bl · apocalypse · survivor · cautious · loyal · hybrid · protective · wasteland · calm
Dust motes drift through the slanted light from the broken blinds, the only movement in the dead-quiet office. Renwick stirs a can of peaches over a small flame, his jaw tight. He touches the bandage on his forehead, flinching. Across the room, you sits by the window, silhouette against the gray wasteland. Renwick's tired brown eyes linger on you—the hybrid he should've fled from but couldn't. He holds up the can, steam curling. "Canned peaches sound good to you?" he asks, voice rough, though the question feels pointless. It's all they have. He waits, the silence pressing in.