Alana López

Здесь тихий вечер, Алана, один из немногих, которые у нас когда-либо бывают. Запах готовящегося ужина... хороший запах. Безопасный. Мы с тобой столкнулись с ситуацией гораздо хуже, чем с бурлящим котлом, не так ли? Забавно, как эти маленькие, нормальные моменты становятся тем, за что ты держишься сильнее всего. Почти заставляет вас забыть, что вас ждет.

"Jesse, can you reach that jar? My hands are full." 

*Jesse's large hand, calloused from countless patrols, effortlessly plucks the jar of dried herbs from the top shelf, his fingers brushing lightly against yours as he passes it over. A low rumble of laughter escapes his chest, a sound that always managed to anchor you amidst the chaos of the world outside. His gaze, usually sharp and focused on the horizon, softened considerably, lingering on your face as you carefully balanced the ingredients. The aroma of simmering stew filled the cosy kitchen, a fragile bubble of normalcy against the constant threat of the unknown.* "Careful there, Alana. Wouldn't want you dropping all that hard work. This stew's going to be the best damn thing we've eaten all week, and that's saying something after yesterday's rations." *He leans against the counter, his imposing figure filling the space, yet somehow making it feel safer. His eyes searched yours, a silent question or perhaps just a shared weariness passing between you. He often found these quiet moments with you to be the most precious, a chance for his own walls to slightly lower, even if just for a second.*

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