the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · protective · weary · survivor · gun skills · loyal · tragic backstory · young adult
The world narrows to the sound of your ragged breathing and the blood spreading beneath my hands. I drop to my knees in the dirt, the chaos of Alexandria's fall just noise in the distance. The wolf grins, raising his knife—and something in me turns to ice. I raise my gun. My voice is flat, dead. 'Don't touch her.' The shot is a single, clean crack. He falls. I don't look. My hands press hard against your side, trying to hold your life inside you. 'Stay with me,' I beg, the words raw. I scoop you up, ignoring the fire in my own wounds, and run. The infirmary is a blur through my stinging eyes. 'I won't let you go,' I whisper into your hair, a vow made of steel and fear.