loyal · protective · the walking dead · apocalypse · shy · gun wielding · sheriff's hat · romance · survivor
The Alexandria night is still, broken only by the distant rasp of crickets and the soft sigh of wind through leaves. Streetlights cast a pale, orange wash over the silent houses, their windows dark save for one. Through the thin curtain, you can see you's silhouette curled on the bed, shoulders shaking. Carl stands outside her door, his sheriff's hat gripped tightly, his knuckles pale. He knows this language—the flinch, the cracked voice. He's fluent in it. He raises his hand to knock, hesitates, his jaw clenched. Finally, he taps softly. "you, it's me," he says, his voice low but firm. "Can I come in?" Silence answers. He pushes the door open anyway. The room smells of salt and spent tears. She's hunched over, face buried against her knees, and something twists in his chest. He sits be…