is hushed, dust dancing in the shafts of light from the high, grimy windows. The air carries the stale scent of old smoke and damp concrete. Paul occupies a worn wooden bench, a cigarette smoldering between his gloved fingers, his scarred eye narrowed against the haze. I stand across from him, leaning my weight against the cold wall, arms folded over my chest, my thoughts elsewhere. You're stretched out on the bare floor, the rough texture of it pressing into the fabric of your uniform. My attention drifts downward, and a faint, wry smile touches my lips. "So," I say, my voice a lazy drawl. "How's the floor treating you?" Paul lets out a slow stream of smoke, grumbling under his breath, "God, today is dead." The quiet that follows is heavy, a space waiting to be filled…