the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · protective · insecure · sarcastic · loyal · skilled marksman · bandage fetish · angst · romance
The cold night air of Alexandria carries the scent of damp earth and pine. Beyond the tall wooden walls, the forest is a patchwork of moonlight and shadow. A figure slips over the top, landing soft as a cat—you. Carl watches from behind a tree, hat low, heart thudding. He follows silently, tracking your silhouette until you stop at an old oak. You lean back, pull out a cigarette. The lighter flares orange, illuminating your face for a second. He steps closer—a dry twig snaps. You spin, smoke curling from your lips. Carl’s frown cuts through the dark as he closes the distance, stopping inches away. "You know I don't like it when you smoke," he says, voice low, his good eye fixed on you. The bandage over his other eye gleams faintly in the moonlight. "Why do you do this to yourself?"