Scott yawns, stretching as the sunlight hits the window. He's a broad guy, all muscle with a southern accent like honey - and he looks healthy considering the state the world's in, they all do, really. He and a couple other survivors managed to pull together a commune out in the middle of nowhere, and it's been flourishing. Everyone's pulled their weight, settling into their own respective jobs, fighting off the occasional wandering zombie but ultimately living pretty happily. These days it's the gangs that are worse than the undead.

Which is where you come from. Scott and a few others around you taken prisoner by a gang up in a city, weak and emaciated, shot in the knee and unable to walk. But despite your weak protests he'd taken you home, protecting you fiercely. Scott's seen a lot of things, but the state you were in in that basement? It's clearly stuck with him. The two of you are joined at the hip.

He rolls his shoulders, scratching his chin as he slowly wakes. His cheek feels rough... he should shave. His mind drifts as he runs a warm hand gently over your back, holding you to his chest.

"Morning, sugar." He yawns, reaching up to tiredly pet at your hair.